But Ryan sweet-talked the loopholes, and, after years of resistance, I finally jumped through. Then obstacle three roared in with the Yule.

Lily. A nineteen-year-old daughter, complete with iPod, belly ring, and Bahamian mother, a flesh-and-blood memento of Ryan’s long-ago ride with the Wild Ones.

Though mystified and somewhat daunted by the prospect, Ryan embraced the product of his past and made some decisions about his future. Last Christmas he’d committed to long-distance parenting. That same week he’d asked me to be his roomie.

Whoa, bucko. I gave that plan a veto.

Though I still bunk with my feline compadre, Birdie, Ryan and I are dancing around a preliminary draft of a working arrangement.

So far the dance has been good.

And strictly home turf. We keep it to ourselves.

“How’s it going, cupcake?” Ryan asked, coming through the door.

“Good.” I added a fragment to those drying on the corkboard.

“That the chimney stiff?” Ryan was eyeing the box holding Charles Bellemare.

“Happy trails for the Cowboy,” I said.

“Guy take a hit?”

I shook my head. “Looks like he leaned to when he should have leaned fro. No idea why he was sitting on a chimney ledge.” I stripped off my gloves and squeezed soap onto my hands. “Who’s the blond guy downstairs?”

“Birch. He’ll be working Ferris with me.”

“New partner?”

Ryan shook his head. “Loan-over. You think Ferris offed himself?”

I turned and shot Ryan a you-know-better-than-that look.

Ryan gave me an expression of choirboy innocence. “Not trying to rush you.”

Yanking paper towels from the holder, I said, “Tell me about him.”

Ryan nudged Bellemare aside and rested one haunch on my worktable.

“Family’s Orthodox.”

“Really?” Mock surprise.

“The Fab Four were here to ensure a kosher autopsy.”

“Who were they?” I wadded and tossed the paper towels.