Miami, It's Murder by Edna Buchanan Page B

to watch out for you or catch you if you take a tumble.”
    I smiled. Dan gave no impression of impending doom or helpless resignation; in fact, his speech and even his controlled movements exuded a crisper, harder-edged vitality. “You know the secret of being a successful wing walker?” I asked. “I interviewed one once.”
    â€œDon’t look down?”
    â€œNope, the secret is you never let go of anything until you have a firm grip on something else.”
    â€œAlways sound advice,” he said.
    â€œYou know, you never told me why you became a cop way back a hundred years ago.”
    â€œSame reason you’re a reporter. Too lazy to work and too chicken-hearted to steal.” He grinned, baiting me.
    â€œNo, seriously.”
    â€œOkay. I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t dance—”
    â€œCome on,” I coaxed. I parked my chin in my palm and my elbow on the table. “You were the little boy who always wanted to grow up to be a policeman, right? Is that what made you do it?”
    â€œThe truth is that in those days they brought truck-loads of country boys down from Georgia. They’d throw ’em all into a rock pit and then lower a ladder. The ones who climbed out became firemen, the rest, cops.”
    â€œI always thought the ones who broke up the ladder and started clubbing each other over the head became cops.”
    We were still laughing when the waitress brought our meals. “Looks good enough to eat,” Dan told her.
    To me, he said, “You see the candidate’s literature and all his commercials?” His eyes burned with old outrage. “They’re everywhere: newspapers, radio, TV.” He stared into his glass and shook his head. “Too much.”
    He ordered another drink and raised speculative eyes to me. “Think he’ll make it?”
    â€œMore astute observers of the political scene than I am seem to think so. Chances are the paper will endorse him.”
    â€œHow the hell could they?” His voice was sharp.
    â€œHe did all right, never stole a freight train or stepped into big trouble on the city commission. The editorial board feels he did a fine job.”
    â€œChrist. That man just can’t be governor of this state.”
    â€œYou and I are not gonna vote for him. But that probably won’t stop him.”
    Dan put down his fork and toyed with his drink. “I’ll never forget the day we found Mary Beth Rafferty.”
    He was slightly slurring his words. I wished he hadn’t ordered that other drink and was vaguely concerned about his mixing scotch with all his medication.
    â€œWe were searching the whole south end for her, about to call in firemen to help. Then the Fielding kid shows up on his bike, all sweaty and nervous. Says he found a body.” He paused. “It was at what they now call Kennedy Park, at the foot of Kirk where it goes into the water.”
    I nodded. “It’s a high rise now. The Sea Breeze.”
    â€œIt was all landfill then, logs, dirt, the crap you fill a lot with. Near the water the fill was mighty thin. Mangroves all over the place. We found her draped upside down, her back over a mangrove. Her head and her feet were hanging. No clothes on, a rag hanging out of her mouth. She was dead. Eight years old. I felt bad.” He lit another cigarette, taking a deep drag. “I had a daughter.” He looked out across the darkened room. “Mary Beth Rafferty was a very pretty little girl.”
    â€œI know,” I said gently. “The ones involving children are always the hardest.”
    He picked up his knife as though it were a weapon. “What really pisses me off is that when he first started into politics, I personally”—he sliced savagely into his prime rib, pink juice oozing—“went to his backers and warned them they would be supporting a homicide suspect as a candidate for public office. You know the only