Ghosts & Echoes

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Thanks to all the people who helped make this book a pleasure to write—long-suffering friends in Miami who helped bring me up-to-date with the city one picture at a time; writing compatriots who took the time to read more than one draft; Caitlin Blasdell, my ever-helpful agent; and Anne Sowards, at Ace, for her advice and support.

JUST BEFORE 2 P.M., SOUTH BEACH TRAFFIC WAS AS SLOW AS IT EVER got. The sidewalks were white-hot under the June sun, and the only people walking about were red-shouldered, red-nosed tourists going puffy in the heat. The glass storefronts gave back reflections of sunlight, and the palm fronds shivered, seeking a breeze.

Sylvie idled her battered truck, waiting for a cluster of bathing-suit-clad students to pass in front of her. Once they ambled on by, Sylvie pulled into the alley between her office and Frankie’s Bar.

She let the truck engine hum and rattle for a moment—two o’clock. She could get away with not going into work, decide it was too late to make it worthwhile, and go home. What was one more day off tacked on to a month of days?

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