'You promise us? I mean, I don't want to go walking in on some beady-eyed guy holding a Uzi and a pound of crack.'.
'No. Not at all.'
'Is he a suspect?'
She hesitated. What was he? 'Not exactly. Just someone we need to talk to. Could go either way.'
'Okay. We're gonna take your word for it,' said the younger man. 'But I'm not wild about it. What you got on this guy, anyway?'
'Not much.'
'So you're just hoping he'll say something that you can take to the bank, right?'
'That's the idea.'
'Fishing expedition, huh?'
She smiled at the irony. 'Right.'
She could see him look over at his partner for an instant. The officers humphed and drove on. They swept past a cluster of men hanging in front of a small grocery store. She could see the eyes of the inhabitants of the inner-city world following them. No doubts about who we are, she thought. They made us in a microsecond. She tried to focus on the faces on the street, but they blurred together.
'Down here,' said the policeman driving. 'Middle of the block.'
He steered the car into an empty space between a four-year-old cherry-red Cadillac with balloon whitewalls and velour upholstery, and a wreck, stripped of anything worthwhile. A small boy was sitting on the curb next to the Caddy.
'Home sweet home,' said the younger officer. 'How're you gonna play this, Detective?'
'Nice and easy,' she replied. 'Talk to the super first, if there is one. Maybe a neighbor. Then just knock on his door.'
The older policeman shrugged. 'Okay. We'll just stay a step behind you. But when you get inside, you're pretty much on your own.'
Ferguson's building was tired red brick, a half-dozen stories high. Shaeffer took a step toward it, then turned and faced the boy sitting on the curb. He was wearing a glistening white, expensive pair of hightop basketball shoes beneath tattered sweatpants.
'How you doing?' she asked.
The boy shrugged. 'Okay.'
'What're you up to?'
The boy gestured. 'I watch the wheels. You police?'
'You got it.'
'Not from 'round here.'
'No. You know a man named Robert Earl Ferguson?'
'Florida man. You looking for him?'
'Yes. He inside?'
'Don't know. No one sees him much.'
'Why not?'
The boy turned away. 'Guess he's got something. going.'
Shaeffer nodded and walked up the steps to the entranceway, trailed by the two uniformed officers. She checked a bank of mailboxes, finding Ferguson's name scratched on one. She took down the names of some neighbors as well and found a name with the abbreviation 'Supt' written after it. She rang that buzzer and stood next to an intercom. There was no reply.
'It don't work,' said the older officer.
'Nothing like that works down here,' added the younger.
She reached out and pushed on the apartment-house door. It swung open. She felt a momentary embarrassment.
I guess things like locks and buzzers still work down in Florida,' said the older policeman.
The interior of the apartment house was cavelike and dark. The hallways were narrow, scratched with graffiti and smelling vaguely of refuse tinged with urine. The younger policeman must have seen her nose wrinkle in distaste, because he said, 'Hey, this one's a helluva lot better than most.' He gestured. 'You don't see any drunks living in the hallway, do you? That's a big deal, right there.'
She found the super's apartment beneath the stairwell, knocked hard three times and after a moment heard noises from inside. Then a voice. 'Whatcha want?'
She held her badge up to the peephole. 'Police, sir,' she replied.
There was a series of clocking as three or four different locks were unfastened. Finally the door swung open, revealing a thin, middle-aged black man, barefoot beneath work clothes.
'You Mr. Washington? The superintendent?'
He nodded. 'Whatcha want?' he repeated.
'I want to come in out of the hallway,' she said briskly.
He opened the door and let the three of them inside. 'I ain't done nothing.'
Shaeffer glanced about at the threadbare furniture and tattered carpets, then turned toward the super and asked, 'Robert Earl Ferguson. Is he upstairs?'
The man shrugged. 'Maybe. I guess so. I don't pay much attention to comings and goings, you know.'
'Who does?'
'My wife does,' he said, pointing.
She turned and saw a short black woman, as wide as her husband was thin, standing quietly beneath an archway, steadying herself with an aluminum walker.
'Mrs. Washington?'
'That's right.'
'Is Robert Earl Ferguson upstairs?'
'He should be. Ain't gone out today.'
'How would you know?'
The woman struggled forward a step, carefully placing the walker in front of her. Her breath came in rapid, sharp, wheezing gasps.
'I don't move so good. I spends my days over there…' She pointed toward a front window. 'Watching what's going on in this world before I leaves it behind, doing a little knitting, and the such. I get to know pretty much when people come and goes.'
'And Ferguson, does he have a schedule? Is he regular?'
She nodded. Shaeffer took out a notepad and made some notations. 'Where's he go?'
'Well, I don't know for sure, but he's usually carrying some of those college books in a bag. Like a knapsack kinda bag. Put it on your back like you're gonna be in the army or take a hike or something. He goes out in the afternoons. Don't see him come back till late at night. Sometimes he goes off with a little suitcase. Don't come back for a couple of days. I guess he travels some.'
'You're still there, late? Watching?'
'Don't sleep too good, neither. Don't walk too good. Don't breathe too good. Don't do nothing too good now.'
Andrea Shaeffer felt excitement quickening. 'How's your memory?' she asked.
'Memory ain't limping around, that what you mean. Memory's fine. Whatcha need to know?'
'A week to ten days ago. Did Ferguson go out of town? Did you see him with that suitcase? Was he gone for a day or two? Anything unusual. Anything out of the routine?'
The woman thought hard. Shaeffer watched her mentally sorting through all the
