Fry grunted wearily.

“Hey,” Honey said. “Did you see on the news about the wolves out West? They’re trying to take ’em off the endangered list so that we can wipe ’em out all over again. Does that make any sense?”

Her son didn’t answer. Honey turned out the light.

“Thanks,” Fry said.

“I didn’t forget my medicine, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Which was true in a way-she’d thrown the pills in the trash weeks earlier. “Certain things still set me off, no matter what,” she said. “But I’m getting better, you’ve gotta admit.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely gettin’ better.”

“Fry?”

“I’m serious,” he said.

“Other things I just can’t let slide. You understand? Starting with matters of basic civility.” Honey closed her eyes and listened to her son’s breathing. Tomorrow she would go find another job, and then after she came home she’d get on the phone and track down Mr. Boyd Eisenhower.

“He had such a nice voice, didn’t you think?”

“Who?” Fry asked.

“That man who tried to sell us a place on the Suwannee River,” Honey said. “I thought he had an exceptionally agreeable voice.”

“I thought he sounded like a total dick.”

“What are you saying, kiddo? That I’ve lost my marbles?”

“No, Mom, I’m saying good night.”

The private investigator’s name was Dealey, and his office was downtown near Sundance Square. Lily Shreave was fifteen minutes early, but Dealey’s assistant waved her in.

Dealey, who was on the phone, signaled that he’d be finished in a minute. Pinned under his left elbow was a large brown envelope on which “Subject Shreave” had been printed with a black Sharpie.

After the private investigator hung up, he asked Lily Shreave if she wanted coffee or a soda. She said, “No, I want to see the pictures.”

“It’s not necessary, you know. Take my word, we got him cold.”

“Is she in them?” Lily Shreave pointed at the envelope.

“The pictures? Yes, ma’am.”

“She pretty?”

Dealey eased back in his chair.

“You’re right, it shouldn’t matter,” Lily Shreave said. “What’s her name?”

“The one she’s using now is Eugenie Fonda. She works at Relentless with your husband,” Dealey said, “and she has an interesting back-story. You remember the ‘Hurricane Homicide’ case a few years ago? The guy who whacked his wife and tried to make it look like she drowned in a storm?”

“Down in Florida,” Lily Shreave said. “Sure, I remember.”

“She was the husband’s girlfriend,” Dealey said, “the one who wrote that book.”

“Really? I read the first chapter in Cosmo.” Lily Shreave was puzzled. The woman had made the tree cutter out to be a stallion in the bedroom. So why on earth would she want Boyd?

“Let me see those pictures,” she said.

Dealey shrugged and handed her the envelope. “It’s the typical routine. Drinks after work, then back to her place. Or sometimes a late lunch before they punch in. Did I mention she was single?”

Lily Shreave held up the first photo. “Where was this one taken?” she asked.

“At a T.G.I. Friday’s off the 820. He ordered ribs and she got a salad.”

“And this one?”

“The doorway of Miss Fonda’s apartment,” Dealey said.

“She’s a real amazon, huh?”

“Six feet even, according to her driver’s license.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Same as me,” Lily Shreave remarked. “Weight?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Are those flowers in his hand?” Lily Shreave studied the grainy color print.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dealey said. “Daisies and baby’s breath.”

“God, he’s so lame.” Lily Shreave couldn’t remember the last time her husband had brought her a bouquet. They had been married five years and hadn’t slept together in five months.

“This is the first time he’s cheated on me,” she volunteered.

Dealey nodded. “You got your proof. My advice is take him to the cleaners.”

Lily Shreave laughed caustically. “What cleaners? The man can’t hardly pay for his own laundry. I want a speedy divorce, that’s all, and no trouble from him.”

“Then just show him the pictures,” Dealey said. “And save number six for last.”

Boyd Shreave’s wife thumbed through the stack until she found it. “Good grief,” she said, and felt her face redden.

“Deli over on Summit. Broad daylight,” said Dealey, who’d taken the photograph from a parked car. The camera was a digital Nikon with motor drive and a 400-mm telephoto.

“Is she actually blowing him?” Lily Shreave asked.

“That would be my expert opinion.”

“And what in the hell is he eating?”

“Turkey and salami on a French roll with pickles, shredded onions, no lettuce,” Dealey said.

“You can remember all that, but not her weight?” Lily Shreave smiled and fitted the stack of pictures back into the envelope. “I know what you’re up to, Mr. Dealey. You’re trying to spare my feelings. When I get stressed, I tend to put on a few pounds, sure, and lately I’ve been stressed. But don’t worry, I’ll get down to a size six again once I dump this jerk. So tell me-how much does she weigh?”

“A buck forty,” Dealey said.

“Oh, get real.”

“Exactly. People always lie on their driver’s license.”

“I mean, she’s six feet tall, so come on.”

“Like you said, Mrs. Shreave, it doesn’t really matter. Adultery is adultery.”

Boyd Shreave’s wife took out her checkbook. “Let me ask you something else about Miss Fonda. Do you think she put him up to it? I’m talking about the tree trimmer who murdered his wife. Is it possible this slut had something to do with it?”

Dealey said, “The cops tell me no. I already called down to Florida because I was wondering the same thing. They said she passed the polygraph with flying colors.”

Lily Shreave was somewhat relieved. Still, she made up her mind to move swiftly with the divorce, in case her husband got any nutball ideas.

“Copies of the pictures are locked in my safe box. They’re yours if you want ’em,” Dealey said. He’d already made a dozen prints of the sub shop blow job, which he considered to be a classic.

“I’m sorry things turned out this way,” he added.

“No, you’re not,” Lily Shreave said, “and, frankly, neither am I.”

She wrote out a check for fifteen hundred dollars. The private investigator put it in the top drawer and said, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Shreave.”

“Whoa, you’re not done yet.”

Dealey was surprised. “You want me to keep tailing your husband? What for?”

“The oral stuff is okay, but I’d prefer to see documentation of actual intercourse.”

“They usually don’t give out receipts, Mrs. Shreave.”

She said, “You know what I mean. Pictures or video will do.”

Dealey tapped two fingers on the desk. “I don’t get it. You’ve got more than enough to bury him already.”

“The deeper the better,” said Lily Shreave, snapping shut her purse.