A Ford van driven by Warren K. Fletcher, white male, five feet ten, thirty-one, of Germantown was backing up toward him with the obvious intention of squashing him between the van and the Porsche. First he couldn't get the.38 snub-nose out of its holster no matter how hard he tried, and then when he finally got it out he couldn't make it fire no matter how hard he pulled on the trigger, and then when he finally got it to fire, he fired five times and missed all five times…

He'd seen the movie before, and when he missed with the last shot, and the van was about to squash him, he usually woke up.

But I don't remember waking up last night.

Probably the booze.

And Fletcher as the star of my nightmare? Usually it's Susan.

Is there some significance in Fletcher showing up again?

The sweat soaked T-shirt smelled so foul that he didn't want to pack it with the rest of his clothing. He took it instead into the shower with him and started to wash it.

To hell with this! I'll just buy another T-shirt!

He tossed the T-shirt into a trash can and then took a long shower, considered again the gross injustices of the world as he found it, then had an inspiration.

"Screw her!" he said aloud, and when he got out of the shower, he walked still naked and dripping to the bedside telephone and called the concierge.

The concierge said the pro shop of the Lakewood Country Club would have clubs to rent and golf shoes for sale.

"And how about a tee time? As early as possible?"

"Well, perhaps tomorrow, sir. The rain'll probably stop in time for the course to be playable tomorrow. Shall I reserve a tee time for you then?"

"I'll be gone, I'm sorry. Thank you very much."

Having the telephone in his hand reminded him of two calls he had to make, and he made them.

First he called Colonel Richards and told him he thought the peeper was the man they were looking for, and that an assistant district attorney was en route from Philadelphia. And then he called Sergeant Kenny and told him that he would be meeting whoever was coming from Philadelphia at the Mobile airport a little after noon.

"I think whoever's coming will want to see the chief right away. Is he going to be available then? As soon as I can get from the airport to the station?"

"He'll be here then, I'm sure."

"If he needs to talk to me, you've got my cellular number."

"Right," Kenny said. "Mind telling me what you'll be doing?"

Until that moment, Matt had no idea-since golf was out and it was raining-how he was going to spend the morning. But it came to him.

"I'm going to take statements from the colonel, the old guy…"

"Mr. Chambers Galloway," Kenny furnished. "I'll give you his number."

"And anybody else… maybe Fats Gambino, if I have time on the way to the airport."

Kenny chuckled, deep in his throat, reminding Matt of Jason Washington.

"That'll make Ol' Fats's day. His place is right on Airport Boulevard, a couple of miles short of the airport. You can't miss it. I wouldn't suggest you tell him you're coming."

"And anybody else you think would be a good idea."

"I'll think on it, and tell you when you come in."

"Thanks, Kenny."

"My pleasure."

Matt considered for a moment having a room-service breakfast, but decided against it, but not because of the thought he had on the way to the dining room, which was that after he ate a leisurely breakfast, he would call Detective Lassiter and suggest that if she was now awake, they had work to do. He would then meet her in the lobby, and she could have a McMuffin and canned orange juice for breakfast at the McDonald's on their way to Daphne.

She came into the dining room a minute after he took a table, even before the waiter had brought coffee.

Jesus, that's a good-looking woman!

"Good morning," Matt said.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Olivia said. "May I?" she asked, indicating a chair.

"Of course."

He smiled at her. She smiled back, but her smile was a momentary curl of her lips, completely devoid of anything resembling warmth.

Okay, if that's the way you want to play it. Screw you.

Olivia sat down.

"What we're going to do this morning is take statements from Colonel Richards and Mr. Galloway," Matt said, and then, without waiting for a reply, devoted his entire attention to the breakfast menu.

[THREE] Detective Payne had just about finished his Belgian waffles with strawberries and cream, which he had ordered to accompany his chipped beef over toast with poached eggs, and glanced to see if Detective Lassiter was finished with her whole-wheat toast, when he thought he heard his name being spoken.

He looked toward the headwaiter's table in time to see the woman behind it nod in his direction, the nod guiding a young man in a business suit toward him.

"Sergeant Payne?" the young man asked.

Matt nodded.

"My name is Roswell Bernhardt, Sergeant. I'm an attorney. Specifically, I'm Mr. Homer C. Daniels's attorney."

"I don't mean to be rude, counselor, but I don't think I should be talking to you," Matt said.

"I understand," Bernhardt said. "Certainly. But what I was hoping you could do is give me the name of someone in your district attorney's office with whom I could speak."

"I wouldn't know what name to give you, Counselor, in the D.A.'s office. Except for that of the D.A. herself. That's Mrs. Eileen McNamara Solomon."

"I understood someone's on the way here," Bernhardt said, then added. "Sergeant Kenny told me that."

If Kenny told this guy my name and where to find me, and that somebody's coming, he must like him. What the hell!

"I'm going to meet someone from the D.A.'s office at the airport, Mr. Bernhardt…"

"Someone with the authority to discuss a plea bargain?"

"… at half past twelve," Matt went on. "I don't know who, or what authority he or she might have. But if you'd like, if you give me your card, I'll pass it on, and tell whoever it is you'd like to speak with him/her."

Bernhardt produced a card, gave it to Matt, thanked him profusely, and left.

"I wonder what that was all about?" Olivia asked.

"I really have no idea," Matt said. "Are you about finished with your breakfast?"

She stood up and walked away and waited by the head-waiter's table until he had settled the bill.

"If you'll give me the keys to the car, please, I'll put my luggage into it," she said.

He wordlessly handed her the keys, then went to his room, packed, and then settled the bill. He made no attempt to rush.

When he got into the Mustang, she didn't speak.

Jesus, she's good-looking.

Is she going to stay pissed all day?

For good?

That seems a distinct possibility.

Well, if that bitchy, irrational behavior last night was an indicator of the future, maybe that's not such an all-around bad thing.

" 'Tis better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all," as they say.

You don't believe that for a minute, and you know it.

Just keep your mouth shut, and maybe she'll cool off. Or warm up.

A familiar face came through the revolving doors into the persons-meeting-passengers area, but it was not that of Steven Cohen, Esq., but rather that of Michael J. O'Hara.

"Sherlock goddamn Holmes in the flesh!" Mickey greeted them. "And the beauty with the beast!"

"I won't ask what brings you to the Redneck Riviera, Mickey," Matt began.

"What did you say? 'The Redneck Riviera'?"

Matt nodded. "That's what they call it."

"Great! I'm going to do a long piece, and that's great color."

"But frankly," Matt went on, "I was expecting Steve Cohen or somebody else from the D.A.'s office."

"They're in the cheap seats," Mickey said. "They'll be off in a minute."

He turned to Olivia.

"Stanley said to tell you he's sorry as hell about theLedger and that Phil Donaldson asshole, and that he'll try to make it up."