An Unquiet Grave
Chapter One
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
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