"You mean Theo didn't see what he thought he saw?"

"Not exactly. The warden ordered an inmate-by-inmate search just to see if more than one prisoner had the same tattoo. Somebody who the guards might have missed when they inventoried scars, marks, and tattoos upon each prisoner's arrival."

"So it was in the inventory?"

"Yeah. We pegged it to a guy named Moses Carter."

"I'm confused. If the tattoo was in the inventory, why didn't the guards find it when they searched the inmates?"

"Moses was released this morning."

"I assume you're going to bring him in for questioning."

"That's going to be difficult."

"Why?"

Andie could almost hear the wheels turning in Jack's head, and he spoke before she could frame a response.

"Do you think this Moses shot the trooper?" said Jack.

Again she paused to assure herself that this was something he needed to know. She wasn't sure, but with Theo working undercover, she gave Jack the benefit of the doubt. "I'm thinking bigger than that."

"How do you mean?"

"Let me put it this way" she said. "So far we have Trooper Stratton's videotape of a red car that meets the description in our BOLO from Theo's shooting. The symbol for the O-Town Posse is clearly visible."

"But Moses was in jail when Theo was shot."

''The rest of his gang wasn't. Could have been done on his order."

"A good connection, if you can make it."

Andie was on a roll, her theory continuing to gel, and the words kept coming even though she wasn't certain that Jack was in the need-to-know circle. "I'm not saying there's any connection yet," she said. "But for no reason I know of, just this morning the judge reconsidered Moses' bail, and suddenly the leader of the O-Town Posse is out on the street."

"But he's forbidden to leave Miami-Dade County," said Jack, seeming to follow her chain of thought.

"Exactly. Which means that if Trooper Stratton hauled him back to jail for violating his terms of release, he would have been facing thirty years in prison on charges that are a slam-dunk conviction. Not even a lawyer like Jack Swyteck could help him beat the rap."

"Sounds to me like Moses never had any intention of coming back to stand trial. His only hope was to make a run for it."

Andie glanced toward Trooper Stratton's body, which the medical examiner's team was now pulling from the vehicle. "Yeah," she said softly. "And shoot to kill anyone who gets in his way."

MOSES AND HIS RED car were in an Orlando chop shop before midnight. The O-Town Posse leader had contacts in every major Florida city. Organization was the key to success.

It was difficult to maintain that organization, however, from behind prison bars. Sure, Moses had heard of mob bosses running the Mafia from jail. But O-Town Posse didn't have that kind of structure. Not yet, anyway. Things had been breaking down in Moses' absence, and tonight's run-in with the state trooper was proof of that. Moses' Overtown soldiers had neglected to tell him that they'd used his car to carry out the drive-by hit on Theo Knight. This precious little detail came out in a phone conversation with his right-hand man, minutes after Moses shot Trooper Stratton in the forehead.

"How could you not tell me?" Moses had said to him.

"Dude, we – I don't know. You ordered the hit, we did the hit."

"Yeah, and you fucked that up, too."

"The brotha' went down on the sidewalk like a rock. Blood was coming from his head. Was dead for sure, we thought."

"You just wasn't thinking period. Use my wheels? How crazy is that?"

"It seemed to make sense at the time. We figured if somebody spotted the car, we'd tell the cops it was stolen. No way you coulda' pulled the trigger. You was in jail, dude."

Moses knew that was a crock. His soldiers were smart enough to understand that any acts of O-Town Posse would be linked to Moses, whether he was in or out of prison. They obviously realized how stupid they'd been, were afraid to fess up, and were hoping that no witnesses had given the cops a description of the vehicle. That hope had bordered on delusional. Had Moses known that there was even a possibility of a BOLO, never in a million years would he have gone flying up the interstate at ninety-plus miles per hour. Fortunately for Moses, his car was equipped with a police radio (no self-respecting gang lieutenant traveled without one), so he heard Trooper Stratton radio in the vehicle description in response to the BOLO. Moses had reacted accordingly.

Regardless, back in Miami, some idiot's head was going to roll – literally.

"I got about a half-dozen cars you can choose from," the chop shop owner told him. His name was Jamahl, a fat guy who appeared to live day and night in his grimy garage coveralls. "Come out back with me. Take your pick."

The noise inside the garage was deafening. Jamahl's chop team was busy at work on the latest acquisition – pounding, sawing, cutting, ripping – quickly reducing the red car to parts for sale and shipment to Latin America. Moses took one last look at his wheels and followed the owner outside to the junkyard. Five completely intact vehicles were lined up in front of a mountain of quarter panels, wheel wells, and discarded parts from chopped vehicles. Moses zeroed in on the metallic blue 1995 Caprice Classic.

"This one stolen?" said Moses.

"None of these is."

"Right," said Moses.

"I speak the truth, dude. Some of my inventory has to be legit to keep the IRS off my back. And this is it. My five beauties."

Moses walked around the Caprice, inspecting the body, paint job, tires, and rims. It needed a wash, but everything was in good condition. He opened the drivers'-side door and climbed behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. The engine started on the first turn, and he liked the sound of it. The odometer posted twenty-eight thousand miles, but Moses figured that the real number was probably double.

"What you want for it?"

"For you? A straight-up trade, brotha'."

Moses nodded. "Appreciate it, dude. But I need to keep my police radio."

"No problem."

They didn't bother with paperwork. A title transfer in Moses' name would only have put the state of Florida on alert and defeated the purpose of his new wheels. He took the police radio from his old car and drove off the lot around 12:30 a.m. The radio told him that the Florida turnpike was crawling with cops, so he followed the back roads out of Orlando, and he would continue on a dark, winding route until he could pick up the interstate.

The police radio was abuzz. They were looking not just for Moses' red car – which was now history – but for him, too. He needed a disguise and a phony ID if he was going to be on the road. A dead cop was a top priority for law enforcement. It was also big news for the media. He couldn't just keep quiet and let it hit the newspapers in the morning. There was one other phone call he had to make.

He dialed the number – he had it memorized – and a man answered in a sleepy voice. In two minutes, Moses told him exactly what had happened since his release from jail. The end of his story was met with stone-cold silence. Moses could sense the anger on the other end of the line.

"Don't worry," said Moses. "I'm still working it the way we planned."

"The plan went out the window when your boys dropped the ball in Overt own. So far, I'm the only one who keeps his promises. You went from no bail to ten thousand dollars bail, thanks to me. Less than twenty-four hours later, a state trooper is dead and you're in king-size trouble. Do you realize how bad this is going to look?"

"Nobody even knows you're involved. It ain't gonna look like anything for you."

"I'm not talking about me. I pulled in a huge favor. That trial judge who cut you a break on your bail this morning is an elected official. The media will absolutely skewer him. I'm going to have one very angry old man on my hands."