Maybe, he thought, a death defined by them, as well.

'No home,' he replied. 'Just a career.'

'Aren't they the same?'

'I suppose. It's hard to make distinctions.'

The detective nodded.

'So what are we going to do?' Cowart asked again.

The detective had no easy response. 'Well,' he said slowly, 'we know who really killed Joanie Shriver.'

Both men felt a palpable, physical depression with those words. Brown thought, I knew. All along, I knew. But he still couldn't shake the sensation that something had changed.

'You can't touch him, right?'

'Not in a court of law. Bad confession. Illegal search. We've been all over that.'

'And I can't touch him, either,' Cowart said, bitterness streaking his voice.

'Why? What happens if you write a story?'

'You don't want to know.'

Brown suddenly steered the car to the curb, jamming on the brakes. He slammed the car out of gear and pivoted toward the reporter in a single motion.

'What happens?' he asked furiously. 'Tell me, dammit! What happens?'

Cowart's face reddened. 'I'll tell you what happens: I write the story and the whole world jumps on our backs. You think the press was tough on you before?

You have no idea what they're like when they smell blood in the water. Everyone's going to want a piece of this mess. More microphones and notepads and camera lights than you've ever seen. Stupid cop and stupid reporter screw up their jobs and let a killer go free. There isn't a front page, a prime-time news show in this country that won't scream for that story.'

'What happens to Ferguson?'

Cowart scowled. 'It's easiest for him. He simply denies it. Smiles at the cameras and says, "No, sir. I didn't do anything. They must have planted that evidence there." A setup, he'll say, a cheap trick by a frustrated cop. He'll say you planted the evidence there after finding it someplace else – someplace where Blair Sullivan told me to find it, just like the knife. Got me to go along, or tricked me into going along, makes no difference. I'm the conduit for covering your mistakes. And you know what? A lot of people will believe it. You beat a confession out of him once. Why not try some other scheme?'

Brown opened his mouth, but Cowart wasn't done. Then, suppose he files a defamation suit? Remember Fatal Vision? He filed a crazy suit and right away everyone seemed to forget that he was convicted of slaughtering his wife and kids when they got so damned concerned over what that writer did or didn't do. Who do you think is going to be slicker on the air? More persuasive? What are you going to do when Barbara Walters or fucking Mike Wallace leans across the table, cameras rolling, lights making you sweat, and asks you, "Well, now, you really did order your man to beat Mr. Ferguson, right? Even though you knew it was against the law? Even though you knew if anyone found out, he would go free?" And what good is it going to do for you to say anything? How're you going to answer those questions, Detective? How're you going to make it seem like you wouldn't go and plant evidence at Ferguson's home? Tell me, Detective, because I'd surely like-to know.'

Brown glared at Cowart. 'And what about you?'

'Oh, they'll be just as tough on me, Detective. America is used to killers, familiar with the species. But failures? Ahh, failures get special, unique attention. Screwups and mistakes aren't the American way. We tolerate murder, but not defeat. I can just see it: "Now, Mr. Cowart, you won a Pulitzer Prize for saying this man was innocent. What do you expect to win by saying he's not?" And then it'll get tougher. "Guilty? Innocent? What do you want, Mr. Cowart? Can't have it both ways. Why didn't you tell us this before? Why did you wait? What were you trying to cover up? What other mistakes have you made? Do you know the difference between the truth and a lie, Mr. Cowart?' "

He took a deep breath. 'You got to understand one thing, Detective.'

'What's that?'

'There's only going to be two people anyone thinks is guilty here. You and me.'

'And Ferguson?'

'He walks. Inconvenienced but free. Maybe even a hero in the right places, with the right people. Even more of a hero than he currently is.'

'To do…'

'To do whatever he likes

Cowart opened the car door and stepped out of the vehicle. He stood on the sidewalk, letting the breeze dry his emotions. His eyes swept down the street, stopping at an old-fashioned barber shop that still had the traditional revolving pole, and watched the tri-colors swirl in an endless route, always moving but never arriving. He was only peripherally aware that Brown had gotten out of the car and was standing a few feet behind him.

'Suppose,' the detective said coldly to Cowart's back, 'suppose he's already doing whatever he likes.'

Another little girl. A Dawn Perry. Disappeared one day. 'May I go to the pool for a swim? Be back before dinner…'

'Now we know what he likes, don't we, Cowart?'

'Yes.'

'And there's nothing stopping him from taking up where he left off, before his little vacation on Death Row, right?'

'No. Nothing. So what do you suggest we do, Detective?'

'A trap, said Brown flatly. 'We set a trap. We sting him. If we can't get him on something old, we should get him on something new.'

Cowart knew, without turning, that the man's face was set in granite anger. 'Yes, he said. 'Go on.'

'Something unequivocal, that makes it clear who he is. Clear so that when I arrest him and you write the story, no one has any doubts whatsoever. None, got it? No doubts. Can you write that story, Cowart? Write it so that he has no way out?'

Matthew Cowart had a sudden memory of watching a Maine fisherman bait lobster traps with pieces of dead fish before slinging them over the side of his boat into the ice-black coastal waters. It had been a summer vacation when he was young. He remembered how fascinated he had been with the simple, deadly design of the lobster traps. A box made of a few pieces of wood and chicken wire. The beasts would crawl in one end, unable to resist the allure of the rotting carcass, then, after feeding, be unable to maneuver about and retreat through the narrow entrance. Captured by a combination of greed, need, and physical limitations.

1 can write that story,' he replied. He looked over at the detective and added, 'But traps take time. Have we got time, Detective? How much?'

Brown shook his head. 'AH we can do is try.'

Brown left Cowart alone in his office while he went off saying he needed to check on whether Wilcox had returned with preliminary laboratory results on the clothing and the piece of auto carpet. The reporter looked around for a moment at the various citations and photographs that he'd previously inspected, then he picked up the telephone and called the Miami Journal. A switchboard operator connected him with Edna McGee. Cowart wondered how many people had been fooled by the breeziness of her tones, not knowing that beneath them lay a steely mind that thrived on detail.

'Edna?'

'Matty, Matty, where have you been? I've been leaving messages all over for you.'

'I'm back up in Pachoula. With the cops.'

'Why them? I thought you were going to Starke to try and work the prison angle.'

'Uh, that's next.'

'Well, I would get there. The St. Pete Times reported today that Blair Sullivan left several file boxes filled with documents, diaries, descriptions, I don't know what else. Maybe something that described how he set up those murders. The paper said that Monroe detectives are going through the stuff now, looking for leads. They've also been interviewing everyone who worked on Death Row during Sullivan's stay. And they've got lists of visitors as well. I made some calls and filed a bit of a catch-up story. But the city desk is wondering where the hell you are. And especially wondering why the hell you didn't file that story before that son of a bitch from St. Pete did. Not pleased, Matty, they're not pleased. Where have you been?'