"Whaddaya got?" Gullet asked as we entered the room.

Tybee turned to us, his face more hawklike under fluorescents than it had been outside.

"When the phone dumps on Marshall's home and the clinic were going nowhere, I thought to myself, Where was this guy making contact? A pay phone? What pay phone?" Tybee tapped a finger to his temple. "I dumped the booth on Nassau, checked outgoing calls placed around DLC for the most recent ME" Tybee was an acronym man. Date of last contact. Missing person.

"Jimmie Ray Teal?" I asked.

"Yeah. Teal's DLC was May eighth. Started working the list, checking numbers against names. Fortunately, Nassau isn't the most popular booth in the city. Halfway through, I hit on something.

"May sixth, nine thirty-seven A.M. Someone dialed a cell phone belonging to Jasper Donald Shorter. Call lasted four minutes. The same number was dialed on May ninth at four oh six P.M. Lasted thirty-seven seconds."

"Two days before and one day after Teal's DLC," Gullet said. "You run a check on Shorter?"

"You're going to love this." Tybee shuffled through the printouts. "Shorter has a sheet. Did six years in the air force, was dismissed from service after drugs were found in a package he was shipping to the States from Da Nang. Dismissal of an officer is equivalent to a dishonorable discharge for an enlisted man. Makes future employment a real bear."

Tybee held out a paper.

Gullet and I scanned the contents. The document was a photocopy of Shorter's military record.

Jasper Donald Shorter had been a pilot in Vietnam.

38

"SHORTER WAS A FLYBOY," GULLET SAID.

"Still is." Tybee dug out another paper. "Owns a Cessna 207, tail number N3378Z."

"Drug-runner favorite," Gullet said.

"Yes, sir," Tybee agreed. "Single-engine. Can fly low and land in a field. But the 207's a poor choice for long-haul stealth flights. Can't go from here to Puerto Vallarta without refueling. And there's another problem. Every plane that flies in the United States has to be registered, and Shorter's tail number would be traceable straight to him. But drug runners often steal planes or purchase them from prior owners, paint over the tail numbers, then stencil on bogus ones."

"Find the plane. If you spot Shorter, stay with him and call me."

"Yes, sir."

Gullet turned to go. I had one last question for Tybee.

"Where does Shorter live?"

"Seabrook."

I felt a buzz of excitement. "Where on Seabrook?"

Tybee typed a few keystrokes and a list came up on the screen.

"Pelican Grove Villas."

The buzz became a rush. I whipped around to Gullet.

"Daniels lives at Pelican Grove Villas."

Gullet stopped, hand on the doorknob.

"Same complex?"

"Yes! Yes! That can't be coincidence. Marshall must be on the level. It's got to be Daniels!"

Something shifted in Gullet's expression. He gave a tight nod. "I'll bring him in."

"I want to go with you," I said.

Gullet regarded me, stone-jawed. "I'll let you know when we've got him."

With that he was gone.

There was nothing to do but go home. And wait.

After walking Boyd, I zapped a frozen dinner and turned on the news. An appropriately concerned anchorwoman was reporting on a fire in a public housing block. Her air became subtly but fittingly shocked when she launched into coverage of the Marshall story. Footage showed the clinic, a younger Marshall, a clip of Herron leading a stadium in prayer, Marshall and Tuckerman leaving the courthouse.

I hardly heard. I kept going over every fact I knew. Kept checking my watch. Each time only minutes had passed.

Was it Daniels? It had to be Daniels. Had Gullet found him? What was taking so long?

I watered Anne's cactus collection. Collected a load of wash. Emptied the dishwasher.

My thoughts were in collision, but there was no one with whom to discuss my doubts, weigh the probability of Daniels versus Marshall. I needed to talk to Ryan, to get his perspective. I thought of calling, decided he should be free to focus on Lily. Birdie was occupied with a catnip frog. Though keenly interested, Boyd was a lousy conversationalist.

Pete called around six thirty, bored and cranky. I told him I'd come by and fill him in on the events of the past four days.

Pete was reading Friday's Post and Courier when I arrived. Crumpling the paper, he complained about the food, itchy dressings, his first physical therapy session.

"Aren't we a black hole of need," I said, kissing the top of Pete's head.

"It's called venting. But you're not really listening."

"No," I admitted.

"Tell me what's happened."

I laid it all out. The makeshift OR. The organ theft. The wire noose. The shells. Unique Montague. Willie Helms. The other MP's. Rodriguez. The Abrigo Aislado de los Santos in Puerto Vallarta.

I told Pete that Rodriguez and Marshall were med school classmates, and that both had been sanctioned, Marshall for drug abuse, Rodriguez for sexual misconduct, and that Marshall had actually done a short stretch. I added that Marshall had sold his boat immediately after Ryan and I questioned him at the clinic, and ended by describing Marshall's arrest and subsequent release on bond.

"You should be proud of yourself," Pete said.

For a minute I was persuaded again. But, no, it had to be Daniels.

"I think I may have talked Gullet into arresting the wrong man."

"Don't believe everything you think."

I slapped Pete's wrist. He cringed in exaggerated pain. I checked my watch.

"No one talks Gullet into anything," Pete said.

"Maybe not, but I pushed him hard. And now Gullet's taking heat."

"From whom?"

"The press. Herron. The rev's powerful friends." I worried my right cuticle with my left thumbnail. "What if we're wrong? Gullet will have a lot to explain in the next election."

"The evidence sounds pretty convincing to me."

"It's all circumstantial."

"Sufficient circumstantial evidence can carry the burden of proof if the jury believes it." Pete reached over and separated my hands. I checked my watch. Where the hell was Gullet?

"If Marshall's not guilty, is there another candidate?" Pete asked.

I laid out what I'd learned about Corey Daniels.

Boat. Familiarity with Dewees Island. Surgical scrub nurse. Presence in El Paso during a period of grisly murders, some of which may have been linked to organ trafficking. Calls made from Marshall's phone when Marshall wasn't at the clinic. Residence in the same complex as a pilot of tarnished reputation. A pilot who was contacted immediately before and after the disappearance of Jimmie Ray Teal. Contacted from a pay phone just yards from the clinic.

"Maybe Marshall and Daniels are in it together," Pete said when I'd finished.

"Possible. But I keep thinking about my conversation with Marshall. I dislike the man, but some of his points make sense. Leaving shells lying around his office doesn't fit his personality. He's alibied out for the night Cruikshank's home was phoned from his line. The history of the boat sale can easily be checked. If they're in it together, why finger Daniels unless Marshall is trying to do a plea deal and get to the DA first?"

"Is either Marshall or Daniels stockpiling money?"

"Gullet says no evidence of that, though one can easily hide cash. Daniels lives way beyond what I'd expect a nurse could afford." I described the Hunney Child and the Seabrook condo, and explained Daniels's family connections.

"The Reynolds aluminum clan."

"Exactly. But that could mean nothing."

My eyes flicked to my watch. Five minutes had passed since my previous time check.