He’s my father. I lost him. .

A green bottle appeared in front of him. Louis looked up at Bev.

“Today’s my birthday,” he said.

“No shit?” Bev said.

Louis took a quick swig of beer. “Yeah, no shit.”

Chapter Three

The glass doors to the Lee County jail reflected the sun like mirrors and Louis paused on the sidewalk, still not used to seeing himself in what he had come to think of as his new “uniform.” This morning, it was fresh khaki slacks, a yellow polo shirt and a blue blazer. It was what he always wore when he was meeting a client for the first time.

Not that he was sure Jack Cade was going to be a client.

He had spent a fitful night turning Ronnie Cade’s situation over in his head. He couldn’t afford to take a charity case, that much was certain. He had just deposited the check from the Bonita Springs case, but there was nothing else on the horizon and he knew he’d have to live off that money for a while. He glanced back at the white ’65 Mustang parked at the curb.

He shouldn’t have spent so much getting it fixed. New brakes, new transmission, and the body work and paint job. It had taken a huge chunk out of his meager savings. He should have listened to Dodie and junked the old thing and bought something new and reliable.

He shook his head. “Man, I’ll walk before I have to drive a damn Civic,” he muttered as he started for the door.

He stopped, spotting the News-Press box. The Spencer Duvall murder was the lead story again. This time, however, there was a picture of Jack Cade.

Louis popped in a quarter and pulled out a paper. Jack Cade looked to be on the downslope of fifty, with the same long, thin face and hooded eyes as his son. Louis knew you couldn’t read much from a mug shot. Except when the person was innocent. Then you could see it in the eyes, the indignation, shock or bewilderment of the falsely accused. Jack Cade looked simply blank-bored, if anything.

He knew what had kept him tossing and turning all night. It wasn’t the money. It was that he didn’t think he could get past the fact that Jack Cade had been convicted of rape and murder. But he had made a promise to Ronnie Cade. Maybe if he met the father face to face he could find a good reason to walk away from this.

Folding the paper under his arm, he went in. At the glass window, he tapped lightly on the wall microphone to get the clerk’s attention.

“Morning, Zach.”

Zach turned and keyed the mike on his side. Reddish-blond spikes of hair sprouted from a sun-burned square head that melted into the collar of his dark green shirt. Zach Dombrowski was a dead-ringer for Barney Rubble.

“Hey, Louis. Haven’t seen you for a while. How goes it?”

“Okay,” Louis said as he picked up a pen to sign in.

Zach leaned close to the mike so the other deputy behind the glass could not hear him.

“I heard a rumor we might be adding guys in February, Louis. Why don’t you put in?”

Louis looked at Zach in surprise. The others around here weren’t usually so friendly. “I don’t think I could work for Mobley.”

Zach nodded. “He has an Eight Ball on his desk. He uses it to make decisions. ‘Should I take a shit? Signs Point To Yes.’ ”

Louis smiled and tossed the pen down.

Zach looked at the log. “You here to see Jack Cade?”

“Is that a problem?”

Zach shrugged. “Well, I guess not, except the Sheriff left orders to be notified when anyone visits Cade.”

“Then notify him.”

“He’s off duty but he’s over at the Dinkle Center.”

“Lucky break for me.”

“I better call him anyway. Hold on a minute.”

As he waited, Louis read the Duvall story. It recapped Cade’s arraignment with a few comments from the prosecutor, State Attorney Vern Sandusky, assuring Southwest Florida “that the case was progressing as expected and that I will do everything in my power to make sure that Jack Cade spends the rest of his life in prison.”

Zach tapped the glass. “Sheriff says you can go up, but he wants to see you at O’Sullivan’s in an hour.”

Louis nodded, tucking the newspaper under his arm as he headed to the elevator.

The doors opened and a deputy stepped in. He gave Louis the once-over, focusing on his VISITOR badge. Louis glanced at the deputy’s name plate. LOVETT. He remembered Lovett had been the arresting officer on a deadbeat father case he had worked several months ago. He felt Lovett’s eyes on him and wondered if the deputy remembered him, too.

“Kincaid, right?” Lovett asked.

Louis nodded. He waited, but the deputy’s eyes stared straight ahead at the closed doors.

“You remember that case we worked together on a few months back?” Louis said finally.

Lovett’s eyes didn’t waver. “No.”

Great. The silent treatment again.

“What about Jack Cade? What’s the talk?” Louis asked.

Lovett’s eyes slid to Louis, then snapped back to the doors.

“The way I see it, killers like Cade are no better than garbage, and lawyers like Duvall are no better than the maggots that feed off it.”

The doors opened. Louis moved to step off.

“You working for or against that asshole?” Lovett asked.

“Neither,” Louis said.

The doors closed with a wheeze of air. The deputy posted on the fourth floor saw Louis and jerked his head to the right. Louis followed him down a dim hall done in the same chipped beige paint as the iron-bar door that clanged shut behind them. The deputy stopped at a metal door and motioned for Louis to go inside.

“He’s in five, down at the end.”

A long table split the room, a plexiglass divider running its length with privacy partitions. Louis stopped at the end and looked at the man seated behind the glass.

Jack Cade’s head was down, his stringy, ink-black hair shading his face. His arm was slung across the back of the wooden chair and his ankle was propped on his knee. Louis cleared his throat.

Cade lifted his head, running thick fingers through his hair to move it from his forehead. His gray-green eyes peered at Louis from under lazy lids for several seconds before dropping away. He drew his thin lips into a grimace.

“I told them I didn’t want to see any reporters.”

His voice sounded hollow, strained through the small holes in the plexiglass.

“I’m not a reporter.”

“Funny. You look like one.”

“I’m a private investigator, Louis Kincaid. Your son Ronnie wants to hire me to help in your defense.”

“Kincaid? Yeah. .” Cade cocked his head. “Ronnie told me you were too expensive. What changed your mind?”

“Your son makes a compelling argument for family values.”

Cade narrowed his eyes, then flicked his hand toward the empty chair. Louis sat down, studying Cade.

His eyes were dulled with disinterest and his large body, all sinew and muscle beneath the orange jumpsuit, was draped over the chair like he was home watching a football game. Except for his right foot. The foot, propped on his left knee, was moving in a nonstop, rhythmic jerking motion.

“You got any smokes?” Cade asked.

“Sorry.”

“So you working for me or not?”

“I don’t know. Talk to me.”

“What do you want to know?”

Louis pulled a small notebook from his back pocket. “I’m coming in cold, Mr. Cade, so you’re going to have to start at the beginning. All I know is Spencer Duvall was shot Monday night around nine-thirty in his office and you were arrested the following afternoon.”

Cade didn’t reply.

“So why did they arrest you?” Louis asked.

“I went to see Duvall that morning.”

“Why?”

“I went there to tell him I was going to sue him. I had an appointment. You can check.”

“Sue him? For what?”

“He fucked up some legal work he did for me a few years back.”

“What kind of legal work?”

Cade was studying his hands. He began to pick at the skin around his nails. “Criminal.”