'Please, Andy. They have hunches on Perry fucking Mason, not in real life. Don't talk to me about hunches. Just talk to me about what you learned from the creep.'

'He denied any direct knowledge of the crime. But he had some interesting insights into the way things work on Death Row. Said that most of the guards there are only a step away from being killers themselves. Suggested we focus on them.'

That makes sense,' Weiss replied. 'It's also precisely what I'm doing right now and you should be doing, too. The guy had an alibi, right?'

'Said he was in class. He's studying criminology.'

'Really? Now that's interesting.'

'Yeah. He had a bookcase filled with textbooks on forensics and detection. Said he used them in class.'

Okay. Can you check that out and then, when it turns out to be true, get back down here?'

'Uh, sure. Yeah.'

There was a momentary quiet on the line before Weiss said, 'Andy, why do I detect a note of hesitation in your voice?'

She paused before replying. 'Mike, you ever have the sensation that you just talked with the right guy, but for the wrong reason? I mean, this guy made me sweat. I don't know how else to put it. He was wrong. I'm sure of it. All wrong. But why, I can't say. Just spooked me good.'

Another hunch?'

A feeling. Christ, Mike, I'm not crazy.'

Weiss waited an instant before asking, 'How spooked?'

Up in the ninety-ninth percentile.' She could sense the older detective thinking hard.

'You know what I'm supposed to say, right?'

She nodded as she answered. 'That I'm to take a cold shower, or a hot shower, whatever, and then forget it. Let the creep do whatever he's doing and make his mistake somewhere and let those cops take care of it and get my tail back down to the Sunshine State.'

He laughed. 'Christ,' he said. 'You even sound like me.'

'So?'

'Okay,' he said slowly. 'Take the right shower. Then poke around as much as you want to for a day or so. I can carry on here without much trouble. But when it's all said and done and you don't have anything, I want you to write up a report with all your guesses and reelings and whatever the hell else you think is appropriate, and we'll send it off to a guy I know with the New Jersey State Police. He'll just laugh it off, but, hey, at least you won't think you're crazy. And your ass will be covered.'

'Thanks, Mike,' she said, oddly relieved and frightened in the same moment.

'Oh,' he said, 'a couple other things. You haven't even asked what the hell I've found out down here.'

'What?'

'Well, Sullivan left about three boxes filled with personal things. Mostly books, radio, little television, Bible, that sort of shit, but there were a couple of real intriguing documents. One was his whole appeal, all mapped out, ready to file with the court, pro se. All he had to do was hand it to an official and bingo, automatic stay of execution. And you know something? The sucker made a pretty convincing argument for prejudicial statements to the jury by the prosecutor that nailed him. I mean, he might have stretched that one out for years.'

'But he never filed it.'

'Nope. But that's not all. How about a letter from a producer named Maynard out in LaLa Land. The same guy who bought the rights to your friend Ferguson's life story after Cowart made him into a star. Made the same offer to Sullivan. Ten grand. Actually, not quite ten grand. Ninety-nine hundred. For exclusive rights to his life story.'

'But Sullivan's life was in the public record, why would he pay…'

'I spoke with him earlier today. The slick said it was standard operating procedure before making a movie. Tie up all the rights. And, he said Sullivan promised him he was going to file the appeal. So the guy had to make a move to get the rights, otherwise' Sullivan could have messed him up as long as he was appealing his case. Surprised the hell out of the guy when Sullivan went to the chair.'

'Keep going.'

'Well, so there's ninety-nine hundred bucks floating about somewhere and I'm thinking, we find out what happened to that money and we find out how Sullivan paid for those two killings.'

'But we've got a Son of Sam law. Victims' rights. Sullivan couldn't collect the money. It was supposed to go to the victims of his crimes.'

'Right. Supposed to. The producer deposited the money in a Miami bank account according to instructions Sullivan gave him as part of the deal. Producer then writes a letter to the Victims' Rights Commission in Tallahassee, informing them of the payment, just as he's required to by law. Of course it takes the bureaucrats months and months to figure anything out. In the meantime…'

I can guess.'

'Right. The money exits, stage left. It's not in that account anymore. The victims' rights people don't have it and Sullivan sure doesn't need it, wherever he is.'

'So…'

'So, I'm guessing we trace that account, maybe we can find the sucker who opened it up and emptied it out. Then we'll have a reasonable suspect for a pair of homicides.'

'Ten thousand dollars.'

'Ninety-nine hundred. Real interesting number, that. Gets around the problem with the federal law requiring documentation of money transactions above ten grand…'

'But ninety-nine hundred isn't…'

'Hell, up there they'd kill you for a pack of smokes. What do you suppose somebody'd do for almost ten grand? And remember, some of those prison guards aren't making much more than three, four hundred a week. Ten big ones probably sound like a whole helluva lot of money to them.'

'What about setting up the account?'

'In Miami? Got a phony driver's license and a fake social security number? I mean it's not exactly like they spend a lot of time in Miami regulating what goes on at the banks. They're all so damn busy laundering heavy bucks for drug dealers, they probably never even noticed this little transaction. Christ, Andy, you can probably close out the damn account at an automatic teller, not even have to look a real person in the eyes.'

'Does the producer know who opened it?'

'That idiot? No way. Sullivan just provided the number and the instructions. All he knows is that Sullivan screwed him by telling his life tale to Cowart, so it all went splat into the paper when this guy thought it was going to be his exclusively. Then double-screwed him by jumping into the electric chair. He ain't too pleased by circumstances.'

Shaeffer was quiet. She felt caught between two different whirlpools.

Weiss spoke quickly. 'One other little detail. Real intriguing.'

'What's that?'

'Sullivan left a handwritten will.'

'A will?'

'That's right. Quite an interesting piece of paper. It was written right over a couple of pages of the Bible. Actually, the Twenty-third Psalm. You know, Valley of Death and Fearing No Evil. He just wrote it in a black felt-tip pen right over the text, then stuck a marker between the pages. Then he wrote a note, which he stuck on top of the box, saying, "Please read the marked passage…" '

'What's it say?'

'He says he wants all his stuff left to a prison guard. A Sergeant Rogers. Remember him? He's the guy who wouldn't let us see Sully before the execution. The one that ushered Cowart into the prison.'

'Is he…'

'Here's what Sullivan wrote: "I leave all my earthly possessions to Sergeant Rogers, who…" get this "… came to my aid and comfort at such a critical moment, and whom I could never repay for the difficult services he's performed. Although I've tried. Weiss paused. 'How do you like that?'

Shaeffer nodded, although her partner couldn't see her head move. 'Makes for an interesting combination of events.'

'Yeah, well guess what?'

'Tell me.'

'The good sergeant had two days off three days before Cowart found those bodies. And you know what else he's got?'