Shaeffer glanced about at the threadbare furniture and tattered carpets, then turned toward the super and asked, 'Robert Earl Ferguson. Is he upstairs?'

The man shrugged. 'Maybe. I guess so. I don't pay much attention to comings and goings, you know.'

'Who does?'

'My wife does,' he said, pointing.

She turned and saw a short black woman, as wide as her husband was thin, standing quietly beneath an archway, steadying herself with an aluminum walker.

'Mrs. Washington?'

'That's right.'

'Is Robert Earl Ferguson upstairs?'

'He should be. Ain't gone out today.'

'How would you know?'

The woman struggled forward a step, carefully placing the walker in front of her. Her breath came in rapid, sharp, wheezing gasps.

'I don't move so good. I spends my days over there…' She pointed toward a front window. 'Watching what's going on in this world before I leaves it behind, doing a little knitting, and the such. I get to know pretty much when people come and goes.'

'And Ferguson, does he have a schedule? Is he regular?'

She nodded. Shaeffer took out a notepad and made some notations. 'Where's he go?'

'Well, I don't know for sure, but he's usually carrying some of those college books in a bag. Like a knapsack kinda bag. Put it on your back like you're gonna be in the army or take a hike or something. He goes out in the afternoons. Don't see him come back till late at night. Sometimes he goes off with a little suitcase. Don't come back for a couple of days. I guess he travels some.'

'You're still there, late? Watching?'

'Don't sleep too good, neither. Don't walk too good. Don't breathe too good. Don't do nothing too good now.'

Andrea Shaeffer felt excitement quickening. 'How's your memory?' she asked.

'Memory ain't limping around, that what you mean. Memory's fine. Whatcha need to know?'

'A week to ten days ago. Did Ferguson go out of town? Did you see him with that suitcase? Was he gone for a day or two? Anything unusual. Anything out of the routine?'

The woman thought hard. Shaeffer watched her mentally sorting through all the comings and goings she'd witnessed. The woman's eyes narrowed, then widened slightly, as if an image or memory crossed rapidly through her head. She opened her mouth as if to say something, her hand fluttering away from the grip on the aluminum walker. But before the words came out, Shaeffer saw the woman reconsider, as if a second thought had tripped the first. The woman's eyes narrowed, hesitating on the notepad that hovered in the detective's hands. Finally, she shook her head.

'Don't think so. But I'll consider it some more. Can't be absolutely sure without thinking on it for a piece. You know how it is.'

The detective watched the woman shift about. She remembers something, she thought. She just won't say it. 'You sure?'

'No,' the woman said warily. 'I might remember something after I set my mind on it a spell. A week to ten days ago, that what you say?'

'That's right.'

'I'll do some thinking.'

'All right. You do that. Is there anyone else who might know?'

'No, ma'am. He keeps to himself. Just heads out in the afternoons. Comes back at night. Sometimes early. Sometimes a bit later. That boy never makes noise, never causes a ruckus, just quiet. He don't even have a girlfriend. What you need to know all this for? What sort of police trouble he in?'

'You know anything about what he's been doing the past few years? Down in Florida?'

Mr. Washington interrupted. 'We heard he did some time down there. But that's all.'

'Doing time ain't much of a crime around here, ma'am. Just about everybody's done some time,' interjected the wife. She looked over at her husband. 'And Lord knows, those that ain't done any time are probably gonna end up doing some before too long. That's the way down here. Yes, ma'am.'

'How's he pay his rent?' Shaeffer asked.

'In cash. First of the month. No problem.'

She made a note of that.

'But it ain't that much, you know. This place ain't fancy, in case you haven't noticed.'

'Did you ever see him with a knife? Like a hunting knife? Ever see one in his apartment?'

'No, ma'am.'

'A gun?'

'No, I don't think so. But I expect most folks down here's got one hid somewhere.'

'Anything at all you remember about him. Anything out of the ordinary?'

'Well, it ain't ordinary down here to spend your time with those books.'

Shaeffer nodded. She handed both husband and wife her business card, embossed with the shield of the Monroe County sheriff's office. 'You think of something, you can call me. Collect. I'll be at this number here for a couple of days.' She wrote down the exchange of the motel near the airport where she'd parked her bag.

They both stared dutifully at the cards as she let herself out. In the hallway, the older policeman looked at her. 'Learn anything? It didn't sound all that exciting to me. 'Cept maybe that old gal was lying to you when she said she didn't remember a week ago.'

'She sure as hell remembered something,' said the younger officer.

'You guys saw it, too?'

'Couldn't hardly miss it. But hell, I don't know what it means. More'n likely nothing. What do you think, Detective?'

'We're getting there,' she replied. 'Time to see if the man's home.'

18. The Convenient Man

She took a slow, deep breath to try to control her surging heart, and knocked on the door. The apartment house hallway was dark, despite a window at the end that allowed some weak light to slide past a layer of gray grime. She had little idea what to expect. An unmade killer, she thought. What is he? One side of a triangle. A man who studies but sometimes packs a suitcase and goes someplace for several days. She knocked again and after a moment came the expected answer. 'Who's there?'

'Police.'

The word hung in the air in front of her, echoing in the small space. A few seconds passed.

'What do you want?'

'To ask you some questions. Open the door.'

'What sort of questions?'

She could sense the man's presence just inches away, hidden by the slab of brown wood. 'Open the door.'

The two officers stiffened behind her, and each stepped back slightly, out of the direct line. She rapped again on the door.

'Police,' she repeated. She did not know what she would do if he refused to open.

'All right.'

She had no time to feel relief. She thought she heard a catch in his voice, a small hesitation, like the reluctance of a child caught doing something improper. Perhaps, she thought, he'd turned away just before speaking, letting his eyes quickly survey his apartment, trying to guess what it was that she might see. Evidence? Evidence of what?

There was a sound of dead bolts being thrown and chain locks being removed, and then the door swung open slightly. Andrea Shaeffer stared at Robert Earl Ferguson. He was wearing jeans and sneakers and a baggy, faded maroon sweatshirt that draped around his shoulders, several sizes too large, obscuring his true shape. His hair was cropped close, he was clean-shaven. She almost stepped back in surprise; the force of the man's anger struck her like a blow. His eyes were fierce, penetrating. They severed the space between them.

'What do you want?' he asked. 'I haven't done anything.'

'I want to speak with you.'

'You got a badge?' he demanded.

She held up her shield for him to inspect.

'Monroe County? Florida?'

'That's right. My name's Shaeffer. I work homicide.'

For a moment she thought she saw uncertainty course through Ferguson's face, as if he were trying hard to remember something elusive.

'That's down below Dade, right? Below the edge of the 'Glades?'

'Right.'

'What do you need me for?'