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victims.”
    The sheriff cracked the window to release the cigarette smoke. “You do seem to care more than most. I could tell from your questions that you were hoping poor old Gerty had died before that monster started ripping out her tongue.”
    “That wasn’t just compassion. I read the transcript you faxed me of that phone call—the so-called confession.
    Toward the end he said he wasn’t through with her until a couple of days after he killed her. That’s one of the things that was so intriguing to the FBI profilers. That he would actually have the bravado to call the sheriff’s office in the first place was a sign that he was beginning to thrive on the attention. But beyond that, we thought this might be the first case where he did something to the victim after the killing. Postmortem mutilation would change the profile considerably. But that’s not the way it happened, according to your Dr. Ackerman. The killer attempted to extract the tongue at or near the time of death, just like the other cases.”
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    “But why did he stop in this case, before the tongue was all the way out? You think somebody scared him off?”
    “No. I think he stopped because she died of a heart attack. It tells me this psycho has no use for a dead victim.
    His signature isn’t ripping out people’s tongues, dead or alive. His signature is torture.”
    Dutton felt his mouth go dry. “Okay, you say the perp has no use for dead victims, but I’ve got the guy on tape saying he waited two days to call and tell us about the murder because he wasn’t through with the body yet.
    Where does that leave us?”
    “I’d say it leaves two possibilities. One, the caller is the killer, but he’s throwing red herrings into his story about postcrime behavior, intentionally trying to mislead us.
    Or two, he’s not the killer at all—but for some crazy reason, he wants us to think he is.”
    “Why would anyone want that?”
    She sighed and shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. One thing’s for sure, though. That phone call and the tape recording have to remain absolutely confidential. The last thing this investigation needs is nationwide media coverage of a phone call that may have been designed to get everyone looking for the wrong guy.”
    “Don’t worry. That’s one good thing about a small department. No leaks.”
    “I certainly hope so,” she muttered under her breath, knowing there was no such thing as a police department without leaks.
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    Chapter 5
    m ike sped along the coastline on Bayshore Drive, toward the cluster of bare sailboat masts that projected like a wintry forest from Coconut Grove Marina.
    He reached the Yacht Harbor condominium just after three o’clock and took the elevator straight up to Zack’s twentieth-floor suite.
    Although a knee injury had ended Zack’s NBA career as a rookie, a huge signing bonus made a second career unnecessary. After Mike helped get him a brief stint as a Tribune sportswriter, he quit to pursue his passion—flying.
    He bought a fleet of seaplanes that took legitimate busi-nessmen from Miami to Palm Beach or Key West and back. Sometimes he’d just take tourists up for the view.
    The best feeling, though, was when he went up alone, zipping along the coast over turquoise reefs or due west over the wavy brown saw grass that blanketed the Everglades—a near seven-footer imagining what it would be like to be seven hundred feet tall.
    The view from Zack’s penthouse was just as spectacular, 41
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    with a wall of windows and wraparound balcony overlooking Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. Inside were mirrored walls, polished floors of Brazilian marble, and modern Italian furniture that looked so uncomfortable it had to be expensive.
    “It’s in your room,” said Zack, directing Mike as he breezed through the dining room.
    Mike had been living in the guest bedroom for the past two months, ever since Karen suggested he take an apartment. At the