“I meant professionally everything was going to be okay between us.”

“Professionally? The way you were looking at me was no more professional than the look you were shooting Rene just now.”

“I wasn’t-” He started to deny it, but it didn’t ring true. He could see the disappointment all over Kelsey’s face, as if she would have preferred some kind of denial, any kind at all, over another heartache.

Jack said, “Look, I don’t know what you think you saw. But I honestly don’t know what’s going to happen.”

She shook her head slowly and said, “Then you’re blind.”

“What?”

“The woman’s been living in the friggin’ African desert for nearly three years. Knock yourself out, Jack.”

She walked away, and he didn’t follow. He just watched in silence, not knowing what to think, not wanting to think anymore about it. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, and it was making him feel guilty.

Because all he could think about was Rene.

It was happy hour at Sparky’s, but Jack wasn’t feeling very happy. He’d been brooding on a bar stool since leaving the courthouse, pouring his heart out to Theo, who was sort of tending bar but mostly keeping an eye on the cash register, making sure that his new bartender wasn’t ripping him off. Sparky’s attracted a rough crowd, a hangout for working men and women, not the typical “suit ’n secretary” pickup joint that the professional crowd flocked to near Brickell Avenue or Alhambra Circle. There was no Ketel One vodka, no Chivas Regal scotch, and the only imported beer was El Presidente, a Dominican cerveza that Theo sold below cost to the tomato pickers from Homestead every Tuesday night because there sure as hell wasn’t anyone else gonna cut ’em a break. But on the most basic, human level, happy hour at Sparky’s was just the same old story. Bad lighting, loud music, drinks aplenty. Ribbed condoms and tongue-scorching breath mints for sale in the bathrooms. Clusters of men eyeing women, women eyeing men, people talking too loud and laughing too hard, the same scene every weekend, inhibitions dissolved and judgments impaired with each lonely misstep in the shot-and-a-beer mating dance.

“Call her,” said Theo, talking over the clatter of bottles and meaningless conversations along the bar.

“Call who?” said Jack.

Theo sent a barmaid off with another tray of two-for-one cocktails. Two other orders were waiting, but he put the tabs aside and reached under the bar, which could only mean trouble-his personal stash. It was just then that Jack noticed his friend was wearing his infamous “I’m not as Think as You Drunk” T-shirt.

“Please, not that,” said Jack.

Theo flashed an evil grin as he pulled up two glasses and his special bottle of Herradura Tequila Añejo. “You pick up that phone and dial Rene’s number. Or we’re doing shots.”

“Would that be with or without training wheels?”

Theo pushed the salt shaker and little bowl of lemon wedges aside. “Without.”

“You’re brutal, man.”

“We don’t stop till one of us hits the floor. And let’s face it, Jacko: We both know it won’t be me starin’ at the ceiling.”

“What makes you think I want to call her?”

“Because you been talking about her for half an hour. So you call her now, or you spend all day tomorrow with an ice bag on your head.”

“Herradura never gives me a hangover.”

“Forget the tequila. I’m talking about slapping you so hard upside the head that you’ll have to walk into the next room to hear your own ears ringing. So don’t ask me one more fucking time if I think you should call her. Call her.”

Theo slid the phone across the bar top, but Jack was still debating. Strictly from the standpoint of case strategy, he should have been all over her without delay. Last thing he and his client needed was for Rene to get an earful about Tatum from Gerry Colletti or Homicide Detective Larsen before Jack could speak to her. But something was troubling him, holding him back. He looked at Theo and said, “I’m not gonna say she was flirting, but it was damn close.”

“You trying to make me jealous?” he said, then puckered up and shot a squeaky, exaggerated air kiss in Jack’s direction.

Jack ignored it. “Why would she even be nice to me, let alone flirt? If you believe yesterday’s newspaper, Sally Fenning-Rene’s sister-hired my client to pump a bullet into her brain.”

“You just said the magic words, Jacko: If you believe yesterday’s paper. Obviously, Rene don’t believe it. Which is all the more reason for you to get on the phone and get into her-”

“Theo,” he said, groaning.

“Camp. I was gonna say camp.”

“Yeah right.”

Theo handed him the phone. “Call.”

Jack took it and got the hotel number from directory assistance. Theo stood over him, watching in silence, as if to make sure that he actually dialed it. The hotel operator connected him to Rene’s room, and she answered on the third ring.

“Rene, hey, it’s Jack.” Then he added, “Swyteck,” like an idiot, which had Theo rolling his eyes.

“Hi,” she said. “I was just on my way out the door.”

“I won’t hold you up. I just wanted to follow up on what we talked about earlier. You know, about setting up an appointment.”

Theo screwed up his face and said, “An appointment?”

Jack waved him off, waiting for her reply. The delay felt longer than it actually was, but Jack got the definite impression that she was mulling something over.

Finally, she said, “Can you pick me up in half an hour?”

“Tonight?”

“Well, if tonight’s not good-”

“No, tonight’s fine.”

“You sure? I was just going to catch a cab. But now that you’ve called, and the more I think about it, I’d really rather not go alone.”

“Forget the cab. I can take you. Where you going?”

She answered in a flat, serious tone. “Sally’s old house.”

“The mansion over on Venetian Isles?”

“No.” Again she paused, then said, “Her real old house. The one Katherine was murdered in.”

Jack gripped the phone, but he didn’t speak.

Rene said, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

The music, the laughter, the endless bar chatter all around him-it all suddenly merged into an annoying buzz in the back of his brain. “I want to,” he said. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

They caught the tail end of rush hour out of downtown Miami and didn’t reach the Ninety-fifth Street exit until almost seven, well after dark.

The business district for Miami Shores was built around a little hitch in the road that connected I-95 to U.S. 1, and most of the community had the same small-town feel-quiet residential streets, drugstore on the corner next to the local diner, white church steeples protruding through the broad green canopy of palm trees and sprawling live oaks. It was a neighborhood in transition, much of it updated with the influx of younger families, especially in areas away from the interstate. But Sally’s old place wasn’t just built in the sixties; it was trapped there, just two blocks away from I- 95, a two-bedroom, ranch-style house, still sporting the original jalousie windows, aluminum awnings, and terrazzo front porch that screamed “rental property.” Jack almost expected a pink plastic flamingo on the front lawn.

Jack parked his Mustang in the driveway. A potbellied man wearing blue jeans and a V-neck undershirt was waiting on the front steps, visible in the yellow glow from the porch light.

“Who’s that?” asked Jack, peering through the windshield.

“Property manager,” said Rene. “Just follow my lead, okay?”

“Your lead?”

“I didn’t tell him that my sister used to live here and that I just wanted to look around. I said I needed a place in a hurry and that I’d give him ten percent more than the going rate if I like it. That’s why he agreed to meet me on a Friday night.”