"Is it time to go see Kowalski already? All right." Bree heaved herself to her feet. She needed something solid to do. Something that would give her some facts. It was way past time to see Kowalski. The missing witness was a solid lead, and with just a little bit of luck, Kowalski could get her further ahead.

"He's going out to see his old friend at last?" Lavinia asked.

"It's more than that, I think. He feels awfully guilty about the way he treated Kowalski when they were on the force together. I spent a little time last night thinking about how to help Dent with that, and I believe I've found an answer. So we'll see."

"But you are going to inquire from him about this missing witness," Petru asked.

"You bet I am. I hope we get some kind of lead. It's about time we had a break in the case. Speaking of the case ... Ron, I want to find out where Florida was yesterday, all day, and all the time."

"Sunday?" Lavinia murmured. "I hope the child was in church."

"If she was, I hope it wasn't an all-day service." Bree slung her tote strap around her neck and started out the door. "That last night at B. Matthew's, Flurry kept saying she needed a last little bit of proof, right? Maybe she found it. And if she found it, so can we."

"I take it you got Dixie back home without any trouble." Bree adjusted her cast so that it was elevated on her tote. The whole leg throbbed, the knee worst of all.

"Depends on what you call trouble." Dent had written out directions to the Sweet Briar Adult Care Facility on his lap. His refusal to use the GPS system in Bree's car was absolute. "The only woman I ever met who talked as much as she does was my ex-wife."

"You were married?"

"Before the war," Dent said curtly. "She wasn't long on patience. Wasn't there when I was shipped home." He shrugged. "Happened to a lot of guys."

Bree wanted to ask what had happened to her, if Dent had any children, if he still missed her. She didn't.

"She did tell me why her family hates Justine so much."

"I figured it was part of the Bullochs' total hara.s.sment plan. Stop the movie, stop the book, and get the actress playing their mother fired. There's more?"

"Justine worked for the Bullochs. Did you know that?"

Bree was taken aback. "Justine Coville? When was this?"

"The mid '70s. Dixie's recall isn't much to write home about. She says Justine left Savannah to make it big on the New York stage, ended up broke, and came back to Savannah with her tail between her legs. Mrs. Bulloch took her on as sort of a secretary. Dixie says her mamma remembers that the family treated her like a queen. They lived out near Rattigan's old mansion at the time. Dixie said it was gorgeous. There was some kind of horse house out back that Justine lived in."

"Horse house?" Bree said. "Do you mean a carriage house?"

"That's it. Mrs. Bulloch had been sick sometime before Justine showed up. Bad heart. The daughters 'bout run themselves ragged lookin' after her, and then Justine took over taking care of the old lady." He snorted. "That nursing didn't last too long. A week or so after Justine came in, Mrs. Bulloch ended up falling in the bathtub and eventually dying from the effects of the fall. Justine took off right away for Hollywood. Left the family high and dry at the worst possible time, Dixie said. Sammi-Rose never forgave her, either. They were just kids at the time. Dixie thinks maybe six or seven years old. Dixie's mamma, the woman Alexander married after Haydee died in '52, ended up nursing Mrs. Bulloch right through to the end, which wasn't long in coming after that fall. Liked to have killed Dixie's mamma, all that nursing. Dixie thinks maybe it did. Her mamma keeled over from a heart attack at a Stuckey's just after Dixie went into middle school, and they figured Consuelo had just wore her heart right out. The old lady was pretty demanding. Anyhow, there's no love lost over Consuelo, that's clear as crystal. They slung her body into the cheapest cemetery they could find, out to Belle Glade, and that was that."

"Oh dear." Belle Glade was where Haydee was buried. What was it Justine had said? With an angel watching over her tomb. Bree had a brief vision of the two bitter enemies lying side by side in their graves. Ugh.

"Families," Dent said. "They'll kill you, if you let them. I told Dixie that you just have to rise above. It's all there in Step Four." He braked at a red light and looked at the directions in his lap. "We're on Skidaway. We take a left here, go down a quarter of a mile, and that should be it."

"GPS is much easier, Dent. There's a little voice that tells you exactly where to go."

"I got enough little voices telling me exactly where to go."

They rolled along in silence for a bit. The area was what real estate people called "mixed use." They pa.s.sed a strip mall containing an auto parts store, a Denny's restaurant, and a Michaels craft shop. A development of small, one-story frame houses was next. Then on the east side of the road, a group of low, pale yellow buildings sprawled out just beyond a sign bearing their collective name.

"Sweet Briar," Dent said, and turned into the parking lot. He drew the car into an open s.p.a.ce near the front door and killed the engine. "Doesn't look too bad," he said after a long moment. The shrubbery around the buildings was well tended, and the gra.s.s was clipped. A threat of rain hung in the overcast sky, but somehow, the surroundings weren't at all somber.

"You haven't been to see Kowalski before?"

"I've been putting it off." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I owe him a lot. He wasn't the kind of guy who tolerates drunks. But he put up with it. Kept the heat from the bra.s.s off me when he could. I'm trying to figure out a way to make amends in a quiet way. Can't let him know I'm back, of course, and he wouldn't believe it anyway. But it'd be nice to get his forgiveness."

Bree noticed Dent's hands were trembling. "How old is he now?"

"Ninety-two."

"We've got an excellent reason to see him. We're following up on Florida's visit. I read her interview notes. She thought he was in pretty good shape. I know what I want to do. I want to ask him about that missing witness, and hope like heck he remembers. So we'll start with that. Have you got any ideas about how to bring the conversation around to what you want to do?"

Dent chewed his lower lip.

"I do. I've been thinking about it." Bree reached into her tote and pulled out an envelope. "Write him a note. Tell him your father was a Marine Corps buddy of Dent's who was asked to go through Dent's effects when he died, and he found this letter. Tell him when your father died a few months ago, he pa.s.sed the note on to you."

Dent scowled. "He's not going to buy that. He's ninety-two, but he's a ninety-two-year-old cop. He's going to know I wrote the note."

"My grandmother kept a day journal most of her life. I took a blank page from the back. This paper is old." She shook it out of the envelope and smoothed it out on her knee. It was a heavy rag-content paper, with the soft, yellow patina that only comes with years. Dent picked it up and rubbed the worn surface with his thumb. "Franklin left all his effects to me when he died-including a fountain pen. If you use that, it will look old, too. It might work, Dent. Can't hurt to try. I'll go on ahead to reception and make sure that he can see us today. You think about that note." She dropped the fountain pen on the dashboard and went into the building.

The door was handicapped accessible, for which she was grateful. She tapped the red b.u.t.ton for the automatic door and walked through into a quiet, carpeted s.p.a.ce with a small reception center in the middle of the foyer. A neatly dressed, middle-aged woman looked up with a smile as Bree hopped in. "Can I give you a hand there?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Bree paused to take in her surroundings. Two hallways ran off the foyer, one to the right and one to the left. Small bra.s.s plaques set in the wall listed room numbers. The air was faintly scented with the odors of food, hospital disinfectant, and soiled linen. A small bureau set against the wall adjacent to the reception desk held a big bowl of silk flowers. Behind the reception desk, a set of gla.s.s doors gave into a large open s.p.a.ce with a skylight. It was filled with plants, several televisions sets, and a lot of elderly people in wheelchairs.

"Are you a family member of one of our guests? Have you visited us before?" The receptionist was polite but wary. She had a name tag pinned to her white blazer: FLORENCE BAGLEY. She grinned, suddenly, at the crutches. "Unless you're checking in."

"Not yet, at any rate. I'm here to see Robert Kowalski." Bree dug a business card out of the side pocket of her tote and handed it over.

"Brianna Beaufort. Of course! That's where I saw you. You were on TV. Something to do with that rich guy that killed himself up in New York."

"Mr. O'Rourke. My fifteen minutes of fame. Now in the past, fortunately. I'm here with a ..." She stumbled slightly. She was beginning to think the biggest problem she had with her Angelus Street cases was the number of times she had to fib to temporals. If there was a scale somewhere in the Sphere with her bad behavior piled up on it, it was tilted heavily to the downward side. "A client, who's tidying up his father's estate. His visit coincides with an older case I'm working on. I'm hoping Mr. Kowalski can help me with that, as well." She heard the front door open and close behind her. "This is Mr. William Dent, who is here on his father's behalf. Mr. Dent? This is Mrs. Bagley."

"We're here to see Bobby Lee," Dent said. Bree noticed the envelope with her grandmother's journal paper was tucked in his breast pocket. "My father had a message to pa.s.s on to him."

"He'll be glad of the company, I'm sure." Mrs. Bagley took a ring of keys from the desk drawer and headed down the hall labeled 115 TO 215. "Last visitor he had was a pretty young colored girl."

So how come you're not giving this woman heat about her language?

"Get out of my head, Dent."

Mrs. Bagley turned around. "Pardon?"

"Sorry. I'm still getting used to these crutches."

"Takes some of our residents that way. A lot never do get used to them. Anyway, he's in here. You came just in time. He likes to watch Jeopardy in the afternoon, and it's about over. She tapped on the swinging wood door as she pushed it open and said loudly, "Bobby Lee? You've got some company. A pretty lady and a friend of hers."

A very old man sat huddled in a leatherette armchair in front of a small TV set. He was bent like a fishhook. His skin was spotted with age marks. He reminded Bree of a plant that needed a good soaking. The eyes in the incredibly wrinkled face were dark brown and alert. At Mrs. Bagley's greeting, he grabbed the cane resting against the side of the chair and got to his feet. "Who's this?" he demanded.

"Visitors!" Mrs. Bagley shouted.

"Keep your voice down, woman. I'm not deaf." He frowned at Bree. "You notice how that happens when you get on in years a bit? Everyone shouts at you."

Mrs. Bagley kept her voice pitched high and loud. "This is Miss Winston-Beaufort, Bobby Lee! And Mr....?"

"Dent. I'm William Dent." He cleared his throat. "It's ... good to meet you, Bobby Lee." He took two steps forward and stood in front of the old man as if he were awaiting sentence.

Bobby Lee stood with both hands on his cane and craned his neck forward like a turtle. He squinted at Dent for a long moment. "Dent," Bobby Lee said finally. "I suppose it's nice to meet you, too, Mr. Dent. Although I won't know until you tell me what you came for."

"I'm Mr. Dent's attorney," Bree said. "We're here because Mr. Dent's father pa.s.sed recently, and he had a small task he asked my client to perform."

"Dinner's at five o'clock," Bobby Lee said. "It's not going to run into that, is it?"

"I shouldn't think so."

"Good. Then you can scoot on out of here, Bagley." He waved one hand at her. "Shoo."

"I'll just be off, then," Mrs. Bagley said. "You ring that buzzer right there if you need me."

Bree nodded her thanks.

The room was spare but adequately furnished. There was a small table in one corner, with two utilitarian straight-back chairs. The TV sat on a chest of drawers. The hospital bed struck the only discordant note. It had a rolling rack for intravenous medicines next to it. A medical clipboard hung at the foot.

"Don't mind all that stuff," Bobby Lee said. "Once in a while I get dizzy-like, and they put an APB out on me. Go on. Have a seat at the table yonder." He looked around in a confused way. "Y'all want some coffee? Not much I can offer you in the way of hospitality."

"We're just fine, thank you." Bree settled herself in one of the chairs, regretting that she hadn't taken the time to bring the old fellow something.

"I brought you this," Dent said awkwardly. He groped in his sports-coat pocket and pulled out a fistful of candy bars.

"Bit-O-Honey!" Bobby Lee said. "My glory, I haven't seen those for years." He sat back in the armchair, the candy in his lap. "Thing about these candy bars, son, is that they aren't too good for the false teeth. Bet I can suck on 'em, though. Lord, the sugar in those things kept me good and awake when I was on the night shift."

"Yeah," Dent said. "Me, too."

Bobby Lee c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "Sounds like maybe you were on the job, sonny?"

"Retired," Dent said. "Some time ago. Bobby Lee, we're here about a couple of things. I've been looking into some cold cases for the department. We were wondering if you recall much about the Haydee Quinn case."

"That pretty girl with the funny name-Flurry, Flurry Smith was here about that a couple of months ago," Bobby Lee said. "Pulled her body out of the Savannah River this morning, according to the news." He looked sad. "Called her up this Sunday and talked to her as a matter of fact. Got something to give her that might help. I should have remembered it sooner, but I do tend to forget easy these days." He pulled at his lower lip. "It's like my memory's written in pencil and somebody's erasing it."

Bree felt the familiar thud of excitement. "There's a possibility the cases are related, Sergeant Kowalski. Now that Flurry's gone, we've taken up the banner, so to speak. We'd like to find out why she died."

Bobby Lee snorted. "Don't see how they could be. Ms. Smith pa.s.sed on this morning. Haydee's been dead these sixty years, and whoever killed her is deader than a doornail, too."

"So you do recall the case?" Bree asked.

"You bet I remember. One of the biggest cases of my career. She asked me a bunch of questions, that girl did. You go right ahead and ask them, too."

"There was a witness who never actually came forward at the trial," Bree said. "It may have been someone who saw Haydee after Norris attacked her at the Tropicana Tide. Did you discuss that with Florida Smith?"

Bobby Lee leaned forward. "I sure did. Thing is, the gal never showed up again after she gave Eddie the statement."

Bree didn't look in Dent's direction. "You're referring to Lieutenant O'Malley? Your partner on the force."

"You've done your homework, just like Ms. Smith. Pretty thing," he mused, "smart, too. Name of Charis Jefferson. Anyways, yes. Eddie and I had to canva.s.s the area around the Tropi, see if anyone had a notion as to where Haydee had gone after Bagger Bill stuck her. Well, Eddie found her, all right. She danced, same as Haydee. Wanted to be another Lena Horne."

"Danced?" Bree said. "You mean she was a strip ... in the show?"

"Chorus. In those days, it didn't do to have coloreds front and center, although she should have been, I suppose. Had a lot of talent. Now, that was a pretty girl, too. Not a beauty like Haydee, but a looker, all the same. Nice girl. Anyways, this girl Charis Jefferson was still backstage when Bagger Bill and Haydee started getting into it, so she hid somewhere's, a closet, I guess, or under a table. Haydee stumbled past her on her way out, bleeding from the front, the girl said, and the girl run after her. Got into a big old Buick that was parked at the back of the bar, Haydee did, and the car took off."

Dent's voice was husky. "Did she know the model? The make? The year?"

"All she told Eddie was that the car was a Buick, white."

"Do you remember anything else Charis told Eddie?" Bree asked.

Bobby Lee rubbed his scalp through his scant white hair. "No, I don't recollect more than that. Eddie, he could have told you. He had it all written down. He gave me the statement to put in the file."

"Sergeant Kowalski?" Bree spoke as gently as she could. "You were responsible for taking the case notes and filing them with the department, weren't you? That statement wasn't in the police records."

"No." Bobby Lee sighed. "No, it wasn't. I ditched it."

"This is an old case, and as you know, any statute of limitations has long run out." Bobby Lee didn't strike her as the kind of man who would have taken a bribe, but she had to ask. "Did someone ask you to ditch it?"

"Some crook, you mean? No. Thing is, you have to understand something about Eddie. He had a bad war. Spent time in a j.a.p concentration camp. Got himself a Bronze Star or two. When he got home, the cheap little gal who he was married to had up and run off with someone else. Plus, he was Irish. And you know what they say about the Irish."

Bree sighed. She was heartily glad att.i.tudes had changed from 1952.

"He took to drink. He was hanging on to his job by the skin of his teeth. His old CO in the Marines was our commissioner. Creighton Oliver."

"Oliver?" Bree said. "His name was Oliver?"

"Yeah, his son went on to play a cop rather than be a cop." Bobby Lee laughed. "You might have seen the show, Bristol Blues. Good show, but they didn't get a thing right about being on the job. Anyhow, Commander Oliver watched out for Eddie as best as he could, but our captain was a Methodist, and you know how they feel about booze of any kind, especially on the job. So Eddie was on thin ice."

Bobby Lee sighed. He unwrapped one of the Bit-O-Honeys, broke off a piece, and sucked on it. "Eddie used to bring me these. Picked 'em up at the Woolworth's down on Whitaker."

"You were telling us about the statement from the dancer, Charis Jefferson," Bree said gently.

"Yeah." He sagged in his chair. He was running through whatever reserves a ninety-two-year-old man had. "Thing is, Eddie had a few too many when the captain sent us out to canva.s.s the blocks around the Tropi, and that statement was useless. It was hand wrote, and the writing was all over the place. You could tell Eddie wasn't exactly sober. We might a got away with that, but it wasn't signed, neither. Some smart defense lawyer got hold of that, it'd be tossed out on its ear. Me, I went back to the Tropi to get the girl to make another statement, but by then she'd run off. Scared, most likely. And then Bagger Bill confessed. So I didn't put it in the murder book, no sir. I gave it to the defense lawyers, and they said it was as useless as I knew it was. And they pitched it, I guess. I mean, we had our perp, so it would have just confused everybody."

Bobby Lee's eyes closed. His head fell forward on his chest. He was asleep.

"G.o.d," Dent said. It was both a plea and a prayer. "I don't remember a thing about it."

"We've got a lead. We need to jump on it." Bree hauled herself to her feet and laid her hand lightly on Bobby Lee's shoulder.

Bobby Lee mumbled in his doze. He lifted his head and blinked at them. "Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing in my room?"

"I'm Bree Beaufort, Sergeant Kowalski. Mr. Dent and I came by to talk with you." His eyes were confused. He looked exhausted. "We won't bide for very long. Would you like us to go? Are you tired of company?"

"You came to see me about that pretty young girl, Florida Smith."

"Yes," Bree said.