Standing at the elevator door, Nick could feel an electricity in his blood. You're not supposed to get giddy when you're going to talk with a woman whose children were raped and murdered. But he still gave up on waiting for the elevator and took the six flights of stairs to the parking level, two steps at a time.

Nick looked at the address on the page of his notebook one more time and then slowly rolled up Northwest Tenth Avenue. The houses were single-story and all seemed to be painted a dusty color-pale yellow, powder blue-and even the white ones gave off a hue of bone. The yards were mottled with patches of dirt and the green gra.s.s seemed to have been robbed of its chlorophyll. The macadam road surface had been bleached a soft gray by the sun. Nick always wondered at the ability of poor and neglected neighborhoods to dull even the effects of the bright Florida sunshine. Postcard photos were never taken here.

The number he was looking for was not visible on the house where it should have been. He drove past two more before spotting an address painted above a doorway and then put the car in reverse and backed up, subtracting by lot. He pulled into the two-strip concrete drive in front of a dull beige clapboard home that must have been built in the early 1960s. But the roof was newly shingled. There was a potted red geranium on the front step and the porch had been swept clean. When Nick raised his hand to knock, the inside door opened before his knuckles touched wood.

"Good morning, Mr. Mullins," the woman's voice said.

"Ms. Cotton?" Nick said, though he still could only see her dark figure in the shadows of the room.

"Please," she said, pushing open the screen door for him to enter. Nick took note of the thin forearm, mottled as much as the gra.s.s yard, with patches of pink marring the naturally dark skin.

"Thank you, ma'am," Nick said, taking two steps into a darkened living room where the odor of medicine and potpourri battled one another.

When his eyes adjusted he could see the features of Margaria Cotton's face and small figure. They had changed over the years, pulled perhaps by the gravity of grief, as if every bone and every centimeter of skin had been attached to a weight. Her shoulders were slumped, her back, which had been proudly stiff when she sat in the courtroom for Ferris's sentencing, was bowed forward. Her cheekbones were sharp, but in the way of malnutrition versus some role of fashion. Nick, as was his way, preferred to watch her eyes, which still held the intelligence and strength that he had noted three years ago. She did the same, meeting his gaze, not with defiance, but more as a way of showing her confidence and lack of pretension.

"Can I get you something, Mr. Mullins? Coffee? Water?" she said while extending her hand to show him a seat.

"No. Thank you. I'm fine, ma'am."

The woman nodded and took a seat opposite him on a sofa. A low, gla.s.s-topped table separated them. Nick noted the stack of newspapers on one end, the Daily News Daily News and, he could tell by the style of the type, the and, he could tell by the style of the type, the Herald, Herald, and at least one out-of-town publication. and at least one out-of-town publication.

"I was hoping to get in touch with you, Ms. Cotton," he began. "I a.s.sume that you have heard of the shooting death of Mr. Ferris."

"Yes," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Mr. Dempsey called me yesterday. And I read it in the newspapers this morning." She too looked over at the papers.

"I read the news every day, Mr. Mullins. I suppose it isn't always healthy to let all that ugliness inside my house," she said, but did not look around herself when she made the comment. Nick, however, took the opportunity to take in the small wooden cross mounted on the wall behind her. It was flanked by the elementary school photos of what he recognized as her daughters. They were the same photos that his newspaper had used during the coverage of their killing. The same computer-stored photos had run in this morning's edition.

"I know it might sound kind of, you know, sick," she said, bringing his attention back to her eyes. "But there is something about the tragedies of others, Mr. Mullins, that helps remind me that I am not the only one suffering."

Nick nodded his head.

"I am sorry about your children, Ms. Cotton," he said, motioning slightly to the photos behind her with his eyes.

"You were very kind to us in your stories, Mr. Mullins. There was a word my minister used for it, I forget ..." She closed her eyes for a moment, searching. "Compa.s.sion. That was it. He said your writing had compa.s.sion in it."

Again, all Nick could do was nod. He noted the diction in her conversation. A poor black woman, but one who was educated, maybe even well read. She went out of her way to choose her words in the presence of someone like Nick, only letting an occasional slip of slang enter her sentences. It was perhaps an unconscious habit she fell into when she wanted her listener to be comfortable. Nick did the same thing when he was with southerners, slipping into a minor drawl that did not belong to him. His daughters always noticed and would tell him later that he had embarra.s.sed them. He shook off the recollection and reached into his back pocket. He took out the notebook and drew a pen from his shirt, a signal that he was here to work.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cotton. I don't want to sound simple here, but in your position, these years later, I was calling to find out what your reaction to Mr. Ferris's death might be."

The woman went quiet for several moments, but Nick had learned long ago not to give up on any interviewees other than politicians when he could see in their eyes that they were forming an answer to his questions, testing a reply in their mind.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mullins," she finally said. "I guess I wanted to say relief, or maybe some kind of feel of justice. But I can't say I have that. I have long given judgment up to the Lord Himself, and that man is meeting his Maker this very morning on his own terms," she said with a certainty that Nick was always befuddled by with people of faith.

"No, sir, I would have to tell you, Mr. Mullins, that I don't believe that any kind of vision of Mr. Ferris has entered my mind for some time. I believe he was already gone in my mind."

"But you still wanted to see me," Nick said. "Is there something that you wanted to say about the shooting?"

"Only that I was bothered by some things in the newspapers, not yours, of course, that said maybe I or my people might have done something to get revenge for my girls."

"OK," Nick said, without taking his eyes off hers.

"And we did not do anything. I did not," she said, bringing the strength back into her voice that had been there during Ferris's trial.

Nick nodded and wrote on the pad, a nonsensical squiggle that the woman could not see, just to make her know she was being heard.

"Revenge is not in my blood, or my family's blood, Mr. Mullins," she said. "And I cannot think of anyone I know who would have been wanting to kill Mr. Ferris."

"I think the detectives will have to look at any and all possibilities, Ms. Cotton," Nick said. "I would think that's why they want to interview you, ma'am, not because of anything that was put into the newspaper."

He stopped. Wondering why he was defending himself.

"But since I am here, has anyone contacted you, Ms. Cotton? Anyone, say, on the phone? Or anonymously written you, someone who might have sounded like they were doing this on your behalf? You know, like taking action because they felt you deserved closure or something?"

Nick hated even using the word. There was no such thing. Closure. It was a buzzword someone came up with and then it spread like kudzu into the vernacular.

"No, sir," she said, then hesitated, not speaking as she held up the fingers of her right hand, as though stopping time.

"Mr. Dempsey did give me a whole bunch of letters after the trial from folks sending me sympathy," she said after gathering her memories. "Sometimes he still does. I put them all in a box, and I think it's very kind."

"Has he brought you anything recently?" Nick said. The mention of paper piqued his interest. Something written and verified, especially with a postage mark, was manna for a journalist. It was the fuel for a paper trail.

"I can't say I recall the last time," Cotton said. "Might have been in the fall. I am not much for keepin' track of time anymore, Mr. Mullins."

"Any names in the box that were familiar, Ms. Cotton?" Nick pressed, envisioning a list of names, something he could use, something solid he could trace.

"Well, I don't really pay much attention to the names, sir. I read the ones from the mothers mostly," she said and a wistful look came into her face, making Nick feel a twinge of guilt at his grilling. But not too guilty.

"Could I perhaps take a look at the letters, Ms. Cotton? Just sort of go through the names, I mean. I don't want to pry," Nick said, lying. Of course he wanted to pry. It's what reporters did.

"I would have to look up in my closets to find them. I believe that's where I might have stored that box away."

Nick looked at his watch. It was late. They would have to leave soon for her to make her appointment with the detectives. But he didn't know what to ask.

"Ms. Cotton, has anyone related to Mr. Ferris, or even someone who said they knew him, ever come to speak to you or even introduce themselves?"

Nick watched her close her eyes, searching again for a picture of the past.

"His brother," she said, her eyes still closed. Then she opened them. "His brother seen me in the hall outside the court and walked up to me on that day when the jury found him guilty."

"And he talked with you?" Nick said, prodding her.

"He said he was sorry about what happened. I could see it in his eyes, Mr. Mullins, that he was hurtin'."

"You do seem to have that ability, Ms. Cotton," Nick said, making a guess as to why he was here. "To pick up on people's pain."

This time she looked straight into Nick's face, studying it, the creases in his brow, the lines at the corners of his eyes.

"I read about your family, Mr. Mullins. I recognized your name right off and remembered the way you had with your words, that compa.s.sion. It was your wife and daughter, so you know how it is when somebody needs that," she said. "Maybe someone else is going to need that now."

Nick looked down at his open notebook. He had yet to enter a word with any meaning or usefulness in his "exclusive" interview.

"Is that why I'm here, Ms. Cotton?" he finally said, not wanting to look in her eyes, not wanting her to see his. "Is that why you asked to see me? Because of my compa.s.sion?"

He felt her nod more than saw it.

"I read the newspapers a lot, Mr. Mullins," she said. "Sometimes I can feel people in there, in the words. I learned that by readin' what happened to me, to my family. And like I said, you had that feeling in your words before."

"But not now?" Nick said, wanting her to continue.

"I watched the paper to see when you got back to your job. I have seen your stories now and compared them with before. And if you don't mind my saying so, sir ... you changed," she said without taking her eyes off him. "The pain changed you."

Nick stared at her, this small black woman, telling him about his heart with a plain open face that did not show sympathy or judgment, or a.s.sess fault.

"Compa.s.sion," she said. "I believe you are losin' that, Mr. Mullins. And I believe that would be a terrible thing in the end, sir."

Chapter 12.

Nick was still rolling Margaria Cotton's words around in his head when he got back to the office. While he'd been dropping her off in front of the Broward Sheriff's Office, Detective Hargrave and his partner, the big sergeant, had been just getting out of their unmarked Crown Vic. Detectives being what they are, Nick knew they'd check out the driver who was bringing Cotton to see them. Even the stone-faced Hargrave could not cover the look of consternation on his face. The big man had turned around just as they were entering a side door for employees and officers only and given him a sorry shake of his head.

Now, as Nick was making his way to his desk, a sports editor grinned at him and said, "Hi, Nick. How you doing?"

The greeting snapped his concentration at first, and then piled onto Cotton's observation.

"Hey, Stevie. Alright," Nick answered.

Few people in the place bothered to talk to him these days. The sports guy, Steve Bryant, had told him it was because they didn't know what to say after Nick returned to work following the accident. The first few weeks, there were the quiet condolences. He'd nodded, thanked them. But he'd never been a gregarious sort. He'd have an occasional beer with the other reporters after a late shift, would toss a good-natured barb across the desk like the one he'd received from Hirschman about the roof photo. But Steve had confided that if Nick was already intimidating with his intensity before the tragedy, he was downright scary when he'd returned.

Loss of compa.s.sion? Like Ms. Cotton had said? A scene from an old movie flashed into Nick's head. A hard-core mercenary is told during a firefight that he's bleeding. The guy's reb.u.t.tal: I ain't got time to bleed.

When he got to his desk there was a press release lying in the middle, a one-sheet write-up that had been faxed by the Sheriff's Office as it had been to every news organization in three counties. Cameron had given everyone all the updated information that Nick had already put in his story for this morning's edition, including the caliber of the bullet. While his computer was coming up, Nick answered the blinking light on his phone. Three of four messages were from readers who wanted him to know how glad they were that Ferris had been shot, saving them the cost of another trial "for that animal." None left a name. The fourth call was from Cameron. There was a distinct edge in his voice: "Nick. Nice job this morning doing an interview of a witness before the detectives could even get to her. Man, you're gumming this one up, pal."

Cameron paused, maybe for effect, maybe because he didn't want to say what he had to say next.

"Detective Hargrave wants to see you himself this afternoon about four. I'll a.s.sume you'll be here. Believe me, Nick, it might be a once-in-a-lifetime offer. But I'm going to have to be in the room with you, so ease up, eh?"

Nick replayed the message, twice, and then sat back, thinking it through. Hargrave, the wordless one, the man who always turned his back on the media, wanted a sitdown. Did he think Nick had gotten something from Cotton he hadn't? Maybe he thought she knew the people who had worn the pictures of Cotton's girls during the trial. That would sure as h.e.l.l be one of Nick's moves if he was looking for someone with motive. There had been news coverage of the trial. Nick would have to call Matt over at Channel 10 to see if their film was being subpoenaed. But most of those video shots would have been of the front of the courtroom, not of the gallery. Hargrave also would have known from Cameron that Nick hadn't covered the trial. He looked up over the cubicles to see if the court reporter was still at her desk. She might have quoted some of the people who'd worn the b.u.t.tons and had some names and contact numbers. He looked at his watch. It was two o'clock. If the meeting with Hargrave took a while, he'd be pushing deadline later in the day. To be safe he opened up a new screen on his computer and started typing a rough draft of tomorrow's follow-up story, which at this point wouldn't be much different factually from today's, other than planting a quote or two from Ms. Cotton. He could always hope that Hargrave would let loose with something, but he wasn't planning on it.

It took him an hour to bang out 350 decent words that could pa.s.s for a Sat.u.r.day story on its own if it had to. At this point, he'd have to lead with the only fresh thing he had, which was that police were talking with the mother of the slain children in connection with Ferris's killing and the investigation was continuing. Nick knew it was bulls.h.i.t. The investigation was always continuing and most people with half a brain would know that the cops would talk with the girls' mom. But he also knew that if you phrased it just right, the general reading public would skim it, figure it was close enough to news and give themselves something to gab about at dinner with their friends on Sat.u.r.day night: "How 'bout that shooting downtown? The pedophile guy?"

"Yeah, I saw they were talking to the mom of the girls he killed."

"Like she wouldn't have a big smile on her face, eh?"

"Can you believe they were gonna let the guy off?"

"The system is all f.u.c.ked up, you know?"

"I'd of hired somebody to kill him if I was her."

"Yeah?"

"d.a.m.n straight."

When Nick was finished with the draft, he stored it away and turned off the computer. He'd have enough time to stop at the cafe downstairs and grab a cup of coffee and maybe one of those plastic-wrapped sandwiches and he could eat on the way over to the Sheriff's Office. He hadn't bothered to look at the rest of the research files that Lori had sent. Later, if he got back early, he thought. Right now he was already getting cranked up for Hargrave. What the h.e.l.l was the guy going to say? Just chew him out? h.e.l.l, he could take that without a sweat. He hadn't put anything unethical in the story today, and sure as h.e.l.l nothing that was going to stink up the investigation. The dead man's name and the caliber of the bullet? The killer knew the name would come out and the bullet caliber was only good in dismissing some of the nut jobs who would call the cops claiming they'd done the shooting. Oh, yeah? What'd you do him with? A nine-millimeter, you say? Good-bye. Don't call back again. Oh, yeah? What'd you do him with? A nine-millimeter, you say? Good-bye. Don't call back again.

No, whatever Hargrave had in mind would be something more than the simple stuff, Nick thought, trying to prepare. But h.e.l.l with it, he finally whispered to himself, better not to speculate, just let it fall the way it was going to fall.

Nick walked through the front doors of the sheriff's administration building at 3:50 PM PM. As soon as the wash of air-conditioning swept over him he was taking the car keys out of his pocket, fishing the cell phone off his belt, checking to see if he had a pack of gum in his shirt, the foil of which would set off the metal detectors. While he stood in line waiting for his turn to pa.s.s through the security screen, he looked up into the huge ornate rotunda. The building had been constructed a few years ago to replace what had been little more than a retrofitted warehouse south of the city. The entryway soared up several floors to an atrium roof that let in the signature sunshine of South Florida. Nick thought it far too ostentatious for a cop shop. But what the h.e.l.l. Your tax dollars at work.

The deputy on the other side of the electronic gateway nodded as Nick pa.s.sed through without a beep.

"Where are you visiting today, sir?"

"Media relations," Nick said and tipped his head to the left where the doors to Joel Cameron's department were located. He watched for a change in the young officer's face. Did it change when he was told the press was in the house? But the kid just nodded and was already on to the next person pa.s.sing through the hoops of post-9/11 decorum. Nick gathered his stuff from a plastic bowl and moved on.

The receptionist just inside Cameron's office recognized Nick immediately, smiled, asked how he was doing.

"Fine, how are you?" Nick didn't come here often. Most of his work was done out in the streets or by phone. If he was meeting an inside source, it was usually done at a designated lunch spot, Houston's on Federal Highway, Hot Dog Heaven on Sunrise. Nick stole a look down the hall into the office. It had the same setup as the newsroom, a smaller version, but the same fabric-covered separators that made you think you had a s.p.a.ce of your own. Cameron was at the end of the created hallway, heading his way.

"Thanks for being on time, Nick," Cameron said, moving briskly, not offering a hand or a greeting. He was carrying a legal pad and checking his shirt pocket for a pen. Nick noted that the pad was brand-new, nothing yet on the top page.

"The detectives want us to meet them upstairs in a conference room," Cameron said, opening the door to the lobby and holding it for Nick. "We'll have to get you a pa.s.s."

Nick shrugged at Cameron's iciness. The media officer had already told Nick that Hargrave was a hard-a.s.s who never talked to the press, or even Cameron, for that matter. Now he'd been told to bring a seasoned police reporter in for a private meet. Nick knew Joel would not only be nervous about what might be said, but also p.i.s.sed if he had to explain to the rest of the media types who would be howling if word got out of such an exclusive.

While Nick was pa.s.sing his driver's license and newspaper I.D. through the bulletproof gla.s.s at the admittance office, he said, "So, you gonna give me a clue here as to what's going on, Joel?"

"I can't say that I even have a clue," Cameron said, still not looking Nick in the eye. "If Hargrave wanted to leak something to you, Nick, he should've just called you on the phone like the rest of your sources do."

Yeah, Nick thought, Cameron's p.i.s.sed.

When the officers inside the security fishbowl pa.s.sed a temporary I.D. back at Nick, he clipped the badge onto his shirt pocket, listened for the electronic click of the lock on the adjoining door and then followed Cameron into the main offices. They immediately took a right and got onto an escalator rolling up to the second floor. When did they start putting escalators into police headquarters? Nick thought as they rose. The world, my man, has changed.

At the end of a hallway that Nick knew led to the executive offices, Cameron stopped and hesitated at a door just shy of the double entrance to the sheriff's own suite. He carefully knocked twice and then entered, again holding open the door so that Nick would have to walk through first. Nick quickly recognized the room as the conference area where he had once conducted an interview with the sheriff during an election year. Nick had always hated politics, but, as the senior police reporter, it was in his job description to cover the sheriff's race. The only redeeming aspect was that the a.s.signment only had to be done once every four years.