Jonathon King - A Visible Darkness

With Billy feeding her insurance information and his own list of computer acquaintances, Richards and a BSO computer-crime expert named Robshaw had spent the day looking for someone who they could muscle into admitting they'd downloaded a stolen hard drive for a big, drawling ex-cop looking for anonymity.

Everyone was exhausted by our collective lack of success.

"We did six guys in Miami, eight here in Broward and at least that many in Palm Beach," Richards said. "Hell we've got as many ex-con hackers as we've got bank heist guys."

"One of our 1-leads is living in a two-story b-beach house overlooking the Gulf in K-Key Largo," Billy said, keeping his voice purposely low in a public place.

"A man with a briefcase can steal more money than any man with a gun," I said to no one in particular.

Richards's eyes grinned with recognition of the song lyric. Billy just frowned.

"Don Henley, 1989," I said. My friend just shook his head.

"Diaz and his guys already confiscated a dozen computers from the local pawn shops trying to find some crackhead who might have done Marshack, but the chances are slim on that side," Richards said.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and the irises had faded to gray and I tried to catch them with my own when she locked onto something over my shoulder.

I turned and saw Hammonds making his way to the bar. Several of the officers in the place instinctively turned away from him, all of them losing two inches of height as their necks disappeared into their shoulders. It was nearly midnight, but the chief was still in his suitcoat. The knot of his tie had not been loosened.

"Give me a couple of minutes," Richards said, sliding out of her side of the booth.

I watched her move across the room and stop at Hammonds's side, and the two of them stood at the bar and leaned into their elbows for a guarded conversation.

"You know the history b-behind this p-place?" Billy said, and I shook my head, knowing he did. There was age in the wood of the long, standard bar. The ceilings were low and the wall paneling knotted and lacquered.

"In the 1930s there was a live band performing every Saturday in the back," he explained, tipping his head to a door that opened up onto the parking lot. "It w-was an open air d-dance floor and drew a young crowd. S-Some of the old-time attorneys tell about s-seeing Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Ella Fitzgerald here. At the t-time, black performers were n-not allowed to play at white d-dances in Dade County. To m-make the trip worthwhile the traveling acts would book p-places like this."

I looked around. On this night the ethnic mix looked pretty broad. But I could tell from the body language, haircuts and conversation that most of them were the same color: blue. I had spent a lot of nights in the same kind of bars in Philly.

Richards came back and slid in next to me.

"The chief says Robshaw has a lead on a hacker in Miami. Guy got busted a couple of years ago on a case where some CEO type had dipped into the corporate piggy bank to buy some expensive artwork, then later reported it stolen and tried to collect the insurance. He hired the hacker to do some eraser work on the company computers.

"Hacker flipped on the CEO but still had to do some time. They're trying to track an address on him now."

I turned to get a look at Hammonds but he had already disappeared, a full glass of beer left untouched on the bar where he'd been standing.

When I looked back at Richards she held my eyes.

"He's also opening investigations on our elderly women. He's sending crime scene teams back out to their homes with explicit instructions to check the metal jalousie tabs for any stress bends."

Billy leaned in.

"I m-might help you w-with the insurance connection. You can get the file on this hacker?"

"I told him that and he said you're free to call Robshaw and coordinate with him," Richards said.

Billy flexed his fingers and his eyes started to dart. I'd seen him get cranked before with the possibility of a challenge.

"If you w-will excuse me, f-folks," he said moving to get up. "I must go b-before they start p-playing Jimmy Buffett.

"I will be up," he said to me. "Just call."

A fresh beer had appeared and I filled half of my glass. Richards finished the wine.

"You stink, Freeman," she finally said.

There was a pull at the corner of her mouth.

"You are correct," I answered. I had been wearing the same clothes for two days, slept and sweated in them.

"How about a shower and a couple hours sleep?"

"Deal," I said, putting money on the table and following her out the door.

I followed her to her house and was sitting on the same steps in her backyard, watching the light from the pool dance in the tree leaves and holding a warm cup of coffee. The night was windless and still.

I closed my eyes for the fourth time in ten minutes and chastised myself for letting my head drift back to Philadelphia. Time after time I had questioned why I'd followed my father's path into this kind of work, knowing that something would happen to make it all feel like a bad mistake. When Richards came back out onto the patio, I realized my fingers had gone to the scar on my neck, and I dropped my hand.

"Your turn," she said, sitting down beside me, wrapping a long robe around her knees.

Her feet were bare and the smell of fresh soap and the assumption that she was naked under the robe started my blood moving, and I shifted my weight uncomfortably.

"Stay to your right down the hall, first door," she said, and her eyes looked dark and oddly expressionless in the aqua light.

I passed her my half-full cup and got up saying, "I hope you left some hot water."

She had left most of the house dark. A light over the stove in the open kitchen illuminated some hanging pots and reflected off the ceramic-tiled countertop. There was a small light glowing red on the instant coffee maker. I thought of my own crude pot in the shack, and I was jealous.

Down the hall the bathroom light left a patch on the wooden floor. I tried to steal a look into the far bedroom door but it was too dark.

The bathroom was standard except for the modern, glassed-in shower that Richards and her husband must have installed in the old house. She'd left a fresh towel and a dark blue T-shirt, size XL, folded up on a wicker clothes basket. On top of the shirt was a can of shaving gel and a man's razor. I hurried through the shower and scraped off my stubble while I stood in the spray.

When I came back outside she was still sitting, her chin on her knees, staring into the pool water. But when she heard my steps she got up and met me halfway across the patio and stepped into my arms. Her hair was wet and cold against my cheek and I could feel her shivering against me.

She kept her head down against my chest and I lost track of time and when she finally moved it was not toward the hammock, but instead she laced her fingers into mine and led me back into the house.

Eddie was crouched in the bushes, obscured by the oak tree where the man in the blue pickup had been, watching the Brown Man do his business.

The rhythm was here. The same runners. The same hangers on. The girl with the tears and the ratty-ass mouth was hanging at the end of the block. But this time Eddie was scared. He had seen three police cars on his way here. One, parked in an alley that Eddie often used, had surprised him as he swung the corner. He had jolted to a stop only twenty feet away. But they still had not seen him, or cared if they did, he thought. Still, he had ditched his cart after that, putting it behind a dumpster, and then moved mostly through yards and along fence lines.

Now it was late. The Brown Man would not stay out much longer and Eddie would be stuck without his bundle. The cramps were getting worse. He couldn't keep his eyes from watering or the inside of his mouth from going dry. He reached deep into his pocket and felt the hundred-dollar bill there and when the traffic stopped, he stepped out to cross the street.