The doctor looked at Wainwright. “You want the bill sent to the department, Chief?”

Wainwright nodded.

The doctor handed Louis a prescription. “Be careful, Officer.”

The doctor left and Louis started to button his shirt slowly. Okay, the doc was wrong; he wasn’t a cop. But Wainwright was wrong, too; he wasn’t a PI, either. So what the hell was he?

He remembered a cold night not so long ago. A cop named Jesse, talking as they drove through the dark Michigan woods.

It’s what we are, Louis. Taking the uniform off at night doesn’t change a damn thing.

It’s not what I am, Jess. I’m a man first, a cop second.

Talk to me in twenty years, Louis, and tell me then what you see when you look in the mirror.

He had been so sure. But that was before he met Gibralter, who wore the badge like a warrior shield, and before Jesse, whose life had been both saved and destroyed by the badge.

And before Fred Lovejoy, the ex-cop who lived alone with his dog on the edge of a frozen lake, spending his days fishing and polishing his service revolver, waiting to die.

He glanced up at a mirror above the sink.

Tell me what you see, Louis.

He looked at Wainwright.

“It won’t happen again,” he said.

Wainwright’s lips drew into a thin line. “Come on, I’m driving you back to the Dodies’.”

Chapter Seven

The buzzing sound filled his head, making it hurt. Where was it coming from? Damn it, it hurt, the buzzing hurt.

He looked around, left, right, but there was no one in the parking lot, just cars. He looked up. The green neon of the Holiday Inn sign towered above him. Some of the letters were missing and the neon sign was spitting, buzzing, blinking in the night.

HOLI INN HOLI INN

He covered his ears, against the buzzing, until finally it blended with the dull roar of the waves in his brain. When he took his hands down, it was gone. But the waves were still there, pounding.

He looked again at the blue car. He had followed it here, followed it for the last two hours. He had seen the man and had known instantly that he was perfect. But then, but then, he had to wait. He had to wait, wait until the man finished and got back in his car. He had to wait through the traffic. Had to wait until the fucker ate his damn burritos, bought his fucking postcards. He had to wait. And now, it was time.

What’s taking him so long? Why doesn’t he get out?

Finally, the taillights went dead. The driver’s door opened. He heard the faint pinging of the car’s ignition alarm. The man emerged.

Move! Do it now! Quick! Quick!

In three swift strides, he was at the car. The man heard him and turned. There was just enough time for something to register on the man’s face—fear? confusion?—before the pole hit his leg.

A shot split the silence. The man crumbled to the asphalt, holding his thigh.

Ha! Easy now! The rest is easy! Oh, yes!

The man was moaning, writhing. Making noise. The pinging sound from the car, someone would hear it. They were far in the corner of the lot but someone could hear it.

Too much noise. Get away from here. Too much light, too much noise. Get away!

He grabbed the man’s right arm and dragged him to the truck. With a grunt, he hoisted him up. Light. He was so light. He threw him in the flatbed along with the pole. The man’s head made a loud clunk as it hit metal.

The man was moaning and groping at the air. He slammed his fist into the man’s head and he was quiet.

He stared at the man’s face. It looked green in the neon of the sign overhead.

He frowned.

Too . . . too . . . is it too? It looked different in the daylight. No . . . no, it’s perfect. Finish it!

He pulled the tarp up over the man’s body and got in the truck. He started the truck but then paused. He reached under the seat. It was still there. The knife was there. And the can of paint. He wasn’t going to fuck it up this time. This time, he would do it right.

Chapter Eight

Louis woke to the smell of strong coffee. He grimaced as he sat up, the ache in his chest worse than it had been last night. He reached for the prescription bottle and gulped down a Percodan. Pulling on some clothes, he followed the coffee smell to the kitchen where Dodie and Margaret sat at the table, hidden behind sections of newspapers.

“Morning,” Louis mumbled.

Margaret’s face appeared around the edge of the newspaper. “How’s your shoulder this morning?” she asked.

“Better,” he lied. He had told Dodie about the episode with Levon but had told Margaret only that he had slipped on the dock. There was something about her that made him feel as if he were twelve years old and he didn’t want her fussing over him.

Louis settled into the chair opposite Dodie, who acknowledged him with a grunt from behind the Sports section.

Margaret put a mug of coffee in front of him. “You want some toast and eggs?” she asked.

“That would be great,” Louis said, rubbing his face. He glanced up at the clock above the sink. It was after ten. He hadn’t slept so long or so soundly in years. Probably the Percodan. He felt something rub his calf and looked down to see Issy. He gently pushed the cat away with his foot. It trotted away to the bowl of kibbles Margaret had set out by the refrigerator.

“Twins lost to the Yanks in ten,” Dodie muttered. He put down the paper and took a slurp of his coffee. “You wanna go see a spring training game? It’s right over in Fort Myers.”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I’ll get us some tickets. Margaret hates baseball. It’ll be nice to have someone to go with.” Dodie went back to his reading.

Louis hid his smile. It was strange, this new relationship with Sam Dodie. Dodie was only forty-five, but during the last week of living in his home, Louis sometimes felt as if the man was trying to play father to a long-lost son.

The kitchen filled with the smell of bacon. The sun slanted through the sliding glass doors leading out to the patio. Louis pulled the Lifestyles section out of the Fort Myers News-Press and tried to lose himself in the mundane tribulations of Dear Abby’s disciples.

“Jesus,” Dodie said suddenly.

Louis looked up.

“They found another body,” Dodie said.

“When?”

“Yesterday. Floated up out by Bakers Point.” He held out the front page. Louis took it and quickly read the story. It was a tourist, another black man, but the story didn’t say anything more other than that he was stabbed to death.

“Where’s Bakers Point?” Louis asked.

“South end of Sereno. It’s the tip of the key, part of Matlacha Wildlife Preserve. Might not be related.”

“Two stabbings in two weeks. Two black men. In a town that you say has never had a murder? Too coincidental for comfort, I’d say,” Louis said.

Dodie nodded grimly.

Margaret set a plate in front of Louis. “I can’t believe it,” she said quietly. “I mean, this place is so . . . quiet.” She turned back to the stove, shaking her head.

Dodie looked at Louis, then returned to reading the story. Louis took a bite of bacon and rose quickly, going to the phone on the wall.

“Who you calling?” Dodie asked.

“Wainwright,” Louis answered.

Louis waited, eating the bacon, while the operator tried to locate Wainwright. Finally, she patched Louis through to the chief’s squad car.

“I thought you might be calling,” Wainwright said.

“Is it the same MO?” Louis asked.

“Come see for yourself. I’m on my way to the county morgue.”

Louis got directions and hung up. He picked up his coffee and took a quick drink.

“Where you going?” Dodie asked.

“Autopsy’s this morning,” Louis said as he put three pieces of bacon between toast. “Wainwright said I could be there.”