"He was murdered, that's clear."

He heard her take a breath. "Is Félix okay?"

"Yeah, he's here in New Orleans with me."

"Why don't they print the body?"

"That's what I asked, but I had another idea."

"What's that?"

"What if they sent his finger to a local police agency in the U.S. who already had his prints on file?"

"Why would they cut off one of his fingers?"

"They're already off."

"Oh, I see." She sounded ill. Then she caught on to the nature of the call. "So you didn't call because you missed me, you called to ask me to print an unattached finger."

"Both."

"Alex Duarte, you're a lousy liar. That's one of the things I like about you. Don't try it now."

He smiled and said, "Could you print the finger and match it to this guy Gastlin who was booked in the Palm Beach County jail?"

"It feels like I do a lot of forensic work for you off the books."

"And I appreciate it."

"How much?"

"A lot."

"How will you show it?"

"Dinner?"

"At least." She added, "How on earth will you get a human finger into the country?"

"Customs worked it out. A DEA guy will deliver it to you sometime tomorrow."

"You were pretty sure I'd do it."

"You're a very helpful person. I didn't see you saying no. We need to know what happened to Gastlin. The next step will be looking for the killer. It won't be easy."

"At least I'm easy."

Duarte didn't know how to respond to that, but he was good at just keeping his mouth shut.

William "Ike" Floyd watched the U-Haul truck from the big bay window of the diner while he ate a stack of pancakes with Cal Lindsey. They had loaded the crate with little problem, and Ike knew he couldn't stay at the rundown hotel. He went ahead and packed up his few clothes and decided he wouldn't turn down the older port worker's offer of breakfast.

Cal asked, "So where's the thing go now?"

Ike looked at him, remembering the words of one of the leaders of another group he used to belong to who said, "Never trust anyone who asks too many questions." The FBI always had people trying to get into the groups. The old leader of the American Nazi Party claimed the federal government hated white people, that's why they'd left the black groups alone. He looked at Cal's simple, long face and didn't think he could be a snitch for the FBI. He had a little experience in the matter and knew you couldn't tell by looking at someone, but it didn't matter right now. He just told the truth.

"Don't know exactly. I'll check for messages later." Ike figured if this guy was a snitch he'd ask about the messages and where he checked.

Instead, Cal said, "President Jessup says you were into some serious shit for us a while back."

Ike had to smile. "Can't talk about it."

"You think this is as big a deal as that shit?"

Ike considered it and said, "Yeah, if it works, it'll be bigger. There's a long way to go and a lot to do until we know for sure."

Cal finished the last bit of his scrambled eggs and wiped his mouth. "I need to check in at the port. The beauty of a union job is someone will always cover for you. I'm off-duty at seven so I can go home and get some rest." He pulled out a pen and wrote a phone number and his name on a napkin. "This is my home number. Call me if you need more help."

"You're a good man, Cal."

"Anything for my country."

Félix Baez sat at the end of the long conference table in the administrative office of the Port of New Orleans with his arms folded and his mouth shut. He didn't care for the way Lina Cirillo had acted toward Lázaro Staub. Sure, the colonel was tall and handsome. Félix realized he had a certain charisma and obviously wielded some power back in Panama. But Félix didn't think that was any reason for Lina to hang on his every word and offer to show him around the city.

He thought he had staked his claim on the FBI agent. They had gone out twice for dinner and drinks back in Florida. He had paid both times. Now her full attention seemed to be focused on Staub. Shit.

Even as he thought about Lina, he knew his real source of unease was the fate of Bryon Gastlin. If the body they had found really was Gastlin. He held out hope that some other tubby white man in boat shoes and shorts had been killed and Gastlin was hiding out in Costa Rica. Unlike in the movies, the loss of an informant in real life could be very traumatic. Gastlin was Félix's responsibility. He'd possibly been killed because of something the DEA had had him do. Félix had promised him he'd be safe. Of course the possibility existed that he'd simply been robbed and murdered, or killed as a result of some other crime unrelated to Ortíz. But in all likelihood Félix would never know. The Panamanian cops were overwhelmed with street violence. Gastlin was just another statistic. And he was heavy on Félix's mind.

Lina said to the group, "Well, what now?"

Duarte looked at Félix since it was his agency's pot. Félix said, "Who the hell knows? I guess we pack it up and write off the case."

Staub spoke up, using his broken English for Lina and Duarte's benefit. "I contacted the investigators of the homicides, and they will do all they can to solve Mr. Gastlin's murder."

Félix spit out, "That mean anything?" He didn't want to hear from the Panamanian.

Staub looked at the DEA man with his dark eyes. "It means they will do all they can."

Duarte cut in before anyone was offended and said, "The gun case is closed, that much is for sure, but I can help you clear things up here."

Félix sighed. "We might as well get the pot into evidence. Customs has a facility here." He was glad Duarte was here to keep him from fixating on how he had let down Byron Gastlin.

An hour later, Félix and Duarte were at the container with a couple of customs agents and a step van.

Félix said, "Shit, this don't seem like fun anymore. Ortíz is off the hook, and Gastlin is dead."

Duarte nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder. He had seen plenty of grief in Bosnia from the locals involved in the war and from the military guys caught between the Serbs and Croats. That didn't mean he knew how to comfort anyone, but he was there for his friend if he needed anything. Duarte just had a hard time figuring out what people needed.

Félix stepped up to the container and dug out the keys from the front pocket in his pants.

Duarte said, "Wait a minute."

"What's up?"

"You notice anything odd about the lock?"

Félix looked at the shiny metal padlock. "No."

"The keyhole is facing out."

"So?"

"When you locked it, you had the keyhole in, remember? We didn't worry about it then."

Félix slowly nodded. "Yeah, I guess. What's it mean?"

"I don't know, but let's handle the lock carefully and see if anything is missing before the customs guys walk over."

Félix held the lock with two fingers as he worked the small key. It popped, and he fed it through the door latch.

Duarte picked up a crumpled paper bag from the littered ground and put the lock into the bag. Quickly they stepped inside, the smell of the pot soaking into their clothes and nasal passages. Duarte's eyes watered a little.

The load looked intact. They walked through to the rear of the container.

Félix said, "Looks like it's all here."

Duarte looked at the walls closely and the load of pot. "I think there was a wall here. See, the last two feet of the container has a clean floor and the walls aren't as dingy."