He took a sip from the crystal flute that Tarla handed him. The champagne was superb: dry and effervescent. Diane could afford the best, and it didn’t hurt to make the media people a little drunk while they asked their questions.

‘Do you know why they call Florida the Sunshine State?’ Tarla asked, with a wicked little arch of her blond eyebrows.

‘Why?’

‘Because “Waiting to Die” looked like crap on the license plates.’

Cab rolled his cornflower-blue eyes. ‘Do you really want to be making jokes like that when your best friend is running for governor? The eighty-five million senior citizens around here might not appreciate your sense of humor the way I do.’

‘I’m practically a senior citizen myself, darling.’

‘Please,’ Cab told her. ‘You’re fifty-five, and you look like Naomi Watts.’

‘Well, aren’t you sweet.’

He wasn’t lying. Tarla had retired from the movie business several years earlier, but she still looked like a Hollywood star. In truth, so did he. Anyone could see they were mother and son: matching eyes, matching sun-bleached blond hair, both with sharp, angular faces. Cab was six-foot-six with a long neck that emphasized his height. He had a gangly walk, not always graceful but easy to remember. He kept his short hair gelled, making spikes that sometimes resembled a sea urchin’s shell. His nose was shaped like a ski jump, and he had a baby-smooth complexion that always looked as if he’d just shaved. He wore a one-carat diamond in his left earlobe, and he was particular about his tailored suits even on the most humid Florida day.

He could blend in on Rodeo Drive or South Beach, but he didn’t really fit in at most crime scenes. That didn’t bother him. If people wanted to underestimate him because of his looks, it made his job easier. The trouble was, he knew that he really didn’t belong in the police world, as many of his colleagues regularly reminded him. He wasn’t sure if he belonged anywhere. At thirty-five, he was still figuring out what he wanted to be when he grew up.

‘I appreciate your being my date tonight,’ Tarla said.

Cab grinned. ‘I wouldn’t miss it. Politicians and reporters are my two favorite kinds of people after serial killers.’

‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Cab.’

‘And yet I stick with it,’ he replied.

‘It’s only two and a half hours from Naples to Tampa. Not such a long drive.’

‘More like two in the Corvette,’ he admitted.

‘Well, see? I don’t feel guilty. Unless I’m stealing you away from a romantic weekend with Wawa.’

‘It’s Lala,’ Cab said, ‘and you’re not.’

‘Ah.’ Tarla sipped her champagne and fixed her son with knowing eyes. Her blond hair, which had never sported a gray root in her entire life, tumbled around her shoulders in curls that were casually messy. ‘Everything still rosy there?’ she asked.