"So?"

"So it's probably not his. He scratched his killer, so skin and other evidence is under it."

"Usable evidence?"

"Does the term 'DNA' mean anything to you?"

"Really? You can get DNA from the sample?"

"No guarantees, but probably. The issue is whether it could be used in Panama. They don't have a DNA database. And if they have no clear suspect, it won't matter. We can't enter the sample in our database because of how it was obtained."

Duarte looked up and down the street as he thought about what to do. At the corner, across the street in front of a doughnut shop, he noticed a dark, shaggy young man. He looked directly at Duarte, then seemed to melt behind a wall. Something was familiar about him.

Alice said, "You want me to take the sample?"

"Do you mind? I mean, is it a big deal?"

"Depends on what I get if it is a big deal."

He kept looking at the doughnut shop for the man he had just seen.

Alice said, "I guess I get something really great if it's a big deal."

"Huh?"

Alice said, "What's wrong that you can't talk to me for more than a few minutes without losing interest?"

"I'm sorry, I just saw someone who looked familiar. If you could take the sample, we'll see if we can use it."

"I also have at least one name for you from a print off the padlock."

"Really? Who?"

"He's a longshoreman who lives in Gretna, Louisiana. He has four arrests. Two for theft and two for battery. One of those was on a cop."

"Nice."

"He left his thumbprint on the lock. I don't know when, but he did." She read off his home address.

Duarte ran it through his head and knew he had it stored forever.

They talked a minute more, and Alice said, "Miss me?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"When are you coming home?"

"Soon."

They exchanged goodbyes and Duarte flipped the phone closed. He looked back up at the doughnut shop and suddenly realized who the man he had seen looked like: the first mate of the Flame of Panama.

20

IKE HAD NOT DRIVEN FAR FROM NEW ORLEANS YET. HE HAD stayed the night in a Motel 8 right off I-10, near Gonzales, Louisiana. He had spent several hours looking for the right place to dump Faith's body. He was still a little freaked out by how quickly and casually Mr. Ortíz had twisted her neck and killed her. There might not have been blood, but he wouldn't have called it clean and neat. Her bowels had let go and she started to stink almost immediately. He left her curled up in the rear of the truck Then, a few miles east of Lutcher, he pulled behind a Wal-Mart and tossed her over the side of a giant Dumpster. Her body made a thud on the other side that could only have been made by something dead.

Despite all he had been involved in years earlier, he had never seen a dead person up close. He knew from the news and what people had told him that there were corpses because of what he had done, or at least what he knew was going to be done, but it never occurred to him just how unnerving a dead person looked. When Faith's eyes stared at him with no thought behind them and her body flopped around like a beanbag doll, he got a glimpse of death. He thought it might be worse because he had been talking to her and had the feeling she was a nice person. He remembered her smile and the smell of her fancy coffee drink when she leaned in close to him and spoke.

He saw the sign for Lafayette and knew that even though it wasn't even lunchtime yet, he needed a beer. Maybe several. He whipped off the next exit faster than the big rental truck was built to do. He felt it slide a little to one side, then settle as he took it down the ramp to the light. About five blocks off the interstate, he saw a bar and grill sign that said simply BEER AND GOOD FOOD. That was the ticket as far as he was concerned. He pulled the big yellow truck to the side of the building and parked in the far end of the lot. There was a Camaro and two pickup trucks in the lot up next to the white building. He locked up the rental truck and then quick-stepped past the big bay window and through the glass front door. He noticed his hand shake as he shoved open the door.

The five customers, two waitresses and bartender all looked up at him as he headed straight to the bar.

The fat, biker-looking bartender said, "The lunch rush is early today. What'll ya have?"

"What's on draft?"

"Icehouse and Lite."

Ike said, "Two Icehouses and a hamburger."

"You sound like a man with a plan." The bartender drew the beers and then stepped into the kitchen.

Ike sucked down the first beer in two gulps. He grabbed the second one when the young man a few seats down at the bar said, "Rough day already?"

Ike paused and looked over at the man, about twenty-one with light hair and dazzling, green eyes. "Rough night. Today is just recovery."

"Know the feeling."

"I doubt it." Ike noticed the man's eyes still on him. He held off on gulping the next beer and said, "My name is William, but my friends call me Ike."

"I'm Craig, but my friends call me Craig."

Ike smiled at his humor, especially because his eyes shined as he spoke. His clear skin had a rich, moist look to it. He slid over to the stool next to Ike.

"You staying here or just passing though?"

Ike turned on the stool to face the young man. A little older than Ike liked them, but still plenty young enough. "I could be convinced to stay a little while." He was sure he hadn't misinterpreted the man's message, even if he was in western Louisiana.

"That might be arranged," said Craig, as he reached for his own beer and Ike joined him.

Alex Duarte had stuck the phone back in his pocket and finished his prerun stretch. He searched for the man he had just seen with the amazing resemblance to the first mate of the Flame of Panama. He had been unnerved by the man's sudden appearance. Had he imagined it?

He shifted his thoughts to Alice and what she was risking to help him on what was probably a futile effort. As he jogged down the street, he pictured her pretty face and infectious smile. He started to trot, allowing his body to warm up slowly. That man…

He made it to the end of the street, where a canal forced him to swing onto the next street and reverse directions. He could see the upper floors of his hotel, so he didn't think he could get lost as he picked up his pace.

When he was just about even with his hotel, a small man stepped out from a parked car so quickly that Duarte bumped into him on the sidewalk.

Duarte slowed to a stop, spun on his right foot, and in three steps was at the man's side, helping him up.

"I'm sorry. I didn't see you."

"Chíngala," He looked at Duarte. "Pendejo."

Duarte used his limited Spanish. "Lo siento."

Then he caught another figure out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw another Latin man with an automatic pistol pointed at Duarte. Then a third man stepped from the same doorway. That man had a knife. The older, short man he had bumped looked up and smiled at him. "Chulo pendejo."

The man with the gun said something in Spanish.

Duarte shrugged. "You're making a mistake."

"What, you don't speak Spanish?"

"No, I don't like robbers." He had the man closest to him by the arm before the others could react. He heard the gunshot before he saw the flash. At least that's how it seemed.