the artery.
“You done looking, sport?” the detective asked.
Louis didn’t answer him, heading out into the night. He could feel the cold air rush against his sweating face as he hurried down the steps. For a minute, he thought he might be sick.
He stopped at the bottom, drawing in a breath, the neon of nearby stores a bright blur against the red and blue lights. He heard the detective come up behind him.
“Hey, P.I., in case you were wondering,” the detective said. “We just ID’d the victim. His name was Wallace Sorrell.”
“Sorrell?”
“Yeah.” The detective pulled out a notebook and started writing something. “What’s your name?”
“Louis Kincaid.”
“Where’s your office?”
Louis was staring up at the open door of Pacific Imports. It wasn’t Austin. He wasn’t dead. Then where the hell was he? And where was Ben?
“Hey, I asked you a question, P.I.”
Louis looked back at the detective. “What?”
“Where’s your office?”
“Captiva. It’s near Fort Myers.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know where Captiva is. They got enough over there on that little island to keep you busy?”
Louis ignored the question. He was looking back up at the office windows.
“What’s the kid’s name?” the detective asked.
“Benjamin Outlaw. He ’s eleven. They left Fort Myers about three or four hours ago. Maybe longer.”
“Description?”
Louis gave him one, but his mind was already kicking back into gear, eager to ask his own questions.
The detective took down Susan’s name and address, and the description of Austin ’s car, then slapped his notebook shut
“Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”
“Hey,” Louis said. “This Sorrell guy, who is he?”
“He and your runaway Ex Outlaw were partners in that import business. The woman in the chest was probably the secretary.”
“What did they import?”
The detective started to answer him, but stopped. “Uh-uh. No way. You need to take that crappy little P.I. license back to paradise and do your investigating over there. It ain’t no good here.”
“It ’s good all over Florida,” Louis snapped.
The detective snickered. “Miami ain’t Florida.”
Louis didn’t move.
“Go home, P.I.,” the detective said. He walked away.
CHAPTER 7
Louis stared at the phone, unable to bring himself to pick up the receiver. He didn’t want to tell Susan that he hadn’t found Benjamin. He didn’t want to tell her what he had seen at Pacific Imports.
He glanced at the television. The first thing he had done after he checked into a room at the Airport Days Inn was to switch on the TV and scan the channels for news of the Pacific Import murders. But there had been nothing so far. Apparently, two slashed bodies wasn’t big news in Miami.
He looked at his watch. The eleven o’clock news was coming on. With a sigh, he picked up the phone to call Susan.
She answered on the second ring.
“Susan, it’s Louis.”
“Louis? Where are you?”
“I’m still in Miami.”
“Miami? Why?”
Louis rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No word yet? No calls?” he asked.
“No... no. I would have beeped you.” He could hear a breathy exhaustion in her voice, like she had cried hard and had nothing left. “Louis, why are you still in Miami?”
He took a deep breath. “Something’s happened,” he began slowly. “At Austin’s business office.”
“Oh no, oh God...”
“Susan, wait. It’s okay . It’s not Ben. I didn’t find him. Not yet.”
She was gasping softly. He could imagine her, sitting alone in the small dark kitchen at the yellow Formica table. Suddenly, he wanted to be there with her, to hold her.
“Austin’s business partner is dead,” he said. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered? What? How?”
“I don’t know. I was over at the office but the cops won’t talk to me.” He glanced at the television. The weather was on. It was going to get colder. “Susan, I’m going to stay here, see what I can find out
“You done looking, sport?” the detective asked.
Louis didn’t answer him, heading out into the night. He could feel the cold air rush against his sweating face as he hurried down the steps. For a minute, he thought he might be sick.
He stopped at the bottom, drawing in a breath, the neon of nearby stores a bright blur against the red and blue lights. He heard the detective come up behind him.
“Hey, P.I., in case you were wondering,” the detective said. “We just ID’d the victim. His name was Wallace Sorrell.”
“Sorrell?”
“Yeah.” The detective pulled out a notebook and started writing something. “What’s your name?”
“Louis Kincaid.”
“Where’s your office?”
Louis was staring up at the open door of Pacific Imports. It wasn’t Austin. He wasn’t dead. Then where the hell was he? And where was Ben?
“Hey, I asked you a question, P.I.”
Louis looked back at the detective. “What?”
“Where’s your office?”
“Captiva. It’s near Fort Myers.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know where Captiva is. They got enough over there on that little island to keep you busy?”
Louis ignored the question. He was looking back up at the office windows.
“What’s the kid’s name?” the detective asked.
“Benjamin Outlaw. He ’s eleven. They left Fort Myers about three or four hours ago. Maybe longer.”
“Description?”
Louis gave him one, but his mind was already kicking back into gear, eager to ask his own questions.
The detective took down Susan’s name and address, and the description of Austin ’s car, then slapped his notebook shut
“Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”
“Hey,” Louis said. “This Sorrell guy, who is he?”
“He and your runaway Ex Outlaw were partners in that import business. The woman in the chest was probably the secretary.”
“What did they import?”
The detective started to answer him, but stopped. “Uh-uh. No way. You need to take that crappy little P.I. license back to paradise and do your investigating over there. It ain’t no good here.”
“It ’s good all over Florida,” Louis snapped.
The detective snickered. “Miami ain’t Florida.”
Louis didn’t move.
“Go home, P.I.,” the detective said. He walked away.
CHAPTER 7
Louis stared at the phone, unable to bring himself to pick up the receiver. He didn’t want to tell Susan that he hadn’t found Benjamin. He didn’t want to tell her what he had seen at Pacific Imports.
He glanced at the television. The first thing he had done after he checked into a room at the Airport Days Inn was to switch on the TV and scan the channels for news of the Pacific Import murders. But there had been nothing so far. Apparently, two slashed bodies wasn’t big news in Miami.
He looked at his watch. The eleven o’clock news was coming on. With a sigh, he picked up the phone to call Susan.
She answered on the second ring.
“Susan, it’s Louis.”
“Louis? Where are you?”
“I’m still in Miami.”
“Miami? Why?”
Louis rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No word yet? No calls?” he asked.
“No... no. I would have beeped you.” He could hear a breathy exhaustion in her voice, like she had cried hard and had nothing left. “Louis, why are you still in Miami?”
He took a deep breath. “Something’s happened,” he began slowly. “At Austin’s business office.”
“Oh no, oh God...”
“Susan, wait. It’s okay . It’s not Ben. I didn’t find him. Not yet.”
She was gasping softly. He could imagine her, sitting alone in the small dark kitchen at the yellow Formica table. Suddenly, he wanted to be there with her, to hold her.
“Austin’s business partner is dead,” he said. “He was murdered.”
“Murdered? What? How?”
“I don’t know. I was over at the office but the cops won’t talk to me.” He glanced at the television. The weather was on. It was going to get colder. “Susan, I’m going to stay here, see what I can find out
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