'What other information?'
'Forget it.'
There was another pause in the room while each person sorted out what they'd heard. Tanny Brown spoke slowly.
'But,' he said carefully, 'something else. Right? If Ferguson isn't your suspect, and he has no information to help your investigation, you should be on an airplane heading south. You wouldn't be sitting around here, you'd be down with your partner. You could have checked out Ferguson's class schedule by telephone, but instead you went and saw some people in person. Why is that, Detective? And when you open your door you've got a nine-millimeter in your hand and your bags aren't packed. So why?' She shook her head.
'I'll tell you why,' Brown said quietly. 'Because you know something's wrong, and you can't say what.'
Shaeffer looked across at him and nodded. 'Well,' Brown said, 'that's why we're here, too.'
Dawn light streaked the street outside Ferguson's apartment, barely illuminating the wedge of gray clouds that hovered over the city, poised for more rain.
Shaeffer and Wilcox pulled one car to the curb at the north end of the street, while Brown stopped at the southern end. Cowart checked his tape recorder and his notebook, patted his jacket pocket to make certain pat his pens were still there, and turned toward the policeman.
Back in the motel room, Shaeffer had turned brusquely to them and said, 'So. What's the plan?'
The plan,' Cowart had said softly, 'is to give him something to worry about, maybe flush him out of his cover, do something that we can follow up on. We want to make him think that things aren't as safe as he supposes. Give him something to worry about,' he repeated, smiling wanly. 'And that's me.'
Now, out in the car, he tried to make a joke. 'In the movies, they'd have me wear a wire. We'd have a code word I could say that would signal I needed help.'
'Would you wear one?'
'No.'
I didn't think so. So we don't need a code word.'
Cowart smiled, but only because he could think of nothing else to do.
'Nervous?' Brown asked.
'Do I act it?' Cowart replied. 'Don't answer that.'
'He won't do anything.'
'Sure.'
'He can't.'
Cowart smiled again. 'I kinda feel like an old lion tamer who happens to be taking a stroll through the jungle, and he runs across some former charge that he maybe used a whip and chair on a bit too much. And he looks down at that old lion and realizes that they're not in his circus cage anymore, but on the lion's turf. Get the picture?'
Brown smiled. 'All he's going to do is growl.'
'Bark is worse than his bite, huh?'
'I guess, but that's dogs, not lions.'
Cowart opened the car door. 'Too many mixed metaphors here, he said. 'I'll see you in a few minutes.'
The cool, damp air curling above the dirty sidewalk slapped him in the face. He walked swiftly down the block, passing a pair of men asleep in an abandoned doorway, a huddled mass of gray, brown tattered clothing, nestled together to ward off the cold night. The men stirred as he walked near them, then slipped back into early-morning oblivion. Cowart could hear a few street noises a block or two away, the deep grumble-whine of diesel bus engines, the start of morning traffic.
He turned and faced the apartment building. For a moment, he wavered on the stoop, then he stepped within the dark entranceway and rapidly climbed the stairs to the front of Ferguson's apartment. He'll be asleep, the reporter told himself, and he'll awaken to confusion and doubt. That was the design behind the early-morning visit. These hours, between night and day, were the most unsettling, the transition time when people were weakest.
He took a deep breath and pounded hard on the door. Then he waited. He could hear no sound from within, so he pounded hard again. Another few seconds passed, then he heard footsteps hurrying toward the door. He bashed his fist against the door a third and fourth time.
Dead bolt locks started to click. A chain was loosened. The door swung open.
Ferguson stared out at him. 'Mr. Cowart.'
Killer, Cowart thought, but instead, he said, 'Hello, Bobby Earl.'
Ferguson rubbed a hand across his face, then smiled. 'I should have figured you would show up.'
I'm here now.'
'What do you want?'
'Same thing as always. Got questions that need answers.'
Ferguson held the door wide for him and he stepped inside the apartment. They moved into the small living room, where Cowart rapidly peered about, trying to take it all in.
'You want coffee, Mr. Cowart? I have some made,' Ferguson said. He gestured toward a seat on the couch. 'I have some coffee cake. You want a slice?'
'No.'
'Well, you don't mind if I help myself, do you?'
'Go ahead.'
Ferguson disappeared into the small kitchen, then returned, carrying a steaming coffee cup and a tin plate with a coffee cake on it. Cowart had already set up his tape recorder on a small table. Ferguson put the coffee cake next to it, then carved a piece off the end. Cowart saw that he used a gleaming steel hunting knife to cut the cake. It had a six-inch blade with a serrated edge on one side and a grip handle. Ferguson put the knife down and popped the cake into his mouth.
'Not exactly kitchen equipment,' Cowart said.
Ferguson shrugged. 'I keep this handy. Had some break-ins. You know, addicts looking for an easy score. This isn't the best neighborhood. Or maybe you didn't notice.'
'I noticed.'
'Need a little extra protection.'
'Ever use that knife for something else?'
Ferguson smiled. Cowart had the impression that he was being teased the way a younger child will tease an older sibling mercilessly, knowing that the parents will side with him. 'Now, what else could I use this for, save cutting an occasional piece of bread and slicing off some piece of rind?' he replied.
Ferguson took a sip of coffee. 'So. Early-morning visit. Got questions. Come alone?' He stood up, went to the window, and peered up and down the street.
'I'm alone.'
Ferguson hesitated, staring hard for an instant or two in the direction where Brown had parked his car, then turned back to the reporter.
'Sure.'
He sat back down. 'All right, Mr. Cowart. What brings you here?'
'Have you spoken with your grandmother?'
'Haven't spoken to anyone from Pachoula in months. She doesn't have a telephone. Neither do I.'
Cowart glanced around but couldn't see a phone. 'I went to see her.'
'Well, that was nice of you.'
'I went to see her because Blair Sullivan told me to go look for something there.'
'Told you when?'
