“Jesus, kid. You shouldn’t be looking at that sh-” Louis stopped himself.

“You can say shit. Ma says it. Anyway, I wanted to ask your opinion on some of these cases.”

Louis stared at him.

“You know about these cases, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, I’ve read about some of them.”

Benjamin flipped the book open. “This guy here says that the Boston Strangler probably wasn’t guilty. Did you know there’s some people who think another guy in prison killed all those women and that DeSalvo just wanted to be important so he took the blame?”

Louis found himself staring at a black and white photo of a woman the caption identified as Mary Sullivan.

“What do you think?” Benjamin asked. “You think he really killed her?”

Louis rubbed his face and slowly stood up. “Put the book away, Benjamin.”

“Yeah but I wanted to-”

“Put it away.”

Benjamin heaved a huge sigh. “I thought you were a private investigator.”

“I am.”

Jesus, when did he finally admit that to himself?

“So you solve murders, right?”

Louis wanted this conversation to end real quick. “Yeah, I do.”

“Is it hard to do?”

“Yeah, it’s hard. Now-”

“Do they ever tell you why?”

“Who?”

“The killers.”

“What? No. Well, yeah, sometimes. Look, Benjamin-”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Why do they do it?”

Louis was silent. He wasn’t any expert, but this had to be weird for a kid to be asking these questions.

“Maybe you should ask your mother about this,” Louis said.

“I did. She said she doesn’t know.”

Benjamin was looking up at him, waiting.

“I don’t know either, Benjamin,” he said.

Chapter Twenty-One

The beeper was buzzing against his side. He waited until he stopped at a light to look at the number. He was hoping it was Vince. It took him a moment to recognize the number as the Sereno Key Police Department, the chief’s private line.

He pulled into a 7-Eleven, got a coffee to go, and called Dan Wainwright.

“I have an address for you on that Lieberman woman,” he said. “Got a pen?”

“Yeah, hold on, Dan.” Louis set the coffee down on the phone ledge. Wainwright read off an address. Louis wrote it on the styrofoam cup.

Louis knew Wainwright was not supposed to run numbers for a civilian. “I owe you one, Dan,” he said.

“No problem. How’s things going for you, Kincaid?”

“It’s going,” Louis said.

Wainwright was silent for a moment. “Call me. I’ll buy you a beer some night, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll do that.” He clicked off.

Louis stood there for a moment, watching the traffic crawl by on Cleveland Avenue. He hadn’t seen Dan Wainwright in months, not since they had worked together on the Paint It Black case. The case had created a bond between them-the kind of bond that sparked between cops in the adrenaline-drench of a dangerous case. But Louis had not stayed in touch afterward. Maybe it was because the Sereno Key chief was one of the few people who knew how much Louis hated PI work, knew how badly he wanted to wear a uniform again. He didn’t like it when people knew too much about him, especially when it came with a dose of pity.

Louis glanced at his watch. He was tempted to go over to the medical examiner’s office; it was only a couple blocks away. But he knew if Vince had found out anything about the semen sample, he would have called. He was also tempted to drive out to Immokalee to find Joyce Novick.

He picked up the styrofoam cup and looked at the address. But a promise was a promise. He would go find this Lieberman woman.

The address turned out to be one of the new developments out by the airport. This one was called The Villas of Lancaster Lakes, the lakes being a green-water pit scooped out of the limestone and the villas just more of the soulless gulags that were springing up all over the old pasture lands. Louis found building E and apartment 322, but there was no answer when he knocked. There was also nothing covering the windows.

He peered in. The apartment was vacant. Recently vacant, if the little bits of debris on the carpet and nails on the walls were any indication. He found the rental office and the landlord who told him that Hayley Lieberman had moved out three days ago.

“She broke her lease,” the man said. “Didn’t give me any notice.”

“She didn’t say where she was going?” Louis asked.

“They never do. They just pull a Robert Irsay on me. Just backed up the van in the middle of night and split. Women are the worst. They sign a lease, then three months later they find some guy to sponge off and they move in with him. And I gotta paint the place all over again.”

Louis nodded. “Thanks for your help.”

“If you see her, tell her she can kiss her security goodbye.”

Louis got back in the car. Another dead-end. Nothing to do but report back in to Susan. He glanced down at the county map he had spread out on the seat. He was right near Immokalee Road, only about a half-hour drive to the town. At least it wouldn’t be a total waste of time.

He drove out to Immokalee Road, but as he waited for the light, a thought hit him, something the landlord had said about women finding some guy to sponge off of.

Hayley Lieberman had found someone to sponge off of, all right.

Damn. Joyce Novick would have to wait. He turned left, heading back toward Fort Myers. It was just a hunch, but he owed it to Susan to follow up on it.

He drove over the Sanibel-Captiva causeway and turned off Periwinkle Way, heading to the Duvall home.

Bingo. The old Toyota was there in the drive of the big white house. And Candace’s yellow Mercedes convertible wasn’t. Dumb luck.

At the front door, Louis paused, looking up at the security camera. No way was he going to get past that little maid. With a quick look around, he left the porticoed porch and followed a flagstone path around the side of the house. There was a small iron gate with a DELIVERIES sign on it. He opened it and went in.

The huge house butted right up against the lot line, leaving just a small walkway to the back. He followed it toward the back yard.

“You’ve scraped bottom, Kincaid,” he muttered to himself as he crouched down to get by a window.

He could see San Carlos Bay beyond the hibiscus hedges. At the corner of the house, he heard something and stopped. A splash.

He looked around the corner. Hayley Lieberman was doing laps in the pool. He looked around the patio. No sign of anyone else, just a towel, a book and some lotion on a lounge chair.

He ventured onto the patio. It took Hayley another lap before she looked up and saw him. She stopped, squinting up at him as she treaded water.

“You need me to get out?” she asked.

She looked like a sleek dark seal, and she was smiling.

Louis shrugged. “It would help,” he said.

She went to the side and hoisted herself out. She was wearing the little red bathing suit bottom and nothing on top. She didn’t look back at Louis as she went to the lounge and grabbed the towel.

“You’re using too much chlorine,” she said, turning.

“Excuse me?” Louis said.

She nodded at the pool. “Chlorine.”

She was looking at him oddly now. He was trying hard to look at her face.

“You’re not the pool boy?” she asked.

Louis shook his head. “My name is Louis Kincaid. I’m a private investigator.”

It took her a moment, but she smiled again. “Oh, sorry,” she said. She rubbed the towel over her dark hair and tossed it aside.

She was maybe thirty, tall, almost his height, with a taut dancer’s body-boyish hips, finely muscled legs and no tits. Definitely good looking.

Definitely not his type, he thought with relief as she nonchalantly stretched out on her back on a lounge chair, arms behind her head.

“So, what are you investigating?” she asked. Her tone was almost playful.