Louis heard a car door slam and looked up to see a white van with D.M.E. on the side. Vince Carissimi was coming down the sandy slope through the sea oats.

“Hey, Doc,” Wainwright said. “What are you doing here?”

Vince was holding a Styrofoam cup from 7-Eleven. “When the call came in, I decided to come out with Ted,” he said, nodding toward the ME office’s investigator making his way down from the road carrying a black case. “I wanted to see it firsthand,” Vince added.

Vince went over to the body. “Morning, Sheriff.”

“Took your time, Vincenzo,” Mobley said.

Vince ignored him and took off his sunglasses, letting them dangle on his chest by their neon-green cord. “Would you mind?” he said to Louis, holding out the cup. Louis took the coffee and stepped back. Vince knelt beside the body.

“Who found him?” he asked.

“A jogger,” Deputy Vargas said. “Honeymooner staying over at ’Tween Waters. She went out for her morning run and stumbled on it. Literally.”

Vince looked up. “This one wasn’t shot.”

“You sure?” Louis asked quickly.

“Won’t know for sure till we get the clothes off, but look at the legs. No wounds.”

For several seconds, they were quiet. Louis heard only the lapping of the waves. His gaze traveled over the sand, up to the road, and beyond. He was thinking about the woman jogger and the horror she must have felt when she finally realized what she was looking at. Some honeymoon.

“How long you think he’s been dead?” Mobley asked, drawing Louis’s attention back.

Vince shrugged. “He’s cool to the touch. Quick guess . . . less than four hours.”

That would set the time of death at about 3 A.M., hours after the Frenchman saw the trespasser and long after anyone would have been on the beach.

“Can I have my coffee back now?” Vince asked.

Louis handed him the cup. The investigator was starting his work now, taking Polaroids. Louis heard a car door slam and looked up to see the CSU guys coming down the slope.

“He’s changing his pattern,” Louis said quietly to Wainwright.

Wainwright nodded, staring at the body.

“He shot the others but not this one. And he killed Tatum where he came upon him,” Louis went on. “But he picked up Quick in Fort Myers Beach and killed him on Sereno. Now he dumped this one here. Why?”

“Why not?” Wainwright said.

“Seems like more of a gamble he’d get caught here,” Louis said. He thought of the map back in his car. “There’s a million little bays and swamps he could have dumped him instead. Why here?”

Wainwright was looking out at the gulf.

“Why is he changing his pattern?” Louis asked.

“Christ, I don’t know, Louis,” Wainwright said. “Maybe he didn’t need to shoot this guy. Maybe he forgot his gun this time. Maybe he dumped him here because he works here. Maybe he just likes the water. We don’t need to read the fucker’s mind to catch him. We need physical evidence.”

Louis remained silent. He knew Wainwright’s sharpness came from frustration. Shit, he felt the same. Three dead men and they had nothing concrete to go on. He had followed Van Slate. Nothing. They had taken photos at Tatum’s funeral and staked out the cemetery for eighteen hours hoping the killer would show. Nothing. They had manned the Sereno causeway around the clock and the bastard had just moved to another one.

Now the killer was switching his MO and they didn’t know a damn thing about whom they were looking for. And no matter what Wainwright believed, he knew they would never find him until they did.

Mobley looked at Wainwright. “I think you two have seen enough. Watch where you walk on the way out.”

“I’ve got a right to be here,” Wainwright said.

“Let’s get real, Wainwright. You’re out of your league here.”

Louis looked up. Christ.

“The first two washed up in my territory, you asshole,” Wainwright said.

Mobley tilted his head up to the sun, his glasses catching the light. “Well, now we’ve got one, too.”

Wainwright reached up and pulled the sunglasses off Mobley’s face. “You’re an idiot if you think you can handle this alone, Mobley,” Wainwright said. “You’re going to get eaten alive come election time.”

He shoved the glasses into Mobley’s hands and turned, walking quickly up the hill. Louis hurried after him.

“Dan—”

“Later, Kincaid,” Wainwright said.

“No, now.”

Wainwright stopped.

“What difference does it make if we help him or he helps us?” Louis demanded.

“I know the man. You can’t put him in charge,” Wainwright said. “He’s got an eye on the DA’s office and he’ll drag this thing out forever just to keep his name in the papers. He doesn’t care about those dead men because he doesn’t care about people. It’s all about him and how much face-time he gets on TV.”

Wainwright started walking again. “Besides, I have another idea.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Tell me now.”

Wainwright stopped. “We’re dealing with a serial killer, Louis. That means we can get help. I’m calling the bureau. I still got a few friends over there. I’m going to ask for Malcolm Elliott. Great guy. Worked a half dozen of these things.”

Louis nodded. Good. That was good.

The sun was rising in the sky. Wainwright pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face as he looked back down at Mobley and the others.

“Dan,” Louis said, “did you notice the face on this one? He’s getting madder.”

Wainwright nodded. “But you’re wrong about the pattern changing,” he said. “He still killed on a Tuesday. That gives us six days to find the bastard.”

He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and trudged up to the street.

Louis stood there, not quite ready to leave, and not wanting to go back down to where the faceless body lay baking in the sand. The sun was hot on his neck, and the murmur of the crowd gathering behind the yellow tape mingled with the whisper of the waves on the beach. He heard something rise above it. It was Vince Carissimi. He was whistling “Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.” Louis looked out at the water. The sailboat was gone.

Chapter Seventeen

After leaving the beach on Captiva, Louis headed over to the homeless shelter in Fort Myers. No one there knew of a man who had a dog tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice about it. He also told Louis about a man nicknamed The Saint who ran a soup kitchen on Fort Myers Beach. Louis detoured over to the beach but The Saint had already packed up his makeshift operation by the time Louis arrived.

On the way back to the station, Louis made a quick stop at the boatyard, intending to question Van Slate about his whereabouts last night. But a secretary told him Van Slate was off on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. She cheerfully gave him Van Slate’s home address.

Back at the station, he went directly to Wainwright’s office. Wainwright was on the phone and motioned for Louis to wait. Louis walked to the watercooler and poured himself a cup. Wainwright had a photograph on the desk in front of him. It was of the homeless man’s body lying on the beach. Louis was glad it wasn’t a close-up of the face.

“Back from the shelter already?” Wainwright asked, hanging up the phone.

Louis nodded. “Nobody there recognized the tattoo, but the director promised to post a notice. Maybe someone will recognize it. Also found out about a soup kitchen over on Fort Myers Beach, but the guy was gone when I got there. I’ll check into it tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

“Van Slate’s off work today. I’m heading over to his apartment,” Louis said. “You want to come?”

Wainwright stood up, groaning. “Can’t. Mayor Westoff’s coming by in twenty minutes.”

“No problem. I’ll handle it,” Louis said, tossing the cup in the trash.

“Take Candy with you.”

Louis eyed him. “I can handle it.”