By Nick Mullins, Staff Writer South Florida friends and family of Corporal Randy Williams gathered at his parents' home Friday to remember a young man "who never walked away from a pal and always covered your back," when he grew up here in Fort Lauderdale.Williams, 28, was killed in Iraq earlier this week during a routine patrol according to the Defense Department. He had been serving with a National Guard unit based in Homestead and was sent to the Gulf more than a year ago. He had been scheduled to return home in January but a change in policy in which guardsmen were to serve only one year of active duty was altered."If the Secretary of State had honored her promise, my boy would be back here now, alive and safe with us. He did his job," said Williams's father, Vern.Vern Williams later said he was referring to a speech made last week by the secretary that defended the military's controversial ruling."The interpretation of the contract for guardsmen is that deployments are to mean twelve months, boots on the ground, in the service of the country and do not include the months of stateside preparations and training they spent away from their homes and stateside jobs," the secretary said at the time. "We hope this clears up any confusion and we regret if those families of the soldiers protecting our nation misinterpreted that commitment."The secretary's words did not mollify the Williams family."That's not what our son's commanders told us before he shipped out. They said he'd be home three months ago. If you make a promise to these boys and then ship them off to risk their lives, you should honor that promise," said Vern Williams.Williams was a highly regarded member of his unit and was guarding the rear flank of his patrol in Iraq when he was killed by a single gunshot fired by an insurgent sniper."We still have not taken down his stuff in the barracks," wrote Josh Murray, a fellow unit member from Coconut Creek in an e-mail sent to the Daily News Daily News yesterday. "He was a special guy. Always watchin' out for us." yesterday. "He was a special guy. Always watchin' out for us."

The story went on, quoting friends and other members of Williams's Guard unit praising the kid's intensity and loyalty both at home and in Iraq. But Hargrave had circled the paragraphs that held the secretary's name.

"And Canfield showed this to the Secret Service?" Nick said, working it in his head.

"You heard the man," Hargrave said.

"Do we have any connection between Redman and this guy Williams?"

"Checking. But they weren't with the same Guard unit, nor did their units work together over there as far as anyone can find," Hargrave said. "But then it hasn't been easy to nail down exactly what Redman was doing over there. The information officer with the Florida National Guard will only tell us that he was with a special operations group that was farmed out across the country. No specifics."

"So what? You're thinking Redman reads this piece by me and gets juiced up about avenging this kid's death by a.s.sa.s.sinating the secretary who justified keeping him over there?" Nick said, to himself as much as to Hargrave.

"h.e.l.l if I know," the detective said. "I showed it to Canfield, just like that tight-a.s.s Fitzgerald asked."

Nick could feel the sun cooking the back of his neck. He folded the story and unconsciously slipped it into his back pocket. Hargrave noticed and extended his hand and flexed his fingers in a give-it-back signal. Nick shrugged his shoulders and returned the paper.

"So what do we do now?"

"We?" Hargrave looked up. "We?"

It was hard for Nick to look wounded; he'd made himself an expert at not looking wounded. "What, you're going to sit back and just wait for the next victim to drop?"

"No," Hargrave said. "I'm going to get a return call from the P.D. up in Birmingham on this Kerner shooting and keep all possibilities open."

He gave a nod in the direction of Canfield's departure.

"That's what he was saying, between the management-speak. That goes with his job, not mine."

The detective flicked a furry red blossom, which did indeed look like a bottlebrush, off the table with one finger and then stood.

"Speaking of jobs, Mullins. I see from the front page this morning that someone else has taken over your story."

You can tell a cop either accepts you or despises you by the tone he uses when he takes a verbal shot.

Nick grinned at the statement and answered with an edge of bravado. "No way, Mo. n.o.body else has my story. Because I'm the only one who has the true one. This is no marauding killer," he said, thinking of the lead paragraph on Joe Binder's front-page piece. "This guy's got it all planned out."

Chapter 31.

Nick stayed off the sauce all day, pa.s.sing by the urge to stop at Kim's Alley Bar on Sunrise when he drove out to the beach. Three years ago he would have slipped in, had a couple just to relax after a deadline, just to paint over the stress of the day, just to wash out the vision of another body bag or charred home or mangled wreck. Those were the excuses he gave his wife back in the days when he stumbled into the house late, after the girls had already gone to bed. When he repeated the excuses now to himself, they rang just as hollow, and he kept driving.

On A1A he turned left and then parked at the curb along the ocean. He was well north of the once-infamous Fort Lauderdale Strip, once the world-famous baccha.n.a.l of college kids gone wild. But the backdrop of Where the Boys Are Where the Boys Are had gone the way of most things money-driven. When the profit on kegs of beer and cheap hotel rooms couldn't stand up to family resorts and high-priced boutique stores, out went the old, in came the new. Yet it was still a wonder to him that this stretch of beach, from the road to the horizon, was sand untouched. The city had somehow worked it into a legal legacy that no buildings would go up on this stretch of land. Nick got out of his car and walked down to the tide mark and let the surf slosh white and bubbling over his ankles and up onto his cuffs. He thought of Julie, always with her feet in the water. His wife would pull the beach chair all the way down to the edge, even when she knew the tide was coming in, even when she knew she was going to have to change her position within the hour. The closer to the ocean you are, the less of the city you see behind you, she would say. It's more like being out there, floating, without a care in the world. had gone the way of most things money-driven. When the profit on kegs of beer and cheap hotel rooms couldn't stand up to family resorts and high-priced boutique stores, out went the old, in came the new. Yet it was still a wonder to him that this stretch of beach, from the road to the horizon, was sand untouched. The city had somehow worked it into a legal legacy that no buildings would go up on this stretch of land. Nick got out of his car and walked down to the tide mark and let the surf slosh white and bubbling over his ankles and up onto his cuffs. He thought of Julie, always with her feet in the water. His wife would pull the beach chair all the way down to the edge, even when she knew the tide was coming in, even when she knew she was going to have to change her position within the hour. The closer to the ocean you are, the less of the city you see behind you, she would say. It's more like being out there, floating, without a care in the world.

Nick had never experienced that feeling of floating. He had envied her that. Out on the horizon, the cobalt blue of the ocean water was meeting the azure of the sky, trying to meld, but unable to mix the line until dark. Nick felt the tingle in his right hand again and flexed the fingers.

When his cell phone rang the sound made him turn to look behind, like he'd been caught, like the truth had come out and someone would be standing there. He shook off the feeling and brought the phone out of his pocket. The readout on the incoming number was blocked.

"Nick Mullins," he said.

"I am deeply disappointed, Mr. Mullins," said a man's deep voice.

The tenor of the words immediately charged his nerves and Nick turned away from the ocean wind, cupping his hand over the cell to listen closer.

"Yeah? Maybe I am too," he said. "Would you mind telling me who you are and why you're disappointed?"

"You gave our story up, Mr. Mullins," the voice said. "I planned out a lot of possibilities, my friend. But I never figured you to give our story up to someone else."

Nick immediately turned and ducked his head and started back to his car to get out of the breeze so he could hear and think.

"Mike? Mike Redman?"

"I mean, come on, Mr. Mullins. A marauding killer? That guy Binder writes just like the rest of them. All flash and no substance. Although I have to give him credit for mapping out my use of your journalism to decide on who needed to be eliminated. But I have a feeling that was your work. Am I right?"

Nick opened his car, climbed in and closed the door to create a vacuum of silence.

"Christ, Redman. What are you doing, man? You're shooting people in the streets. That's not your training. I saw your work too. This is not what you do," Nick said, guessing at the words to use, trying to juggle what he knew with how he thought the sniper might be thinking.

"It's not what any of us were trained to do, Mullins. I went to war and killed innocent people, did everything the opposite of how I was trained. And now look at yourself. I've read every story you did on those sc.u.mbags over the years. You were the truth. And now you gave it up too. You handed it over."

Nick was silent. Had he copped out by quitting? Was the sniper right?

"OK, Mike. Maybe I did. But do you want to set it straight?" Nick said, scrambling to keep him talking, truly falling back on his training. "You and I could talk. We could do an interview. I'd get it out straight from you, tell the story the right way. The truth, like you just said."

There was the sound of a deep chuckle in the cell earpiece. The guy was laughing.

"See? You and I are a lot alike, Nick. You can't help but be the newsman. I can't help but pull the trigger. It's what we do," Redman said. "I'm not after publicity, Nick. I don't need any stories. Like I told you, I've got one more shot, tomorrow. One more piece of business, and it's for you. Then I gotta move on. Then I'm gonna get on with my life, Nick. And you can too. Don't you see? We're a lot alike, you and I."

Nick felt the conversation slipping away. He'd lost interviews before, had them stop before he had the answers he needed.

"Wait, wait, Mike," he nearly yelled into the phone. "What do you mean, for me? Who's for me, Michael? The Secretary of State doesn't mean anything to me, Michael. I only wrote that quote. It wasn't me that said it."

There was no response. But no dial tone either.

"Is it Walker? Do you know about Walker, Mike?"

Nick's voice was still rising, reverberating in the closed s.p.a.ce and buffeting back on his own ears.

"Hey, don't put this on me, Mike. I'm not out for retribution. Mike!" Nick slapped his right hand against the steering wheel in anger and frustration. "Redman?"

Three electronic beeps and the line went dead.

Nick sat back in his seat and stared out at the horizon. And then dialed Hargrave's number.

Chapter 32.

At six fifteen the next morning Nick was sitting in his car, parked next to the Dumpster, down the street but well within view of Archie's Tool Sharpening Shack.

After talking with Hargrave, he'd gone home last night and had dinner with Carly and Elsa and tried to put on a clear-headed, smiling act. But when he went quiet in the middle of a conversation about his daughter's science lesson on the African desert's effect on forming hurricanes, she looked up and saw his eyes staring out through the window. She turned to Elsa, but the nanny only shook her head and said, "It's OK, Carlita, he will be back."

They pretended not to notice and in a few minutes Nick was back, rejoining the discussion as though no lapse had occurred.

Later in the evening Nick helped with Carly's math homework and then gave her an early good-night kiss and went out to the patio. He slept in the chair and, almost as if an alarm sounded, he woke at five AM, AM, took a shower and drove to this spot. took a shower and drove to this spot.

At six thirty he began to squirm. Walker was late and he had never been late so far. Light from the east was starting to glow and a dusty gray was rising into the sky. He was leaning forward, antic.i.p.ating the headlights of Walker's car, when a sharp tapping of metal on gla.s.s caused him to jump.

At the pa.s.senger window was the face of a man, a long flashlight tube in his hand. Nick was confused for a second. No one had ever approached him before. The flashlight snapped against the window again and now Nick could see the badge displayed on the man's chest.

He hit the automatic b.u.t.ton to lower the pa.s.senger-side window and only then did he realize a second man was on his side of the car, standing back a few paces at the rear panel.

"Please step out of the car, sir, and keep your hands where we can see them," the officer at the open window said. He was standing sideways as he bent to look in. A standard defense procedure, Nick knew, that gave less of a profile to hit if a driver was thinking of shooting a cop during a traffic stop.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, Officers. I'm cool," Nick said, exaggerating his hands up and fingers spread. "I'm just reaching down to open the door, OK?"

Nick had written about citizens being wounded by officers reacting to unpredictable and quick movements. He'd also written about cops being shot during traffic stops. Both sides needed to know what the other was doing.

He opened the door slowly and then pushed his upraised hands out first and then stood.

"Come around to the front here, please," the officer to the side said and Nick followed the instruction, only glancing at the cop standing behind him.

While Officer One ran his flashlight beam over Nick's clothes and finally his face, he could see Officer Two doing the same kind of search of his car interior.

"License, sir?" Officer One said.

"I'm gonna get it out of my front pants pocket. OK?" Nick said before reaching. He had always kept his wallet in his front pocket since some street hustler had tried to pick it one day. And he knew reaching oddly into a waistband area was a motion that would surely agitate a cop.

The guy nodded and Nick took out the wallet and opened it away from his body and slipped out the license and handed it over. The officer looked at the license and then at his partner and said, "Mr. Mullins, may we look in the trunk of your car, sir?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem," Nick said. "The b.u.t.ton is right there on the left of the dash and the keys are in the ignition."

He turned his head to watch Officer Two lean in and take out the keys and then walk around to the trunk. Officer One said nothing and while they waited Nick took in the uniform badge and seal on the officer's shoulder. Fort Lauderdale Police Department. He knew that this was officially their jurisdiction, but had never even seen a sector car in this area before. A pair of cops doing foot patrol was way unusual, Nick thought.

"OK, Mr. Mullins," Officer One said after getting an all-clear sign from his partner, who slammed down the trunk lid. "Can you tell me, sir, why you're parked here so early in the morning?"

"Actually, I'm working on a story. I'm a reporter for the Daily News Daily News and I've got an early appointment to meet a guy here." Nick nodded toward the buildings across the street. "And I usually show up early to, you know, go through the questions I'm gonna ask and stuff." and I've got an early appointment to meet a guy here." Nick nodded toward the buildings across the street. "And I usually show up early to, you know, go through the questions I'm gonna ask and stuff."

"Yeah, OK." Officer One was listening and looking down again at the license. "I was in on that plane crash over at Executive Airport back in August. I was one of the first units responding and you interviewed me.

"Larry Jacobs," Officer One said and stuck out his hand.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Nick said, pretending he recognized the guy, but definitely remembering the crash. A small plane nosedived right after takeoff and went face first through the roof of a car repair shop. The pilot was thrown through the windshield and then the plane engine crushed him right in the center of the repair bay.

"Grisly scene, man," Officer Jacobs said.

"Larry, yo," Nick heard Officer Two say from behind with an impatient tone.

"OK, Mr. Mullins. You'll have to move the car, OK? We've got a cordon going up because the feds are doing some political dog-and-pony show a few blocks down and they're setting up security. OK?"

Nick looked around and said, "Yeah, sure. No problem. Probably why my guy is late. I'll just get him on the cell and, you know, reschedule or something. I didn't realize they were doing anything this far from the convention center."

"Well, they were keeping it under wraps," Jacobs said. "But I'm surprised you wouldn't know." The officer attempted a wink, but Nick's head had already gone elsewhere and he just waved as he got back in his car, took one more look at Walker's empty spot and drove away.

Two blocks away, Nick pulled over and parked in a coffee shop lot that was still empty and stared at his cell phone, thinking. I'm surprised you didn't know? The cops always figure reporters know everything. Not so. But photographers usually do. He dialed Susan's cell number and despite the hour, she picked up on the second ring.

"Hi, it's Susan."

"Well, good morning, early bird," Nick said pleasantly.

"My a.s.s," she grumbled back.

Nick smiled. This was the stuff he'd miss.

"What's up, young lady?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.n early a.s.signment," she said. "But what's up with you, Nick? I heard you cleared out your desk. You get that job down in Miami?"

"No. No. I think I'm getting out of the business," Nick said.

"No s.h.i.t! Good for you, Nicky," she said. "Man, I'm gonna be the oldest one on this beat before long."

"So what's going on this morning?" Nick said, getting to it.

"You know. Some gig that has to do with that OAS thing down at the convention center. It's all that hush-hush stuff. We have to meet them at the center and then they're going to drive us to some secret location to shoot some VIP hand-grab photos."

"Is it the Secretary of State?" Nick said, working.

"I gotta figure. That's the biggest face down here."

"Is it up north of the center? Like, by Tasker Street? 'Cause I got stopped up here by a bunch of security guys doing a sweep."

"Could be, Nick. They're not telling us anything yet," Susan said. "But why are you poking around if you quit?"

Nick didn't answer.