“Van Slate doesn’t like you and he knows you’re not a cop and he can do anything to you he wants,” Wainwright said. “Candy can step in if he gets out of line. Take backup, Louis.”

Louis bit back his response. Backup. That was a nice way to say “baby-sitter.” He knew Wainwright was right but he still didn’t like it.

Outside, he spotted Candy waiting near the door. Candy tossed down his cigarette and fell into step with Louis as he walked to the cruiser. Candy walked to the driver’s side and Louis paused, then climbed into the passenger side.

“Know where we’re going?” Louis asked.

Candy nodded. “I arrested him the first time.”

Louis put on his sunglasses, hiding his souring mood. Van Slate knows you’re not a cop.

God, he was really beginning to hate this, trying to work in limbo, not knowing where his limits ended and the suspect’s rights began. There had always been a definite line before. Now the line was drawn in sand, constantly shifting. It was all so much clearer with the badge.

He leaned back in the seat. No. That wasn’t really true. He had learned that much in Michigan. They had all been cops but they had not known their limits. And he had almost allowed himself to be pulled right in with them.

They pulled out and turned onto a narrow asphalt road, shaded by a tunnel of trees. Louis glanced out the window, catching occasional glimpses of the water between the houses. Candy started whistling a tune. Louis glanced over at him, trying to place it.

“What is that?”

“What?” Candy asked.

“That song.”

“ ‘I Walk the Line.’ Johnny Cash.”

“Right.”

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine . . .”

Louis looked away.

Candy kept singing, sounding less like Johnny Cash and more like a bullfrog. He nudged Louis. “C’mon . . . because you’re mine . . .”

“I walk the line,” Louis sang softly.

Candy laughed. “Man, you got a terrible voice.”

Louis smiled.

Candy was quiet for moment as he slowed for a stop sign. “Chief going to take you on eventually?”

Louis was surprised he asked. “Nah, I think I’m going home after this.”

“Where’s home?” Candy asked.

Louis was about to answer, but hesitated. Who knew anymore?

“Up North,” Louis said finally.

“I’m from a place called Everglades City,” Candy went on. “Ever hear of it?”

“I’d guess it’s in the Everglades.”

“Yeah. Armpit city. I came up to Fort Myers to go to college, got my bachelor’s, met the girl I’m going to marry, and landed this job. I figure in three years I’ll have one of those cool old condos on the Atlantic and be wearing a Miami-Dade patch on my arm.”

“Why Miami?” Louis asked.

“That’s where all the shit happens, Louis. Sereno’s great and so is the chief, but I’d be bored to death if I had to spend the rest of my career here.”

“You call this case boring?”

“Well, no, but I’m twenty-three, man. I want to be where life really happens. That’s why I have it all planned out, right down to the month.”

Louis smiled to himself.

Planned out. Right.

Just like all those great plans he had made for himself. Prelaw at Michigan but always with an eye to the police academy. Then the first job with the Ann Arbor force and the plan was officially launched. Two quick seasons in the minors and he’d move up to the Detroit PD, the real work. A couple more years in uniform, making his mark, and then a nice gold detective badge hanging on his dress shirt. All without ever having to leave the great state of Michigan. Nice and neat.

Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans, Louis.

Who was it who had told him that? Phillip Lawrence . . . his foster father. He remembered now. A rainy afternoon in May 1980. College graduation ceremony. It was what Phillip had said after Louis had finally worked up the guts to tell him he wasn’t going on to law school after all.

I’ve got it all planned out, Phillip. It’s what I want. I want to be a cop and stay here in Michigan, near you and Frances.

Phillip Lawrence had been disppointed. Frances had cried. But they supported his plan. It was three years later when Phillip finally told Louis what he really thought, that Louis’s life plan was “safe.”

Safe? What’s safe about being a cop?

You’re looking for what you didn’t have as a kid, Louis, assurances that life is neat and tidy and safe. But life, real life, is messy. It’s what happens when you’re busy making plans.

He sat up in the seat. A thought that had been just a swirl in his brain was starting to coalesce. He wasn’t going back to Michigan. He could see that now. He didn’t know where he would go when this was done. But he knew now that he wasn’t going back.

“We’re here.”

Candy pulled to a stop in front of a pale pink apartment building. There were four units. Louis got out and followed Candy to the door of one on the ground floor. They knocked and waited. Candy was tapping his nightstick lightly against his thigh, whistling softly.

Van Slate opened the door, squinting into the sun.

“Oh, Jesus Christ . . .”

“May we come in, Mr. Van Slate?” Candy asked.

“What do you think?”

Candy glanced at Louis. “Where were you last night after eleven?”

Van Slate started to close the door. Candy shoved his foot in to brace it. Van Slate looked down at Candy’s shiny black shoe, then up, his eyes sliding to Louis.

“Get off my property. You’re trespassing.”

“He’s with me,” Candy said.

“Ain’t that too bad.” Van Slate shoved on the door and Candy was forced to withdraw his foot. The door shut in their faces.

“So much for cooperating,” Louis said, turning. He spotted Van Slate’s truck in the drive and walked to it. It was a new Chevy pickup, painted a bright custom blue. Louis went to it, his eyes scanning the flatbed. It was immaculate. Not a speck of dirt, let alone an empty spray paint can.

He moved to the doors and peered in the dark-tinted windows, tempted to try the door handle. He knew he couldn’t open the doors as a cop, but he wasn’t sure where he stood as a private citizen. He also knew it would bring Van Slate storming from his apartment. He decided to take the chance.

He opened the truck door. The interior was clean, except for sand on the driver’s-side floorboards.

“You can’t touch that without a warrant!” Van Slate shouted, bursting from his apartment.

Louis turned, facing him. Candy was standing to Van Slate’s left, watching.

“Get away from my truck.”

“Where were you last night?” Louis asked.

Van Slate was panting. Louis glanced back at the truck. There was definitely something in there that Van Slate didn’t want them to see. What was it? Gloves? A knife hidden under the seat?

“Where were you last night?”

Van Slate took a step toward Louis and Candy gently slapped the nightstick sideways against his belly. Van Slate looked down at it.

“I can puncture your spleen and never leave a bruise with this, Van Slate,” Candy said calmly. “Want to see?”

Van Slate took a step back.

“Answer the man,” Candy said.

“I went out drinking with my friends. I was at the Lob Lolly till after two. Then we went to the beach.”

“What beach?”

Van Slate glared at him. “Fort Myers.”

“You weren’t on Captiva?”

“Captiva? Hell no.”

Louis was looking behind the seat now. On the floor, he saw what looked like the handle of a knife, but he wasn’t sure.

Damn.

He wondered what the chances were of getting a quick warrant for the truck. He looked over at Candy.

“Watch him.”

He walked back to the cruiser and radioed Wainwright, and told him about what he thought he saw. He asked about a search warrant.

“All we got is his past crimes,” Wainwright said. “Unless you can break his alibi, it’s weak. Damn weak.”