Now it was past midnight and I was sitting out on my porch reading a new biography Billy had loaned me on John Adams. The old fart was fascinating, innovative, maybe damn brilliant, but he was also ambitious and I am not a fan of ambitious. I'd moved a free- standing lamp with an old yellowed shade outside and run the cord through one of the jalousie windows. In between pages I was staring out at the black ocean. A night breeze had come up and the brush of waves on the sand had turned to a harder, ripping sound, like fine cloth being torn. The sharp scent of decay that came with low tide was in each breath and it created an odd mixture with the aroma of my fourth cup of coffee. My eyes were closed when the chirp of my cell phone snapped them open. I punched it on with my thumb.

"Yeah."

"Yeah?" she said. "Well, your phone etiquette hasn't changed, Freeman."

"What can I say? Evolution is a creeping process."

"Let me guess. You're reading with your feet up on that old gouged-up table and you're still working on the last pot of coffee for the night."

"You're a psychic," I said.

"You're a dinosaur."

"Thank you."

Her voice was warm and light. I was relieved, but a little set back by her ability to call after months and be so damned giddy.

"Actually, I'm not out at the shack. I'm in town on the beach."

"Billy's?"

"Sort of. It's a little oceanfront place he keeps to hide clients when they're trying to avoid subpoenas and officers of the court."

"Sounds perfect for you, Max," she said, and we both let that sit for a quiet beat.

"So, you're close by. How busy are you?" she said, her voice shifting up into a tighter, business mode. OK, it was not a social call.

"Busier than I have a right to be, but just finishing up a job with Billy. What's up?"

"I've got a case I'm working on, Max," she started. "The disappearance of some women bartenders here in Broward."