Cops hang nicknames on each other, most based on physical or personality traits. Skinny, for example, hadn’t seen a forty-inch waistline in at least twenty years. Other than excessive height, a taste for classical music, and a penchant for pricey clothes, Rinaldi had exhibited no quirks at which to poke fun. Eddie had remained Eddie throughout his career.

Rinaldi’s one singular peculiarity was his habit of recording the minutiae of every investigation in which he took part. His notebooks were legendary.

“That would be great,” I said.

Slidell disconnected without a good-bye or any query concerning the nature of my interest in a case now over a dozen years cold. I appreciated the latter.

I played with Birdie. Made the bed. Took out the trash. Loaded laundry. Read the e-mails that I’d ignored. Checked a freckle on my shoulder for signs of melanoma.

Then, with a level of enthusiasm I reserve for flossing and waxing, I again phoned Summer.

To my dismay, she answered.

“Hi. This is Tempe.” I could hear voices in the background. Regis and Kelly? “Pete’s ex. Well, any day now.”

“I know who y’all are.” Summer had a drawl you could pour on pancakes.

“How’s it going?”

“Good.”

“Are you still working at Happy Paws?” Desperate for subject matter.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Defensive. “I’m a fully trained veterinary assistant.”

“It must be exhausting having a full-time job while trying to plan a big wedding.”

“Not everyone can be superwoman.”

“How right you are.” Cheerful as hell. “It’s going well?”

“Mostly.”

“Have you hired a planner?” I’d heard that she and Pete were inviting only a few thousand people.

I heard a quavery intake of breath.

“Is something wrong?”

“Petey’s being a grumpy-pants about every little thing.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Pete’s never been big on ceremony.”

“Until that changes, Mr. Grumpy-Pants won’t be foxtrotting at my prom. If you take my meaning.”

So the groom-to-be had lost playground privileges.

“Pete thought it might be good if we got to know each other,” I said.

Nothing but Regis and Kelly.

“If there’s any way I can help…” I let the offer hang, expecting a frosty rebuff.

“Could you talk to him?”

“About?”

“Showing proper interest.” Little-girl petulant. “When I ask what kind of flowers he wants, he says whatever. Cream or white linens on the tables? Whatever. Tinted or clear glass in the hurricane lamps? Whatever. He acts like he doesn’t care.”

Who would? I thought.

“I’m sure he trusts your judgment,” I said.

“Pretty please?”

I pictured Summer with her overdeveloped breasts and underdeveloped brain. Marveled again at the folly of middle-aged men.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll talk to him.”

The line beeped. I checked the screen. Slidell.

“I’m sorry, Summer. I have to take an incoming call.”

I couldn’t disconnect fast enough.