Louis watched her. She was staring at the far wall, shaking her head, eyes bright, jaw set hard.

“Mrs. Tatum, your lawyer told me your brother is also a suspect. There’s a warrant out for his arrest.”

That seemed to bring her back. “Levon doesn’t got the balls to kill anyone.”

“Where was he that night?”

The anger snapped back into her eyes. “I dunno. Probably passed out somewhere. The son of a bitch is crazy.” She paused. “But he didn’t kill Walter.”

“Three months ago, your brother attacked your husband,” Louis said. According to the file, the Sereno Key police had been called to the Tatum home five times in the last year, always by neighbors. Three times, police had arrived to find that Walter Tatum had left. Roberta Tatum had never once pressed charges.

Roberta looked at him, surprised that he knew. “That was nothing,” she said quickly. “Walter and me was going at it and Levon was there, so he thinks he’s gonna help me by slapping Walter around.” She shook her head. “I yelled at him to mind his own business, but that damn bitch next door called the cops again.”

“They were both arrested,” Louis said.

“I’m telling you, it was nothing.”

“Your brother has a record?” Louis asked.

“You know he does,” she said quickly.

“Your husband has life insurance?”

The anger flashed back into her eyes. “I expect you know that, too,” she snapped. But then she closed her eyes, shaking her head. “A hundred grand,” she said slowly. “Walter always had this fear, this premonition, that some kid was going to walk in the store someday and blow him away for a bottle of Jack. That man is . . . was so damn stupid sometimes.”

“They’re saying that’s your motive,” Louis said. “They say you devised a plan to kill your husband and hired your brother to carry it out. They believe your brother did something to the car’s engine so it would stall out. They believe you purposely got your husband drunk, then started a fight with him, knowing he would leave. Then you sent your brother after him.”

Roberta was staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.

“That’s crazy,” she said.

She jumped to her feet, flinging the chair back against the wall. She turned sharply and went to the corner, her back to Louis. She stood there, her shoulders hunched, head down.

Finally, she spun back to face Louis. “Did they tell you what was done to him?” she shouted. “Did they tell you his leg had a ten-inch hole blown in it? Did they tell you he didn’t have any blood left in his body by the time they found him? Did they tell you he was beaten so hard the skin came off his face?”

Her eyes welled. “I saw it!” she said. “I had to go over to that place and identify him. But I couldn’t! Because Walter didn’t have a face!” The tears fell down her cheeks. “Does that sound like something I planned? Does that even sound normal?”

Louis stared at her. She was waiting for an answer. He closed the notebook.

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

She stood there, her chest heaving. Finally, she walked slowly back to the table and dropped into the chair. The tears had stopped as quickly as they had come, leaving gray streaks down her face. For several minutes, she didn’t move; then she slowly raked her red nails through her black hair.

“Look,” she whispered, not looking up. “Levon is crazy but he didn’t do this. I didn’t do this. I loved Walter. And if you don’t believe me, then you might as well head back to Michigan, because you’re fired.”

She wiped her face and folded her arms across her chest, her eyes trained fiercely on the ashtray on the table. Her eyes were dry but he could see the veins pulsing in her temples.

Louis got up slowly.

Roberta’s eyes rose to met his.

“You coming back?” she asked.

“Yes,” Louis said.

Roberta ran a hand under her runny nose and turned her focus back on the ashtray. The guard opened the door, and Louis left. Bledsoe was nowhere to be seen.

Louis started down the hall, then turned and went back to the door. He looked in through the small window and saw her sitting in the chair, her arms wrapped around her chest, eyes closed. She was rocking slowly.

Chapter Four

He found Bledsoe out in the lobby, staring at the wanted posters. Bledsoe turned when he heard Louis approach.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“Did she talk to you?”

Louis leveled his eyes at the lawyer. “I don’t think I’m the ‘brother’ you thought I was.”

“I was hoping—”

“I know what you were hoping,” Louis interrupted. “It’s not going to work. Your client couldn’t care less what color I am.”

Bledsoe let out a sigh and bent to pick up his briefcase. He straightened, gazed out the glass doors, then looked back at Louis. “I’m sorry you had to come such a long way for nothing,” he said. “I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed for your expenses thus far.” He stuck out his hand.

Louis stared at it. “I’m fired?”

Bledsoe blinked. “But you said—”

“All I said was your client doesn’t like me,” Louis said. “I don’t like her either. But I don’t think she’s guilty.”

Bledsoe dropped his hand. “So you’re taking the case?”

Louis paused. “Yeah, yeah, I guess I am.”

Bledsoe’s lips tipped upward and he thrust out his hand again. Louis returned his sweaty handshake.

“I need to talk to the police chief,” Louis said.

“Dan Wainwright,” Bledsoe said quickly. “I already told him about you. He’s retired FBI, a bit of a hardass, unfortunately.”

Louis suppressed a sigh. “Great. How’s he feel about private investigators?”

Bledsoe was steering him toward the front offices. “I don’t know. All I know is he isn’t crazy about me.”

Dan Wainwright’s door was open and Bledsoe led Louis to it. Louis watched as Bledsoe stammered out an introduction and left, actually backing out the door like some supplicant. Louis turned his attention to the man before him. Wainwright’s pale blue eyes were steady on Louis’s face.

“You’re trapped in a room with a tiger, a rattlesnake, and a lawyer and you have a gun with two bullets,” Wainwright said. “What should you do?”

Louis shrugged.

“You shoot the lawyer. Twice.”

Louis didn’t smile.

Wainwright stared at Louis, shook his head, then dropped down in his chair with a sigh.

“Okay, I told Bledsoe I’d give you ten minutes. Clock’s running.”

Louis considered the man sitting across the desk from him. Dan Wainwright was about fifty-five but had the air of an older man. It wasn’t his face. It was heavily creased but ruddy with health and topped with an unruly but striking shock of thick white hair. It wasn’t his body either. Wainwright was six-five, maybe two-thirty, linebacker-gone-lax, and his head almost looked too small for his robust frame. It was something intangible, like the man were some plodding, primeval creature whose species was losing the gene wars. Louis thought of Ollie Wickshaw in that moment and how his old partner used to say that some people just seemed to have old souls. Dan Wainwright looked like he had been stalking the earth for eons.

“I just saw Roberta Tatum,” Louis said.

“A real sweetheart,” Wainwright said.

“You think she did it,” Louis said.

Wainwright nodded. “It’s classic. There was a pattern.”

“She has no record. Not even a speeding ticket.”

“I mean the abuse,” Wainwright said. “He knocked her around, she took it for years. Finally, she just snapped and bit him back.”

“I don’t get that feeling,” Louis said.

“Well, I guess that’s what she’s paying you for.”

Louis stared at Wainwright, trying to read what was in his eyes. He couldn’t tell if the man was annoyed or amused.

“You got your license?” Wainwright asked.

“What?”

“Your PI license. You gotta have one to operate in this state.”