“They think a woman did this?” Louis asked.

“Murder for hire,” Bledsoe said. “She’s got an ex-con brother. He’s disappeared but there’s a warrant out for him. They think he actually pulled it off, but that they conspired together.”

“What does she have to gain?” Louis asked.

“They have some money, a very profitable store out on Captiva, and there was life insurance.”

“Did you bring the file?” Louis asked.

“No, I wasn’t sure Sam wanted to get into all that tonight. Stop by my office tomorrow and we’ll go over things.”

Louis wished Bledsoe had brought the file. Suddenly, he was anxious to get started. “Witnesses?” he asked.

Bledsoe sighed loudly. “We should be so lucky. Not a one. People fish along the causeway but no one’s come forward. The ME figures it happened late, and to make matters worse, it was raining hard that night. Sereno Key is a quiet place, we close up pretty early over here. Not much reason for anyone to come over from the mainland late at night unless they live here.”

Louis was silent, his mind already starting to turn over the pieces.

“So, where do you start?” Bledsoe asked.

“With your client,” Louis said. “Tomorrow morning?”

Bledsoe nodded. “I’ll call Chief Wainwright and arrange it.”

They fell silent. The air was heavy with the scent of low tide, orchids, and citronella. The sky was ablaze, orange and pink ribbons cutting across the red backdrop.

“Nice sunset tonight,” Dodie said.

Louis had never seen such a spectacular display. “Where do those colors come from?” he said, almost to himself.

“Dirt,” Bledsoe said. “Just a lot of dirt in the air.”

Chapter Three

He imagined that under different circumstances she was an attractive woman. She was large, maybe five-ten and a good one-seventy, but firm-skinned. Her skin was what was called blue, so dark her features seemed to blend together like ripples in an inky reflective pool. Her chopped black hair was a mess, haphazardly held back from her round face by two plastic barrettes, and she was wearing a shapeless orange jail smock. Still, Roberta Tatum held herself proudly as she paused just inside the door, staring at him.

“Where’d Bledsoe find you?” She had a sharp voice that bounced off the green concrete walls.

Louis shifted under the intensity of her eyes. They were a piercing black that reflected the florescent light like geodes.

“Michigan. A friend of a friend,” he said.

She grunted out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t think Bledsoe knew any black people. But then again, maybe you don’t qualify as black.”

She was staring at him, daring him to fight back. From his spot sitting behind the metal table, he just looked up at her calmly.

“Do you?” she demanded.

“What does it matter?” he asked, hearing a hint of weariness in his voice.

“Because!” she said sharply. She turned away. He waited while she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket and lit one. She took two long drags, blowing the smoke out in raspy streams before she turned back to face him.

“Do you think it would matter if I was some white bitch living out on Sanibel, driving a Mercedes, buying Moët and Chandon instead of selling it? Do you think I’d be in here if my skin wasn’t black?”

“I don’t know,” he said evenly. “I imagine you would be here if you were guilty, regardless of your color.”

“You imagine?” She shook her head, derisively.

Louis kept her gaze, trying to read her, trying to keep his own anger at bay. Shit, he was here to help the woman. He needed to hear the truth, not a recitation of all the crap she thought the world had heaped on her. He looked over her shoulder at the door. He could see Bledsoe’s pale face filling the small pane of reinforced glass. His expression was hangdog, almost resigned.

“How much of my money is Bledsoe paying you?”

Louis looked back at Roberta Tatum. “A hundred a day plus expenses.”

“I can get a whole box of you at the Winn-Dixie for two bucks.”

He knew she meant Oreo cookies, but let the remark go. Bledsoe had told him that Roberta Tatum probably would be more cooperative without him there. So much for that theory. Well, one more try and he was out of here. He motioned to the empty chair. “Please, Mrs. Tatum, sit down.”

She slid slowly into the chair across from him. His eyes dropped to her hands. Her hands were long and tapered with perfectly sculpted red nails. The pinky fingernail had a small diamond stone in it.

Louis opened his notebook. “Tell me what happened that night.”

He had already read the file Bledsoe had given him earlier. He had read the police statements, but he needed to hear her version. Seconds passed. He waited, listening to the raspy intake of her cigarette smoke and the light tapping of her red nails on the metal table.

“We had a fight,” she said finally.

“A bad one?”

“We didn’t draw blood this time, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“The fights got physical?”

“You know fights that don’t?”

“How physical?” he asked, writing.

She eyed his notepad. “I dunno. Walter’s knocked me upside the head once or twice. I guess I pulled a knife on him a couple times.”

Those details hadn’t been in the police reports. He stared at her.

Roberta Tatum stared back. “What, your kind don’t fight like that?”

Louis set down the pencil and closed the book. All the lightness he had felt last night on Dodie’s patio was gone.

“Look, Mrs. Tatum, this isn’t about me or Bledsoe or the shade of anyone’s skin. It’s about you. You and your brother are the prime suspects in a murder and I’m trying to help you. If you don’t want my help, just tell me and I’ll leave.”

She was staring at him. For several seconds, he sat there, debating whether to open the notebook or get up. His eyes flicked up to the door. Bledsoe was still there. He felt her touch, light on his hand.

“Look, they don’t get it,” she said quietly. She tilted her head toward the door behind her. “None of them get it. Bledsoe, that cop Wainwright. They don’t get that what Walter and me did to each other, it doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like we actually hurt each other. It’s just how we fight.”

It was still there in her voice, that subtle exclusionary accent in “we.” But her eyes had changed; the anger was backlit by fear. Roberta Tatum didn’t need him to tell her she had a good chance of spending the rest of her life in prison.

An image jumped up at him out of his memory. Women. Dark-skinned women, shaking the faded paper walls of a house with their high-pitched shrieks and angry words. His mother and sister? It was loud, loud enough to make him hide under a bed. Then it was over, like a summer squall, and they were laughing. God, could they laugh.

“Did you hit each other that night?” he asked.

Roberta snubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and sat back. “No. We watched TV, had a few beers. He started mouthing off at me so I shoved him. We argued; then he left.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

She shook her head. “He always left after we fought. Said he needed to get away from me to think.”

“Were you drunk?”

“I wasn’t, but yeah, I guess Walter was.” She paused, looking away. “I should’ve hid the keys.”

“After he was found, do you know if anything was missing from the car?”

She shook her head. “Nothing in there to take.”

“Was he missing any jewelry?”

“Never wore none.” Her voice had grown small.

“What did you do after he left the house?”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she whispered, not looking at him.

“You must’ve done something,” Louis said. “Did you go to sleep? Watch TV?”

Her eyes moved slowly up to his face. Her lips parted and the words came out softly. “I took my naked ass to bed and waited for him, like I always did after we fought,” she said. “I expected . . .” She ran a hand over her face. “Shit. . . .”