The man's name was Hank Turner. Handsome, tall and well built. He paced the floor like a mountain cat who had felt the freedom of living in paradise and now, for the first time, was caged, held ready to be shipped to some unknown zoo.

He ran a large hand through the crop of curly red hair that hadn't been combed for hours. Several ugly bruises marked his face, but he hardly noticed them any more.

His mind was seething, tormented almost beyond sanity.

Everything will be all right, he kept telling himself over and over. This was merely a routine investigation, and the killing had been accidental.

But even then, Mr. Hank Turner--Where was it going to get you? He thought in anguish.

It was merely a routine arrest, until the police could establish one way or another, where the guilt lay for the death of Garcia Flynn. The fact that Hank had killed the man was self-evident. Nobody denied that. The fact that it had been justified was something completely different. The only witnesses were two beautiful women. One was dead; the other couldn't be found. And until they found her, they only had his word about what happened.

Hank pulled out another cigarette and lit it nervously.

Two women, complete opposites. One was a beautiful Latin girl who had never gotten much out of life but a raw deal, but whose free and wild desire for men had pulled him innocently into a life and death conflict.

It all seemed childish and incredible, now that he looked back on those few days. Everything had been purely innocent on his part. He was out for a good time, a moment to escape and find himself. To reason out his life and its direction, which had seemed aimless and unfulfilling.