Now, Brian Keyes had a friend for life.

Garcia poured the coffee. "So you got a biggie, Brian."

"Tell me about it."

"It's a touchy one. Can't say much, especially now that you're lined up with the other side."

"Did you work the Harper case?"

"Hell, everybodyup here worked that case."

Keyes tried to sip the coffee and nearly boiled his upper lip.

"Hey," Garcia said, "that piece-of-shit rag newspaper you used to work for finally printed something intelligent this morning. You see it?"

"My paper was in a puddle."

"Ha! You should have read it anyway. Wiley, the asshole that writes that column. I hate that guy normally—I really can't stand him. But today he did okay."

Keyes didn't want to talk about Skip Wiley.

"He wrote about this case," Garcia went on. "About that little scuzzball we arrested."

"I'll be sure to get a copy," Keyes said.

"I mean, it wasn't a hundred percent right, there was a few things he screwed up, but overall he did an okay job. I clipped it out and taped it on the refrigerator. I want my boy to read it when he gets home from school. Let him see what his old man does for a living."

"I'm sure he'll get a charge out of it, Al. Tell me about Ernesto Cabal."

"Dirtbag burglar."

"Was he on your list of suspects?"

Garcia said, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've got thirty detectives working on this murder, right? You must have had a list of suspects."

"Not on this one."

"So what we're talking about is blind luck. Some Beach cop nails the guy for running a traffic light and bingo, there's Mr. Sparky Harper's missing automobile."

"Luck was only part of it," Garcia said sourly.

Keyes said, "You caught Cabal in the victim's car, but what else?"

"What else do we need?"

"A witness or two might be nice."

"Patience, Brian. We're working on it."

"And a motive?"

Garcia held up his hands. "Robbery, of course."

"Come on, Al, this wasn't a knife in the ribs. It was the ritual murder of a prominent citizen. How did Harper get into those silly clothes? Who smeared suntan oil all over him? Who stuffed a goddamn toy alligator down his throat? Who sawed his legs off? Are you telling me that some two-bit auto burglar concocted this whole thing?"

"People do crazy things for a new Oldsmobile."

"You're hopeless," Keyes said.

"Don't tell me you believe Cabal's story? Brian, you got to get this liberal-crusader shit out of your system. I thought two years away from that newspaper would cure you."

"You've got to admit, it's a very weird case. You guys checked out the car, right?"

"It was clean, except for Cabal's prints."

Keyes took out a legal pad and started jotting notes. "What about the suitcase?"

"No prints. Its model number matches a batch sent to Jordan Marsh about a year ago, but we can't be sure. Could've just as easily come from Macy's."

Keyes said, "Any sign of the missing legs?"

"Nope."

"Did you trace that terrific Hawaiian wardrobe?"

"Ugh-ugh." Garcia made a zipper motion across his lips.

"Oh, you got something, uh? A store, perhaps. Maybe even a salesman who remembers something odd about this particular customer—"

"Brian, back off. This is a very touchy case. If the chief even suspected I was talking to you, I'd be shaking out parking meters for the rest of my life. I think we'd better call it quits for today."

Keyes put the legal pad back in his briefcase. "I'm sorry, Al. I appreciate what you're doing." Keyes was telling the truth. Garcia didn't owe him a damn thing.

"Normally I wouldn't mind, Brian, it's just that this one is Hal's case. He's the lead detective. Went out to the scene and all. I don't want to screw it up for him."

"I understand. What's he got you doing?"

Garcia rolled his eyes. "Checking out dead-enders. Take a look at this." He slid a sheet of paper across the desk.

It was a typed letter. Keyes scanned it quickly. He started to read it again, when Garcia snatched it away.

"Crazy, huh? It came in today's mail."

Keyes asked for a Xerox copy.

"No way, Brian. The PD's office would cream over something like this. And it's crap, take my word for it. It's going right into the old circular file as soon as I make a couple routine calls to the feds."

"Read it out loud," Keyes said.

"I'll deny I ever even saw it," Garcia said.

"Okay, Al, you got my word. Read it, please."

Garcia slipped on a pair of tinted glasses and read from the letter:

Dear Miami Chamber of Commerce:

Welcome to the Revolution.

Mr. B. D. Harper's death was a milestone. It may have seemed an atrocity to you; to us, it was poetry. Contrary to what you'd like to believe, this was not the act of a sick person, but the raging of a powerful new underclass.

Mr. Harper's death was not a painful one, but it was unusual, and we trust that it got your attention. Soon we start playing for keeps. Wait for number three!

El Fuego,

Comandante, Las Noches de Diciembre

Al Garcia removed his reading glasses and said, "Not half-bad, really. For a flake."

"Not at all," Keyes agreed. "What do you make of that number-threebusiness? Who was victim number two?"

"There wasn't any, not that I know of."

"So who are the Nights of December?" Keyes asked.

"A figment of some nut's imagination. 'The Fire,' he calls himself. El Fuegomy ass. I'll check with the Bureau, just in case, but J. Edgar himself wouldn't have taken this one seriously. Still, I might ask around with the guys on the antiterrorism squad."

"And then?" Keyes asked.

"A slam dunk," Garcia said. "Right into the wastebasket."

Cab Mulcahy poured the coffee. Skip Wiley drank.

"The beard is new, isn't it?"

"I need it," Wiley said, "for an assignment."

"Oh. And what would that be?"

"That would be confidential," Wiley said, slurping.

Cab Mulcahy was a patient man, especially for a managing editor. He had been in newspapers his entire adult life and almost nothing could provoke him. Whenever the worst kind of madness gripped the newsroom, Mulcahy would emerge to take charge, instantly imposing a rational and temperate mood. He was a thoughtful man in a profession not famous for thoughtfulness. Cab Mulcahy was also astute. He loved Skip Wiley, but distrusted him wholeheartedly.

"Cream?" Mulcahy offered.

"No thanks." Wiley rubbed his temples briskly. He knew that the effect of this was to distort his face grotesquely, like pulling putty. He watched Mulcahy watching him.

"You missed deadline yesterday, Skip."

"I was helping Bloodworth with his story. The kid's hopeless, Cab. Did you like my column?"

Mulcahy said, "I think we ought to talk about it."

"Fine," Wiley said. "Talk."

"How much do you really know about the Harper case?"

"I've got my sources."

Mulcahy smiled paternally. Wiley's column was on his desk. It lay there like a bird dropping, the first thing to await Mulcahy when he arrived at the office. He had read it three times.

"My concern," Mulcahy began, "is that you managed to convict Mr. Cabal in this morning's newspaper, without benefit of a trial. You have, for lack of a better word, reconstructedthe murder of B. D. Harper in your usual slick, readable way—"

"Thank you, Cab."

"—without any apparent regard for the facts. This business about sexual torture, where did that come from?"

Wiley said, "Can't tell you."

"Skip, let me read this out loud: 'Harper was tied up, spread-eagle, and subjected to vicious and unspeakable homosexual assaults for no less than five hours.' Now, before you start whining, you ought to know that I took the liberty of calling the medical examiner. The autopsy showed absolutely no signs of sodomy."