Horton was staring at Emily, who had moved down the window for a better view of the victim’s face.

“Chief?”

Horton looked at Louis. “What? Hell no. I’ll roust his ass about five A.M.” Horton’s eyes moved back to Emily, and he leaned toward Louis. “Who’s that?” he whispered.

“FBI. She’s been assisting. She’s a profiler.”

“No shit?”

Someone called Horton’s name and he disappeared. He was back a few seconds later with Wainwright. Wainwright looked as if he had run all the way from Sereno Key.

“This is him?” Wainwright asked, looking in the window.

Horton nodded. “Roscoe Webb. He’s a waiter at the Pelican Restaurant.”

“That place down on MacGregor by the outlet mall?” Wainwright asked.

Horton nodded.

“Outlet mall? Isn’t that near Hibiscus Heights?” Louis asked.

“Yeah, I guess it’s on the way,” Horton said.

“What did you get from him?” Wainwright asked Horton.

“Just what I’ve told you. I wanted to wait till you got here to talk to him.”

“Thanks, Al. I owe you one.”

Horton opened the door and the four of them went inside, Emily sliding in just as the door closed.

Webb looked up them, his eyes skittering from one to the other.

Horton walked around behind him and patted his shoulder. “Sorry to leave you alone, Mr. Webb.”

“It’s okay,” he whispered. His hands, clasped around the cup, were trembling.

“Mr. Webb, this is Chief Wainwright and Officer Kincaid from Sereno Key and Agent Farentino from the FBI. They want to ask you a few questions. That okay with you?”

Webb nodded.

Horton turned on a tape recorder and moved the mike closer to Roscoe. “Just talk normal.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright, who nodded toward the table. Louis pulled up a chair and straddled it, across from Roscoe Webb.

“Let’s back up, Mr. Webb. Where were you when he came up to you?” Horton began.

“Coming out of the restaurant. We close at midnight. It was about twenty after. I noticed the boss’s car and this truck in the lot, which was weird ’cause there weren’t any customers in there when I left. But I didn’t see anyone so I just went to my car.”

“What did the truck look like?”

“Dark pickup, maybe blue. Rust spots, old.”

Webb took a deep breath and a drink from his cup.

“I was getting ready to unlock the door and I dropped my keys. I bent down to pick them up when I heard this explosion.”

“Like a shotgun blast?” Louis asked.

Webb frowned slightly. “I’ve never heard a shotgun, but yeah, it sounded kinda like I heard on TV. Loud . . . real loud and close.”

“It hit the car door,” Horton said.

Webb ran a hand over his face. “I keep thinking . . . if I hadn’t dropped those keys . . .”

“Did you see him, Mr. Webb?” Louis prodded gently.

Webb shook his head. “Before I could turn around, he grabbed me from behind.”

Louis let out a breath, disappointed. “How exactly did he grab you?”

“Put an arm around my neck,” Webb said, using his own arm to demonstrate. “I started clawing at his face, over my head, ’cause I read once how you could get away by scratching their eyes out, but I couldn’t get ahold of anything. Except his hair. I grabbed that.”

“Can you describe his hair, Mr. Webb?”

“I didn’t see—”

“I know. What did it feel like?”

Webb blinked. “Greasy, it was greasy like.”

Louis glanced at Horton. “Hair cream maybe?”

“I’ll tell the techs to look,” Horton said. He looked at Roscoe. “Mr. Webb, did you wash your hands yet?”

Webb’s eyes went from Horton to the others. “Yeah, yeah, I did. I had to take a piss after that lab guy finished with me.”

“Can you guess how long the hair was?” Louis asked.

“I got a good handful, so it couldn’t be short. Maybe ear-length. I don’t know.”

“Thick or thin?”

“Thick, seemed like there was lots of it.” Webb paused and brought the coffee slowly up to his lips again. He took a sip and set it back down. He stared at his trembling hands. “Man, I’m sorry . . .”

“That’s all right, Mr. Webb, you’re doing fine,” Horton said. “Go on.”

Webb pulled in a breath. “Well, then he pulls this pole up and levels it across my throat.”

“A pole? What kind of pole?” Wainwright said.

“A long metal pole, like a pipe of some kind. It was maybe four or five feet long and he pulled it real tight against my throat. I barely got my fingers between it and my neck.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a shotgun barrel?” Wainwright asked.

Webb shook his head. “No . . . no, I never seen no gun, just that pole.”

“What about his hands? Can you describe them?”

“He was wearing gloves, tan, I think, looked like leather. And long sleeves. Denim.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright. “Could you tell how tall he was?”

“Taller than me. I had the feeling my back was dead against his chest. And I could feel from his arm that he was pretty well muscled.”

“How did you get away?” Louis asked.

Webb rubbed his face. It was quiet in the room for a moment except for Webb’s labored breathing.

“Mr. Webb? You all right?” Horton asked quietly.

“Yeah, yeah . . .”

“Take your time.”

Webb pulled in a deep shuddering breath. “I knew I was losing it,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe and I knew I was losing it and I was going to die.” He paused. “I don’t know what made me think of it, but I remembered my corkscrew in my apron. I reached down and pulled it out . . .”

He stopped, closing his eyes tight. His hands were clenched. “I flipped it open and just brought it down as hard as I could. I . . . it hit his leg.”

Webb opened his eyes. The room was air-conditioned to arctic, but he had sweated through his T-shirt.

“He let go,” he said quietly. “He let go and I ran.”

“Did he chase you?” Louis asked.

“I don’t know. I was blocks down the road when I saw the cop car.” He leaned back in the chair, spent, his eyes going from one man to the other.

Louis looked up at Horton. “Your guys see anyone?”

Horton shook his head. “The second unit was ten minutes out.”

Louis sat back in his chair. Not much to go on. Maybe, if they were lucky, some hair or clothing fibers or a blood type off the corkscrew. He glanced at Emily, who was standing against the far wall. She was scribbling in her notebook.

“Anything else, Chief?” Louis asked Wainwright.

Wainwright hesitated, then came forward. “Mr. Webb, did he say anything?”

Webb looked up at him. “Oh, yes, sir.”

“What did he say? And try to recall his exact words.”

Webb swallowed hard. “Shit, it’s hard to forget. He said, ‘You’re gonna die tonight, nigger.’ ”

“He used those exact words?” Louis asked.

Webb nodded.

Louis glanced at Wainwright, then leaned closer to Webb. “Mr. Webb, was this man black or white?”

Webb stared at Louis for a moment. “I didn’t see his face—”

“I know. Was this man black or white, Mr. Webb?”

His eyes went from Louis, up to Wainwright and Horton, and back to Louis. “I’ve been called a nigger by a black man and I’ve been called a nigger by a white man,” he said firmly. “There’s a difference.” He paused. “This was a white man.”

Louis held Roscoe’s eyes for a moment, then leaned back, looking up at Wainwright and Horton. They were staring at Roscoe. Louis looked at Emily. She had stopped writing in her notebook. Her face was like ice.

“Thank you, Mr. Webb,” Louis said, touching the man’s arm. “You did fine.”

Webb nodded, his eyes empty. “I guess,” he said softly. “I’m alive.”

They left the room, gathering just outside the door.

“We’ve got him a hotel room for the night with a uniform, in case this asshole tries to find him,” Horton says. “We’ll take good care of him.”

“Good job, Al,” Wainwright said.

Horton nodded and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I guess I better go call Mobley and get this over with. I’ll keep you posted, Dan.”