Toby Davis, the caretaker of the Sheepshead Bay Marina, knew Eddie Dunne the moment he walked through the door. Although his eyes were failing, the grizzled old sailor, who'd won a Purple Heart at Iwo Jima, said Eddie's name before the door closed behind him. Mr. Eddie. Eddie introduced Babsie as a friend. Babsie corrected him, emphasizing she was a detective investigating the murder of Paul Caruso. It surprised Eddie that Toby didn't mention his daughter, but the old man probably never knew his last name. Paul Caruso had owned the boat, rented the slip, paid all the bills.

"Shame about your partner," Toby said. "But he lived a lot longer than I ever thought he would. His momma raised one insane child."

Babsie showed Toby the picture of Paul Caruso, Eddie, and Lana standing in front of the Bright Star. Toby held it up close to his face. He knew the guys, he said, but he didn't recognize the woman. Eddie didn't know whether he was being discreet or honest.

'Toby didn't think much of us as sailors," Eddie said.

"Sailors?" he said. "You two wouldn't make a pimple on a sailor's ass. When the Bright Star left the dock, I had to put the Coast Guard on alert. Every night, I went home thinking, Tonight's the night those crazy sons a bitches gonna burn down my marina."

"One fire and you're an arsonist," Eddie said.

"On my dock, miss. They start a bonfire on a wooden dock. Now what the hell kind of senseless boys do that?"

Babsie asked the old man what ever happened to Paul Caruso's boat. He didn't have to look in the file. Toby remembered boats, not blondes.

"The Bright Star?" Toby said, playing to Babsie. "It was like putting a three-year-old behind the wheel of a race car in the Indy Five Hundred. A thirty-five-foot

Grand Banks. Beautiful craft. Mr. Caruso thought it was like driving a car. He'd forget it didn't have brakes. We had to put two layers of extra tires around their dock. Whomp, the whole place shook when they pulled in. Never saw anything like it."

"Lucky they didn't kill somebody," Babsie said.

"How we all survived, I'll never know. God takes care of beautiful things, and He took special care of this boat. Mr. Caruso asked me to sell it shortly after you two got tired of it. I jumped up, got right on the phone. We found it a good home with a young New York City fireman. Local boy named Stark. Mr. Caruso gave him one hell of a deal on it, too."

"We weren't that bad, Babsie," Eddie said.

"Miss," Toby said, "when I came to work in the morning, I never even glanced over at the Bright Star. I was afraid what I was gonna see. Beer cans floating in the water, brassieres flying from the outrigging, bare asses on the foredeck."

"Does Mr. Stark still keep it here?" Babsie asked.

"For a while, he did," Toby said. "One summer, he was here almost every day, scraping and painting. Looked better than new when he finished. He renamed it Stevie's Dream. Now he keeps it at a private dock behind his house, over near Gerritsen Beach."

Toby said that Stark had reupholstered everything that could be reupholstered. He redid the teak and replaced almost everything in the galley. He said that Stark still brought it in every year for engine work. Usually around this time, late April, early May.

"The day that boat left here," Toby said, "both me and it were smiling."

Despite making great time on the Belt Parkway, they got to Jimmy's Bistro in Staten Island as the valet was parking Borodenko's Mercedes.

"Today's the day they had to get here early," Babsie said.

"We should have been waiting."

"Okay, my fault," Babsie said. "We'll grab them on the way out."

Valet parking complicated Eddie's plan. They hadn't used it the last time he'd followed them here. His idea was to approach Zina as they were getting in or out of the car, but now the valet would deliver the car to the front door of the restaurant. A good chance there'd be a crowd waiting under the awning. Too many people within earshot might spook Zina.

"We're not even sure Zina is in there," Eddie said.

"She's in there. It was on her calendar. We'll just wait."

"I need to know when they're leaving," Eddie said. "Why don't you go inside and eat. Get a table close to them. They have no idea who you are."

"Looks pricey, Eddie. I don't think I have enough money on me."

"I've got nine bucks left," he said. "Everything else is tied up. I'd give you my credit card if I had one."

Babsie said she'd use her own, then slung her purse over her shoulder. The big leather bag bulged with equipment-her camera, her cell phone, her gun, her case folder. All he'd brought to the island was nine bucks, an aching body, and a half-assed plan. He couldn't blame her if she cut her losses with him. Why should she believe that he had a snowball's chance in hell of ever getting anything right? Ten minutes later, he heard the ringing of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling."

"Your friend Zina," Babsie said, "is uglier than her booking photo."

"What she lacks in looks, she makes up for in muscle."

"The other one just came back from the ladies' room. She's a little wobbly."

"Probably shit-faced," Eddie said.

"She looks like a bulimia case with a Jackie Onassis wardrobe: raincoat, scarf, and oversized sunglasses. Can't see her face. Okay, okay, glasses off, rubbing her face. Pretty. Very pretty girl. What is she, about twenty, twenty-one?"

"Maybe a year or two older."

"She's wearing a dress that looks like something Joan Crawford wore in Mildred Pierce. Not that I'm an expert or anything, but it looks old to me."

"Save the fashion commentary," Eddie said.

"Okay. Two bottles of wine on the table. Bottle of red, bottle of white. Zina pouring red. I'll tell you right now… Zina looks like that badass Indian in The Last of the Mohicans."

Babsie said she'd schmoozed the maitre d' by telling him he reminded her of a young AI Pacino. "Works every time in marinara joints," she said. She refused three booths, until he placed her at a small table in the back. Situated behind an ivy-covered partition, it offered a workable sight line to Zina's plush curved booth.

"I saw this in a spy movie," Babsie said. "Peeking through the ivy. Casablanca maybe, something in black and white."

Eddie heard a breath. She said she'd blown out the candle and set it in an opening in the ornate brick latticework. The candleholder held down enough ivy to provide a less obstructed view. Then another voice: a waiter, giving the luncheon specials. Eddie wanted to ask how much it would cost if they just called it lunch.

"You're paying for this," Babsie said. "Fifteen bucks for a goddamn house salad. Two fifty for goddamn iced tea. I gotta take this menu to Martha and Kevin."

Eddie heard the clink of china and silverware in the background. Jerry Vale sang "Innamorata." Babsie bitched about the prices. What a great surveillance tool a cell phone was. Eddie never would have thought of using it this way. Wearing a body mike and lugging an expensive receiver were the old way. This was so easy. Half the people in the place were probably yakking away on them anyway, so the cover was ideal.

Babsie said, "You were right about Zina being the one in those sketches. That schnozz is unmistakable."

"All you have to do is tell me when they're leaving."

"Oh, Jesus…" Babsie said.

"Oh Jesus what?" Use whole sentences, he wanted to tell her.

"Zina just leaned over and kissed her."

"Really?"

"Not just a kiss… a big wet tongue."

"Bullshit, not in public."

"I told you this was a romance," she said. "This is why you can't let guys do surveillance work. They miss the nuances."