LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER 1

      The Christmas lights were already up. He had the top down on the Mustang and he could see them as he drove up, a cluster of small white lights that someone had strung on the coconut palm in his yard. A stiff breeze was blowing in from the gulf, moving the fronds and sending the lights bobbing and dancing like fireflies on a hot summer night.

      Louis Kincaid turned off the engine and just sat there, looking at the lights.

      Fireflies. July Fourth. Michigan.

      But there were no fireflies here. It was November, not July. And he was in South Florida.

      His mind was playing tricks on him.

      He reached over and popped the glove box, pulling out his Glock. Grabbing his overnight bag, he got out and headed to the cottage.

      Maybe he was just tired. The job up in Tampa had been dull and drawn out. Surveillance of a woman who was suing a big trucking company because a semi had clipped her Honda and left her “permanently disabled and in extreme mental stress.” He had spent four days tailing her with a video camera, finally getting a shot of her banging her car floor mats against the fender of her car—after she had come home from the beauty salon. The film was played in court. The woman got two grand for medical bills. He got five grand for his pay. Good money for a P.I., he supposed. At least it was enough to keep him in grouper sandwiches at Timmy’s Nook for the next few months.

      The mailbox was stuffed. He dug out the fliers and envelopes and opened the door.

      “Honey, I’m home,” he said, throwing down his bag.

      Issy came trotting out of the bedroom. The cat looked up at him, its tail swishing on the terrazzo.

      “Okay, okay,” he said with a sigh.

      He headed to the kitchen, tossing the stack of mail on the counter. He shook a bag of Tender Vittles into the bowl on the floor. The other bowl was filled with clean water. At least his weasel landlord Pierre had been taking care of things like he promised. He had half expected to come home and see a cat carcass lying on the floor.

      He pulled open the fridge. One Heineken and a carton of Chinese takeout probably left over from the Ice Age. He stood there for a moment, letting the cold air wash over his sweaty face, then grabbed the beer and closed the fridge.

      There was one lamp on in the living room, but the small cottage seemed dark and stale from being closed up. He went to the TV and punched the remote, unleashing a rainbow of light and sitcom laughter into the shadows. Finally, after a moment, he muted the sound and tossed the remote aside.

      He cranked open the jalousie windows, and the warm gulf breeze wafted in. He stood there, breathing in the salt and night-blooming jasmine, holding the cold beer bottle against his forehead.

      He still wasn’t used to it—even after three years of living in Florida. September would come and he would be waiting for that cool kiss in the air, yet the temperature stayed in the nineties. October would come and he would be expecting the first frost on the windows, but there was nothing but the cloud of humidity. And then came November, when the trees should have been turning brown and gaunt. But here . . . here in Florida, everything was green and lush and sultry.

      He hated the holidays. Thanksgiving and Christmas. Back-to-back reasons to give in to that small but powerful part of him that wanted to slide into silence and solitude.

      His eyes drifted to the answering machine on the counter. The red light was blinking. Ten messages. He rewound the tape.

      The first one was a time-share come-on. Three hang-ups. A man wanting to hire him to spy on his “whore wife.” Two more hang-ups. Then a familiar voice with its unmistakable Mississippi drawl.

      “Oh! My . . . a machine! I didn’t know you finally got one. Oh dear . . . how much time do I have? Louis, this is Margaret.”

      Louis took a drink of beer.

      “I’m calling to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner. We’re fixing to have a real feast this year—I’m making my sweet potato pie—and I know you don’t have any family to go to—”

      Louis could hear Sam Dodie yelling in the background, telling his wife what to say. She hung up, forgetting to leave a number. But Louis knew the Dodies’ number by heart; he had spent many an evening at their table, eating Margaret’s cooking, listening to Sam’s war stories. Now that his ex-boss had retired to Florida, Sam Dodie’s need to talk about his years spent as a Mississippi sheriff seemed to grow. It was either listen to it or go fishing.

      The next voice came on, the thin soft voice of a boy.

      “Hi, Louis. It’s me. I guess you’re not home yet.”

      Louis

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