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redhead—stood in the doorway of what he supposed they called a parlor, all talking at once.
    They made a hell of a picture.
    “Flat tire,” Del said and kept walking.
    The Brown mansion had style, Mal thought, had class, had weight , and still managed to feel like a home instead of a museum. He figured that clicked on credit for those who lived there, and had lived there.
    Warm colors, art that drew the eye rather than baffled it, comfortable chairs, glossy tables, and flowers, flowers, and more flowers mixed together with that style, that class and weight.
    But he never felt as if he should keep his hands in his pockets for fear of getting a fingerprint on something.
    He’d been through most of the place—excluding Parker’s private wing (and wouldn’t it be interesting to change that?), and always felt comfortable. Still, the easiest and most welcoming area of the house remained Mrs. Grady’s kitchen.
    The woman herself turned from the stove where she stirred something that turned the air to heaven.
    “So, it’s Malcolm.”
    “How’re you doing, Mrs. Grady?”
    “Well enough.” She cocked a brow as Del took a couple beers from the refrigerator. “Take those outside. I don’t want you underfoot.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” both men said together.
    “I suppose you’ll be staying for dinner,” she said to Malcolm.
    “Are you asking?”
    “I will if Delaney’s forgotten his manners.”
    “He just got here,” Del muttered.
    “As the other boys have wheedled a meal after the consult, I can stretch things to one more. If he’s not picky.”
    “If you’re cooking it, Mrs. Grady, I’ll be grateful for even a single bite.”
    “You’ve a clever tongue, don’t you, boy?”
    “All the girls say so.”
    She let out a quick bark of a laugh, and tapped her spoon on the edge of a pot. “Outside, the pair of you.”
    Del opened the fridge, grabbed two more beers. He shoved three of the four on Mal, then flipped out his phone as they walked outside. “Jack. Mal’s here. Got beer. Get Carter.” He snapped the phone closed again.
    He still wore his suit, Mal noted, and though he’d taken off his tie, loosened his collar, he looked every inch the Yale-educated lawyer. He shared his sister’s coloring—thick, dense brown hair, misty blue eyes. Her features were smoother, softer, but anyone with working eyes would make them as siblings.
    Del sat, stretched out his legs. His manner tended to be more casual and a hell of a lot less prickly than his sister’s, which might have been why they’d become poker buddies, then friends.
    They popped the bottles, and as Malcolm took the first cold sip, his body relaxed for the first time since he’d picked up his tools twelve hours earlier.
    “What happened?” Del asked.
    “About?”
    “Don’t play me, Mal. Flat tire, my ass. If Parker’d had a flat, you’d have changed it—or she would have—and she wouldn’t have ridden home on your bike.”
    “She had a flat.” Malcolm took another pull on his beer. “In fact, she had two.They’re toast.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t lie to a friend.“From what she said, and how it looked when I got there, some asshole swerved to avoid a dog. Parker had to cut it hard to the shoulder to avoid getting creamed. Wet road, maybe a little overcompensating, she had herself a little spin, shot out the two left tires. Looked to me from the skid marks, the other driver was booking—she wasn’t. And he kept right on going.”
    “He left her there?” Outrage colored Del’s voice, blew across his face in a storm.“Son of a bitch. Did she get the plate, the make?”
    “She got nothing, and I can’t blame her. It must’ve happened at the peak of that quick squall, and she was busy trying to get control of her car. I’d say she did pretty well. Didn’t hit anything, didn’t even pop the airbag. She was shaken up, and she was pissed. And she was extra pissed thinking she’d be late for her meeting.”
    “But not hurt,”