'No problem. You know where the downtown Marriott Hotel sorta hides behind the Omni Mall? On that little back street by the bay?'

'Sure.'

'Well, a home-delivery truck will pick you up, right on the corner, in twenty minutes. Just jump in and come in the freight entrance.'

'Cloak and dagger, huh?' Cowart was forced to smile.

These are dangerous times, my son, demanding unique efforts. It was the best we could come up with on short notice. Now, I suppose the CIA or the KGB could think of something better, but who's got the time? And anyway, outwitting a bunch of television reporters shouldn't be the hardest damn thing in the world.'

'I'm on my way.' Then suddenly, he thought of the tapes in his briefcase containing the confession and the truth about Joanie Shriver's murder. He couldn't let anyone hear those words. Not until things had settled, and he'd sorted out what he was going to do. He scrambled. 'Look, I need to shower first. Hold the pickup for, say, forty-five minutes. Maybe an hour.'

Not a chance. You don't need to be clean to write.'

I've got to collect my thoughts.'

You want me to tell the city editor you're thinking?'

'No, no, just say I'm on my way, I'm just getting my notes together. Thirty minutes, Will. Half an hour. Promise.'

'No more. Got to move, son. Got to move.' Will Martin made slapping sounds to punctuate the urgency of the moment.

'A half hour. No more.'

'Okay. I'll tell the city editor. Man he's gonna have a heart attack and it's only ten A.M. The truck will be waiting for you. Just hurry. Keep the poor guy alive another day, huh?' Martin laughed at his joke and hung up.

Cowart's head spun. He knew he was running out of choices, that the detectives would arrive at his office momentarily. Things were moving too rapidly for him to contain. He had to go in and write something. Things were expected of him.

But instead of grabbing his jacket, he seized his briefcase and pulled out the tapes. It only took him a second to locate the last tape; he'd been careful to number them as each was completed. For a moment he held the tape in his hand and considered destroying it, but instead, he took it over to his own stereo system and plugged it into the tape deck. He wound the tape through to the end, then backtracked it a few feet and punched the Play button. Blair Sullivan's gravel voice burst through the speakers, filling the small apartment with its acid message. Cowart waited until he heard the words: '… Now I will tell you the truth about little Joanie Shriver.'

He stopped the tape and rewound it a few feet, to where Blair Sullivan said, 'That's all thirty-nine. Some story, huh?' And he'd responded, 'Mr. Sullivan, there's not much time.' The killer had shouted then, 'Haven't you paid any attention, boy?' before continuing with, 'Now it's time for one more story…'

He rewound the tape again, backing it up to 'Some story, huh?'

He went to his record and tape collection and found a cassette he'd recorded some years back of Miles Davis's 'Sketches of Spain.' It was an older tape, frequently played, with a faded label. He knew that there were a few feet of blank tape on the end of that recording. He put the tape in the player and found the end of the music. Then he removed the tape and placed it in his portable machine, put the small portable directly in front of his stereo speakers, and replaced Blair Sullivan's confession in the larger unit. He punched the Play button on the Sullivan recording and the Record button on the Miles Davis.

Cowart listened to the words boil around him, trying to blank them from his imagination.

When the tape was finished, he shut both machines off. He played the Sullivan section on the end of the Miles Davis tape. The clarity of the voice speaking was diminished – but still brutally audible. Then he took the tape and replaced it on the shelf with the rest of his records and tapes.

For a moment he stared at the original Sullivan tape.

Then he rewound it to the spot he'd duplicated on the Davis, punched the Record button and obliterated Sullivan's words with a breathless silence.

It would seem an abrupt ending, but it would have to do. He didn't know if the tape would stand up to any professional scrutiny by a police lab, but it would buy him some time.

Cowart looked up briefly from the computer screen and saw the two detectives moving through the newsroom. They maneuvered between the desks, zigzagging toward him, ignoring the dozens of other reporters in the room, whose heads rose and whose eyes followed their path, so that by the time they arrived at his desk, everyone was watching them.

All right, Mr. Cowart,' Andrea Shaeffer said briskly. 'Our turn.'

The words on the screen in front of him seemed to shimmer. 'I'll be finished in a second,' he replied, keeping his eyes on the computer.

'You're finished now' Michael Weiss interjected.

Cowart ignored the detectives. In a moment, the city editor had rushed up and positioned himself between the two policemen and the reporter.

We want to take a full statement, right now. We've been trying to do that for days and we're getting tired of the runaround,' Shaeffer explained.

The city editor nodded. 'When he finishes.'

That's what you guys said the other day, after he found the bodies. Then he had to talk to Sullivan. Then because of what Sullivan says to him, he has to be alone.

Now he's got to write it all up. Hell, we don't need a statement, all we have to do is buy a damn subscription to your paper.' Exasperation filled her voice.

"He'll be right there,' said the city editor, shielding

Cowart from the two detectives, trying to steer them away from his desk.

'Now,' she repeated stubbornly.

"When he finishes' the editor repeated.

'Do you want to get arrested for obstruction?' Weiss said. 'I'm really getting tired of waiting for you jerks to finish your job so that we can do ours.'

'I'll call that bluff,' the city editor replied. 'We'll get a nice picture of you two handcuffing me to run on the front page tomorrow. I'm sure the sheriff in Monroe County will love seeing that.' He held out his hands angrily.

'Look,' Shaeffer stepped in. 'He has information pertinent to a murder investigation. How goddamn unreasonable is it to ask him for a little cooperation?'

'It's not unreasonable,' the city editor answered, glaring at her. 'He also has a first-edition deadline staring him in the face. First things first.'

'That's right,' Weiss said angrily. 'First things first. We've just got a problem with what you guys think comes first. Like selling papers instead of solving murders.'

'Matt, how much longer?' the city editor asked. Neither side had moved much.

'A few minutes,' Cowart replied.

'Where are the tapes?' Shaeffer asked.

'Being transcribed. Almost finished.' The city editor seemed to think for an instant. 'Look, how about you read what Sullivan told our man while you're waiting?'

The detectives nodded. The editor guided them away from Cowart's desk, giving the reporter a single 'get going' glance as he led the detectives into a conference room where three typists wearing headsets were working hard on the tapes.

Cowart breathed in deeply. He had worked his way through a description of the execution and maneuvered through the substance of Sullivan's confession. He'd listed out all the crimes that Sullivan had confessed to.

The only remaining element was the deaths that concerned the two Keys detectives. Cowart felt stymied. It was a crucial part of the story, items that would occupy a prominence in the first few paragraphs. But it was the element that threatened him the most. He couldn't tell the police – or write in the newspaper – that Ferguson had been involved with the crimes without opening up the question why. And the only answer to why those killings had taken place went back to the murder of Joanie Shriver and the agreement the dead man claimed had been struck between the two men on Death Row.