“Good day, sir. May I see your license and registration?”

Dredd’s hands moved slowly because cops got testy when you moved too fast. “I just fixed that taillight. I hope it ain’t broke again.”

The cop studied the papers. “We had a call about someone sitting here for a while. Someone looking a bit out of place.”

Dredd laughed and slapped his knee. “I guess that’d be me, officer. There’s so many good-looking young folks around here an ugly ol’ mug like mine prob’ly seems way out of place.”

The cop handed back the papers. “What brings you here, Mr Dredd?”

“I’m just a guy looking for work, passing out my handbills.” Dredd reached to a rubber-banded stack of copies on the dashboard. “Here … mebbe you could use some fix-up around your place. I’m really good. Bonded, too.”

The cop studied the flyer: A-1 Handyman Services, said the banner, underscored by a listing of services from light carpentry to painting to plumbing.

“It seems you’ve been here a while, Mr Dredd. Take that long to hang a few fliers?”

“I passed out some handbills and then parked and had lunch. It’s a pretty neighborhood.”

Dredd side-eyed the cop, seeing him spot a crumpled fast-food bag and a bottle of water on the passenger seat. The cop re-studied the flyer.

“Mind if I look inside?”

Dredd felt anger rise in his throat like bile. Whores and infidels roamed the streets, but this Roman had to bother a God-serving Christian. Dredd wanted to rip his shirt open and let Jesus see the injustice.

Instead, he tightened his hands on the wheel. “It’s unlocked.”

The cop opened the side door and saw the two metal toolboxes, a pair of collapsed sawhorses, scraps of wooden molding, cans of paint and drop cloths. He handed back the flyer.

“I suggest you move along, Mr Dredd. Folks get nervous about strangers.”

Dredd willed compliance into his voice. “I surely will, Officer. Bye now.”

Frisco Dredd clenched his teeth in smile and waved as the cop returned to his car. He set the handbills on the dashboard. Having the things made up was real smart, foxy, like keeping tools and stuff in back. He was done here for the most part anyway.

The next time he passed through it would just be for a minute, and he’d be leaving with a wriggling package on the floor of the van, rolled in the first of two wrappings. The first would be a drop cloth or rug, the second would be of the lamb.

It was 4.30 p.m. Belafonte and I were in Forensics for the report on the length of gray-brown fabric she’d found hidden in Kylie’s closet. Dayla Hidalgo, in her thirties with red-accented hair and eyes the size of saucers, set the bagged cloth on the lab table and read the analytics.

“It’s a coarse-weave linen,” Hidalgo said, tapping the bag with a purple fingernail. “Made with short tow fibers, as opposed to longer line fibers.”

“Usage?”

“It’s not dress linen. Being rough, it’s often used for wallcoverings, upholstery and the like. But microanalysis showed a lot of breakage in the fibers, characteristic of repeated bending and washing. We also found two small hairs stuck in the weave. Donkey hairs, oddly enough. This Sandoval woman … she ever work at a zoo?”

I was about to answer when my phone rang – Vince. “We just got a call from an airboat guide service in the Glades, Carson.”

My heart fell. I’d known Vince long enough to read the tone in his voice.

“Don’t say it, Vince.”

He sighed. “Sorry. But it looks like burned woman number three.”

“Gimme the location,” I said, snapping my fingers. Belafonte turned to the sound. I pointed to the phone and mouthed three.

She looked sick.

I put on the screamer and light show and did Daytona 500 driving for twenty minutes, five of them skidding down a single fire lane of sand that wound between canals and swampland. A Seminole guide had been piloting an airboat with four tourists through the sawgrass and lilies when he spied a log-like shape half-submerged in the thick green water. Thinking gator, he’d eased the passengers closer and the visitors now had a memory of Florida they doubtless wished to erase.

We reached the terminus and Deb Clayton waved us to a parking spot beside the medical van. The body had been pulled from the water and now lay on shore wrapped in charred strips and reeking of smoke, burnt meat and accelerant.

Deb walked up. “Three burned women, Carson.”

“I can count, Deb.”

A scene tech waded ashore with an evidence bag in hand. “We just found this. A cross made of scraps of sawgrass.”

“Get photos for size,” Deb said.

The cross measured forty-seven centimeters in length, twenty-nine in width, or about eighteen by twelve inches. It was crude, slender reeds knotted in the center to fashion a lopsided X-shape.

“It was floating,” the tech said. “Over at the far side of the channel.”

“There were no religious symbols at the other scenes,” Belafonte said.

I looked out over the water, dark and slow-moving, dense with bass and sea trout and snook and dozens of other fishable species. I figured the cross had been fashioned by an idle angler, not even a cross, just knotting together reeds for something to do.

“Think it’s significant?” Deb asked.

“Doubtful,” I said. “But toss it in the mix.” I turned to Belafonte. “Let’s haul-ass back to Miami, push through the autopsy on Burning Woman Three, and review the previous scenes. Something’s gotta give, and fast.”

We returned to HQ. Belafonte went to her space and I called Ava. “Another burned woman,” I said, oddly enough in a tired old man’s voice. “Heading to you.”

A pause. “You all right, Carson?”

“We’ve been running full-tilt into walls. Listen, can you possibly—”

“I’ll schedule it ASAP, tomorrow morning.”

I thanked her and crossed the room to fall on the couch and catch my breath. We’d been on the case for four days, but it seemed like weeks. Fourteen-hour days and nightmare-interrupted sleep will do that. I loosened my tie and closed my eyes.

Five minutes later I heard knocking and Belafonte’s voice. “Detective Ryder? Are you in there?”

My eyes opened to note that the hard sunlight over the skyline of downtown Miami had softened into twilight. I checked my watch and discovered what felt like a five-minute respite had been a three-hour nap. My door opened slowly, the entry filling with Belafonte’s anxious face.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’ve been putting some things together in the meeting room and thought you should have a look.”

“Coffee?” I said, not knowing I’d said it until I heard it. Sometimes autopilot does that.

“I just brought up fresh from the shop below. I figured by your snoring you’d appreciate caffeine.”

Shooting a drowsy thumbs-up, I followed Belafonte’s blue slacks and white blouse down the hall, passing Gershwin’s empty office, his bulletin board holding a single 8 × 10 photo: Roberta Menendez. But in the meeting room Belafonte had configured for our case there were three 8 × 10s: Kylie Sandoval, Teresa Mailey and our latest addition, Jane Doe. They were on the bulletin board, case material on a long adjoining table. I couldn’t look in that direction.

“I got you two large bolds with three shots of espresso,” Belafonte said, handing me the blessed cups. I nodded thanks, took a chair, and drank, feeling the magic elixir nudging the cobwebs from my brain. By the time I was opening the second cup, I felt conversant in my native tongue.

“You wanted to show me something?” I said, scanning the twin whiteboards for new additions, seeing only our same old scribbles.

“Not show, tell. While you were resting I started thinking about the odd materials used in burning the victims. I began to Google various sites.”

“And you found …?”

“Nepthai,” she said, holding up her tablet computer.

“An Egyptian queen?”