She touched the scar by her eye a second time.
Two scars, she thought. One outside, one inside.
She continued north toward Miami. a receptionist outside the newsroom of the Miami
Journal informed her that Matthew Cowart was not in the office. Surprise flooded her, followed swiftly by a quickening of excitement. He's looking for something, she thought. He's after somebody. She asked to see the city editor, while she sorted through her suspicions. The receptionist spoke briefly on the telephone, then motioned her toward a couch, where she waited nervously. Twenty minutes passed before the city editor emerged from between the double doors to see her.
'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,' he said quickly. 'We were in the news conference and I couldn't get out.'
'I would like to talk with Cowart again,' she said, trying to remove all the surprise and anticipation from her voice.
'I thought you got a statement the other day.' 'Not completely.'
'No?' He shrugged as if to say he had no sympathy for lost opportunities.
'A few things perhaps he can straighten out.' 'I'm sorry, but he's not here,' the city editor said. He frowned widely. 'Perhaps I can help you?'
She recognized how insincere this offer was. 'Well' she said with mildly false enthusiasm, 'I just can't get it straight in my head how Sullivan made his contacts and set up his arrangements…' She waved a hand to cut off a question from the city editor. '… I know, I mean, I'm not sure what Mr. Cowart can add, but I still just don't have a feel for all this and was hoping he could help.'
She thought this sounded safe enough. She suspected a softening in the city editor's tones.
'Well, hell,' he said, 'I think everyone's trying to understand the same damn thing.'
She laughed. 'It's quite a situation, isn't it?'
He nodded, smiling but still wary. 'I think he's filled you in as best as he can. But…'
'Well,' she replied slowly, 'perhaps now that he's had some time to reflect on what he heard, he can remember something else. You'd be surprised what folks can remember after they've had some time to think about it.'
The city editor smiled. 'I wouldn't be surprised at all. What people remember about things is our trade, too.' He shuffled his feet a bit and ran a hand through his thinning hair. 'He's off on a story.'
'So, where's he gone?'
The city editor hesitated before replying. 'North Florida.'
He looked for an instant as if the act of actually giving out a piece of information would make him ill.
Shaeffer smiled. 'Big place, North Florida.'
The city editor shrugged. 'This story has only happened in two places. You know that. At the prison in Starke and a little town called Pachoula. I shouldn't have to spell that out for you. Now, I'm sorry, Detective Shaeffer, but I have to get back to work.'
'Can you tell Cowart I need to talk with him?'
'I'll tell him. Can't promise anything. Where will you be?'
'Looking for him' she said.
She got up as if to leave, then thought of one other thing. 'Can I take a look at Cowart's original stories?'
The city editor paused, thinking, then gestured toward the newspaper library. 'They'll help you there,' he said. 'If there's any problem, have them contact me.'
She stood at a desk, flipping through a huge bound volume of copies of the Miami Journal. For an instant, she was struck by the wealth of disaster the newspaper documented, then she came upon the Sunday edition with Matthew Cowart's initial story about the murder of Joanie Shriver. She read through it carefully, making notations, taking down names and dates.
As she rode the elevator down to the main entrance, she tried to settle all the thoughts that swept about within her. The elevator oozed to a halt on the ground floor, and she started to walk from the building, only to stop abruptly in the center of the lobby.
This story has only happened in two places, the editor had said. She thought about the box that Cowart was in. What brings him to Blair Sullivan? she thought.
The murder of a little girl in Pachoula. What's at the core of that crime?
Robert Earl Ferguson.
Who links Sullivan to Cowart?
Robert Earl Ferguson.
What props up his prize?
Robert Earl Ferguson.
She turned on her heel and walked back into the corner of the Journal lobby, where there was a bank of pay telephones. She checked her notes and dialed directory information in Pensacola. Then she dialed the number that the electronic voice had given her.
After dealing with a secretary, she heard the attorney's voice come on the line.
'Roy Black here. How can I help you, miss?'
Mr. Black,' she said, 'this is Andrea Shaeffer. I'm at the Miami Journal…' She smiled, enjoying her minor deception. 'We need to get a hold of Mr. Cowart, and he's gone to Pachoula, to see your client. It's important to run him down, and no one seems to have a number here. I wonder if you could help me on that. Really sorry to bother you…'
'No problem at all, miss. But Bobby Earl's left Pachoula. He's back up in Newark, New Jersey. I don't know why Mr. Cowart would go back to Pachoula.'
'Oh,' she said, layering her voice with disingenuous surprise and false helplessness. 'He's working on a follow-up after Blair Sullivan's execution. Do you think Mr. Cowart will go up there instead? He was very vague about his itinerary and it's important we track him down. Do you have an address? I hate to bother you, but no one can find Mr. Cowart's Rolodex.'
'I don't like giving out addresses,' the attorney said reluctantly.
'Oh,' she continued breezily, 'that's right. I guess not. Oh, boy, how'm I gonna find him now? My boss is gonna have my head for sure. Do you know how I could trace him up north?'
The attorney hesitated. 'Ahh, hell,' he said finally. 'I'll get it for you. Just got to promise you won't give it out to any other news outlets or anybody else. Mr. Ferguson is trying to put all this behind him, you know. Get on with things.'
'Boy, would you? I promise. I can see that,' she said with phony enthusiasm.
'Hang on,' said the attorney. 'I'm looking it up.'
She waited patiently, eagerly. The meager falsehoods and playacting had come easily to her. She wondered whether she could catch the next flight north. She was not precisely sure what she would do with Ferguson when she found him, but she was certain of one thing: the answers to all her questions were hovering about somewhere very close to that man. She envisioned his eyes as they stared out at her from the pages of the newspaper. The innocent man.
17. Newark
The plane dipped down beneath a thin cover of cloud on its final approach into the airport, and she could see the city, rising in the distance like so many children's blocks tossed into a pile. A flaccid early-spring sun illuminated the jumble of tall, rectangular office buildings. Staring through the window, she felt a damp April chill and had a momentary longing for the unequivocal heat of the Keys. Then she thrust everything
