'Police.'
The word hung in the air in front of her, echoing in the small space. A few seconds passed.
'What do you want?'
'To ask you some questions. Open the door.'
'What sort of questions?'
She could sense the man's presence just inches away, hidden by the slab of brown wood. 'Open the door.'
The two officers stiffened behind her, and each stepped back slightly, out of the direct line. She rapped again on the door.
'Police,' she repeated. She did not know what she would do if he refused to open.
'All right.'
She had no time to feel relief. She thought she heard a catch in his voice, a small hesitation, like the reluctance of a child caught doing something improper. Perhaps, she thought, he'd turned away just before speaking, letting his eyes quickly survey his apartment, trying to guess what it was that she might see. Evidence? Evidence of what?
There was a sound of dead bolts being thrown and chain locks being removed, and then the door swung open slightly. Andrea Shaeffer stared at Robert Earl Ferguson. He was wearing jeans and sneakers and a baggy, faded maroon sweatshirt that draped around his shoulders, several sizes too large, obscuring his true shape. His hair was cropped close, he was clean-shaven. She almost stepped back in surprise; the force of the man's anger struck her like a blow. His eyes were fierce, penetrating. They severed the space between them.
'What do you want?' he asked. 'I haven't done anything.'
'I want to speak with you.'
'You got a badge?' he demanded.
She held up her shield for him to inspect.
'Monroe County? Florida?'
'That's right. My name's Shaeffer. I work homicide.'
For a moment she thought she saw uncertainty course through Ferguson's face, as if he were trying hard to remember something elusive.
'That's down below Dade, right? Below the edge of the 'Glades?'
'Right.'
'What do you need me for?'
'May I step inside?'
'Not until you tell me why you're here.'
Ferguson seemed to look her over in the silence that swept over them. She realized they were almost the same height and that his slight build seemed hardly more substantial than her own. But he was also the sort of man to whom size and strength were irrelevant.
'You're a long ways from home,' he said.
He turned and glared at the two officers hanging just behind her shoulder. 'What about them?'
'They're local.'
'Scared to come down here alone?' His eyes narrowed unpleasantly. The two backup officers stepped forward, closing the gap between them. Ferguson remained in the doorway, folding his arms in front of his chest.
'No,' she replied immediately, but the word only prompted a small grin that raced away rapidly.
'I haven't done anything,' he repeated, but with a flat tonality, like a lawyer saying something for a transcript.
'I didn't say you had.'
Ferguson smiled. 'But you wouldn't come all the way from Monroe County, all the way up here to this delightful place just to see me if you didn't have a good reason, right?' He stepped back. 'All right. You can come in. Ask your questions. Got nothing to hide.'
This last sentence was spoken loudly and directed at the two New Jersey policemen.
She stepped forward into the apartment. As soon as she was past him, Ferguson moved between her and the two backup officers, blocking their route.
I didn't invite you two goons,' he said abruptly. 'Just her. Unless you got a warrant.'
Shaeffer turned in surprise. She saw both Newark policemen bristle instantly. Like all cops, they were unaccustomed to getting orders from civilians.
'Move out of the way,' the older policeman said.
'Forget it. She has a question. She can come in and ask it.'
The younger officer moved to put his hand on Ferguson's chest, as if to thrust him aside, then seemed to think better of it. Shaeffer blurted out, 'It's all right. I can handle this.'
The two policemen wavered.
'It's not procedure,' the older one said to her. He turned to Ferguson. 'You want to push me, punk?'
Ferguson didn't move.
Shaeffer made a small, sweeping gesture with her hand. There was a momentary pause, then the two backup officers stepped back into the hallway.
'All right, the older one said. 'We'll wait here.' He turned toward Ferguson. 'I've got a good memory for faces, asshole,' he whispered. 'And yours just made my list.'
Ferguson sneered at the man. 'And you've made mine,' he said.
He started to close the door, only to have the younger officer shoot an arm out, stiff-arm like a football player, and say, 'This stays open, huh? No trouble that way.'
Ferguson's hand dropped away from the door. 'If that's the way you like it.' He turned and led Shaeffer into the apartment. As he walked, he said, 'I've seen them before. Just like half the COs on Death Row. Think they got to be tough. Don't know what tough really is.'
'What is tough, Mr. Ferguson?'
'Tough is knowing a time and date. Knowing you're perfectly healthy but society has delivered to you a terminal illness. Tough is knowing every breath draws you one breath closer to the last one.'
He stopped in the center of a small living room. 'But what about you, Detective? You think you're tough, too?'
'When I have to be,' she replied.
He didn't laugh but stared at her with a mixture of distrust and mockery. 'Have a seat,' he said. Ferguson slid onto the corner of a well-worn couch.
'Thanks,' she replied. But she didn't sit. Instead, she started to walk slowly around the room, inspecting, at the same time keeping an eye on him. It was something she'd been taught. Keep to her feet while the subject sits. It will make almost anyone nervous and makes the questioner seem more powerful. His eyes trailed her closely.
'Looking for something?'
'No.'
'Then tell me what you want.'
She went to a window and glanced out. She could see the pimp's red car and up and down the block, which was empty of life.
'Not much to look at,' she said. 'Why would anyone live here? Especially if they didn't have to.'
He did not answer her question.