"You said yourself there's a problem with the phone records," I pressed on. "Someone called Noble Cruikshank from Marshall's office on a night Marshall wasn't even there."

"Cruikshank was investigating. Someone could have been snitching."

I could see Gullet didn't want to believe. He'd arrested a man, a physician. He wanted his case to be airtight. I'd urged him to that conclusion. The DA had agreed. Now I was waffling.

"Daniels's full name is Corey Reynolds Daniels, but I'm sure you already know that. What you may not know is that Daniels has an aunt living on Dewees Island. That aunt gave Daniels a boat."

"Having a boat and knowing Dewees doesn't make him a killer."

"Following nursing school, Daniels was employed by a hospital for three years. He didn't always work in a public service clinic."

"Not enough." The chair puffed as Gullet dropped back against the leather.

"He was a surgical nurse. For two years he scrubbed in, watched operations, had plenty of opportunity to learn procedure."

"Handing out instruments is a long way from being a surgeon."

"It wouldn't have taken a surgeon on this end. There was no concern with keeping patients alive. All that was needed was a knowledge of how to remove organs so as to preserve them.

"Think about timing. Daniels arrived back in Charleston in 2000, started working at the clinic in 2001. Willie Helms disappeared in September of 2001."

Seeing the first glimmer of doubt in Gullet's eyes, I hammered home the last nail.

"Cruikshank was downloading articles on organ trafficking. I read quite a few when I was checking his hard drive, but didn't realize the relevance of one in particular. Until now.

"Since 1993 almost four hundred women and girls are known to have been killed in Ciudad Juarez and Chihuahua, Mexico, another seventy have been reported missing. Students, store clerks, assembly plant workers, some as young as ten years. Bodies have been found buried in shallow graves in the desert, and at construction sites and railroad yards around the city.

"In 2003 the Mexican attorney general's office took over several cases. Federal investigators said they had evidence some victims may have been killed by an international organ trafficking ring. One AP article Cruikshank found quoted an organized crime prosecutor as saying a witness had identified an American man as part of that ring."

I drilled Gullet with a look.

"Daniels trained and worked in El Paso, Texas. Ciudad Juarez is directly across the border from El Paso."

"You saying Daniels was involved?"

"I'm saying he could could have been involved. Even if he wasn't involved, he was in El Paso. He'd have heard about the killings. He might have made contacts. Or he might have taken the idea and come here to set up his own franchise." have been involved. Even if he wasn't involved, he was in El Paso. He'd have heard about the killings. He might have made contacts. Or he might have taken the idea and come here to set up his own franchise."

Gullet ran a hand over his jaw.

"Daniels lives on Seabrook and owns a very pricey boat."

"You say he's a Reynolds."

"Which may or may not be relevant. I know, taken alone, none of these facts looks suspicious. Familiarity with Dewees Island. Owning a boat. Access to the GMC clinic and its patients. Surgical training. Presence in El Paso. Expensive lifestyle. Unexplained phone call from Marshall's phone. But added up..." I left the inference unstated.

Gullet's eyes locked onto mine. No one spoke.

The phone broke the silence. One ring. Four. Gullet ignored it.

Some moments indelibly imprint the memory, encrypting sensory input unnoticed in real time. That was such a moment.

I remember a tiny red square blinking on the phone. A voice in the corridor calling someone named Al. Dust particles dancing, sunlight slashing the blinds. A tic jumping the corner of Gullet's right eye.

Seconds passed. A minute. A woman poked her head through the door, the same woman who'd sent Gullet to calm his in-laws, the battling Haeberles.

"Thought you might want to know. Marshall's out. And he just held a press conference. Lawyer did the talking. Marshall worked on a nomination for best performance by a persecuted innocent in a non-speaking role."

Gullet gave a tight nod.

"Tybee thinks he might have something on a pilot."

"Tell him I'll be right there."

I checked the time. Daniels could be leaving town, could be hundreds of miles from Charleston already. The thought of him slipping free sent a chill through my marrow.

"Would you consider picking Daniels up?" I asked.

"For what?"

"Beating his dog. Spitting on the sidewalk. Peeing off the bow of his boat. I don't care. Get him downtown, get warrants, and do the same kind of premises search, auto search, and review of phone records you did on Marshall. You may hit on something."

"Media's on me like a wolf pack on spareribs. Herron's livid over the publicity." Gullet flapped a hand at the phone. "Spent my morning getting reamed by the mayor and the governor. Last thing I need is another shaky arrest."

"At least get warrants to search his house and his boat."

"Authorized on what basis? Suspicion there might be something we missed? I do that, the press will crucify me."

"As a possible aider and abetter. A co-conspirator. Use all the same stuff you used to get the Marshall warrants. Look, I know it's hard to think of Marshall as anything other than a greedy bastard who murdered sick, helpless people."

"You surely did press that point. Now you're defending the man?"

"I'm saying I'm not sure." My throat felt dry. I swallowed. "In the interest of duty you should at least explore the possibility that the killer is Daniels. You should pick him up if you have even the slightest doubt."

"I'm unfamiliar with the legal niceties where you ply your trade, Doc, but that's not how it works here. I can't arrest people over doubts. Besides, I don't have doubts. You do. I think Marshall's guilty as shit." It was the first time I'd heard Gullet use profanity.

"If Daniels is out there he can kill again." It came out more forcefully than I intended.

Gullet's jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. "Kill who? There won't be any more surgeries at that clinic."

"I was thinking of Marshall. He's free. If Daniels offs Marshall the investigation could end. People could assume a friend or relative of a victim took Marshall out, and Daniels walks."

Never taking his eyes from me, Gullet finger-jabbed a phone button. A staticky voice came across the speakerphone.

"Zamzow."

"Marshall left the courthouse?"

"About forty minutes ago."

"What's he doing?"

"He was with a suit. Stopped by an office on Broad, suit stayed behind, now Marshall's heading south on seventeen."

"Probably going home. Stay on him."

"Discretion needed?"

"No. Let him know you're there."

Gullet punched the button and the line went dead.

"You really should get Daniels," I pressed.

"You're right about one thing. What's pointing to Marshall is largely circumstantial. But what you're giving me on Daniels isn't any better." Gullet stood. "Let's see what Tybee's got."

Deputy Tybee was at one of two computers in a second-floor squad room, stacks of printouts spread around the keyboard.

"Whaddaya got?" Gullet asked as we entered the room.

Tybee turned to us, his face more hawklike under fluorescents than it had been outside.

"When the phone dumps on Marshall's home and the clinic were going nowhere, I thought to myself, Where was this guy making contact? A pay phone? What pay phone?" Tybee tapped a finger to his temple. "I dumped the booth on Nassau, checked outgoing calls placed around DLC for the most recent MP." Tybee was an acronym man. Date of last contact. Missing person.

"Jimmie Ray Teal?" I asked.

"Yeah. Teal's DLC was May eighth. Started working the list, checking numbers against names. Fortunately, Nassau isn't the most popular booth in the city. Halfway through, I hit on something.

"May sixth, nine thirty-seven A.M. Someone dialed a cell phone belonging to Jasper Donald Shorter. Call lasted four minutes. The same number was dialed on May ninth at four oh six P.M. Lasted thirty-seven seconds."

"Two days before and one day after Teal's DLC," Gullet said. "You run a check on Shorter?"

"You're going to love this." Tybee shuffled through the printouts. "Shorter has a sheet. Did six years in the air force, was dismissed from service after drugs were found in a package he was shipping to the States from Da Nang. Dismissal of an officer is equivalent to a dishonorable discharge for an enlisted man. Makes future employment a real bear."

Tybee held out a paper.

Gullet and I scanned the contents. The document was a photocopy of Shorter's military record.

Jasper Donald Shorter had been a pilot in Vietnam.

38.

"SHORTER WAS A FLYBOY," GULLET SAID.

"Still is." Tybee dug out another paper. "Owns a Cessna 207, tail number N3378Z."

"Drug-runner favorite," Gullet said.

"Yes, sir," Tybee agreed. "Single-engine. Can fly low and land in a field. But the 207's a poor choice for long-haul stealth flights. Can't go from here to Puerto Vallarta without refueling. And there's another problem. Every plane that flies in the United States has to be registered, and Shorter's tail number would be traceable straight to him. But drug runners often steal planes or purchase them from prior owners, paint over the tail numbers, then stencil on bogus ones."

"Find the plane. If you spot Shorter, stay with him and call me."

"Yes, sir."

Gullet turned to go. I had one last question for Tybee.

"Where does Shorter live?"

"Seabrook."

I felt a buzz of excitement. "Where on Seabrook?"

Tybee typed a few keystrokes and a list came up on the screen.

"Pelican Grove Villas."

The buzz became a rush. I whipped around to Gullet.

"Daniels lives at Pelican Grove Villas."

Gullet stopped, hand on the doorknob.

"Same complex?"

"Yes! Yes! That can't be coincidence. Marshall must be on the level. It's got to be Daniels!"

Something shifted in Gullet's expression. He gave a tight nod. "I'll bring him in."

"I want to go with you," I said.

Gullet regarded me, stone-jawed. "I'll let you know when we've got him."

With that he was gone.

There was nothing to do but go home. And wait.

After walking Boyd, I zapped a frozen dinner and turned on the news. An appropriately concerned anchorwoman was reporting on a fire in a public housing block. Her air became subtly but fittingly shocked when she launched into coverage of the Marshall story. Footage showed the clinic, a younger Marshall, a clip of Herron leading a stadium in prayer, Marshall and Tuckerman leaving the courthouse.