“Not much. I presume you’re all over the Forest Planet office by now.”

“You could say that. It’s based out of a big property on Ingraham south of Prospect, the bay side. Owned by a guy named Rupert Zenger, who’s conveniently out of town. Left just the other day, ho-ho. The only residents are a James Scott Burns, some kind of yard man, and a fellow named Nigel Cooksey, he’s an adjunct professor at the U. and the organization’s scientific guy. A Brit. Nothing on either of them, but this Simpson woman has a sheet, did six months in Cedar Rapids for guess what?”

“Impersonating a large spotted cat?”

A silence on the line. “You need to take this shit more seriously, amigo. She was muling dope, felony weight, but she caught a break as a first offender. And a cooperative witness. Also, we found a nine-millimeter pistol in the van that Voss and Simpson were in, unfired, with Voss’s prints on it. We traced it as stolen from a gun shop in Orlando last March.”

“So what’s the thinking now with all this?”

“Oh, thinking is not the word, my man. Finnegan and the county are having conniption fits that we found this FPA outfit and didn’t tell them like immediately. They’re moving to pick up a bunch of Colombians been hanging out on Fisher Island with the surviving Consuela guys. Oliphant is ballistic. How come we weren’t on them yesterday? And like I said last night, the feds are interested because of this Hurtado character. I hear they’re working on a warrant to raid your sister’s company.”

“Uh-huh. I think she’ll be forthcoming. By the way, did you find the Indian?”

“No, but at this point fucking magical invisible Indians are not high on the priority list. Everybody’s pretty well focused on Colombian gang war in the Magic City just before the tourist season.”

“None of which explains the two funny murders.”

“No, but the bosses got the bone in their teeth now. They want some Colombianpistoleros in the cells and we’ll figure out how they did it later.”

“So am I fired from being a funny-murder consultant?”

“Not that I heard. Why don’t you come by this Ingraham place and we’ll consult. They got a pool with piranhas in it. It’s something to see.”

“Twenty minutes,” said Paz. By this time he was on his own street. He went into the house and checked on his wife. She hadn’t moved since the last time he saw her, and he watched her for a considerable time, comforted by her slow, steady breathing. Then he left a note saying “Mi amor se nutre de tu amor, amada. Call me when you get up,” and left.

Driving north on Coral Way, Paz had a thought and put it into action. He called his half sister’s cell number on his own cell phone.

“It’s Jimmy,” he said when she answered. “The feds are about to raid your company.”

To his relief she was not flustered by this news. “What’s their interest?”

“Dad, if I may call him that, apparently spent a lot of time on the horn to Cali, Colombia, talking to a fellow named Gabriel Hurtado. He’s a drug lord.”

“¡Coño!”she said, and Paz chuckled. “Yeah, that explains why your books are fucked up.”

“I figured out that much myself. What’s your advice,mi hermano?”

“Total transparency. Fire the old fart accountant, let him and Dad carry the can. Did you have guilty knowledge?”

She laughed. “Are you serious? I have half a dozen witnesses that’ll say he reamed my ass for even asking about a load of funny money I spotted on a balance sheet.”

“Then you should be all right personally. The company could go down, though.”

“I’ll work something out. If we fold, maybe someone will let me waitress in the family restaurant.”

“A done deal, Sis.”

“And thanks for the heads-up. I don’t even know you and I love you already.”

Paz closed the call feeling better and more comfortably Cuban than he had in a while.

There were police cars and a crime scene van parked at the Zenger property. Paz had to wait for Morales to let him through the gate.

“Anything interesting?” Paz asked, taking in the scene.

“Not much, but we’re still tossing the place. The late Voss had a collection of anarchist-type literature and a stash of high-grade marijuana. Also someone had secreted Baggies full of what looks like white bread at various places. They’re going to give it the full lab treatment.”

“Far more dangerous to the health than pot, if you ask me. Get anything out of the Professor?”

“Not much. The abducted girl was some kind of lost soul according to him. Epileptic, too. He seems like he’s a lot more concerned about her than about Voss getting killed.”

“What does he have to say about jaguars?”

“I don’t know. I was saving all that for you. Want a crack at him?”

“Lead on,” said Paz.

They found Cooksey sitting at the table on the patio, looking forlorn. When the two men approached, Cooksey asked, “Have you found her?”

“No, sir, I’m sorry, not yet,” said Morales and introduced Paz as a consultant on the murders of the two Cuban businessmen.

“I don’t understand,” said Cooksey. “What have they to do with what just happened?”

Paz smiled and pointed to the garden. “We don’t know, sir, that’s what we’re trying to determine. How about you and me take a stroll around the grounds. You could show me around and we could talk about it.”

They strolled. Paz asked questions about the pond and the plantings, about the work of the Alliance and Cooksey’s own work. Cooksey was formal, constrained, answering the questions but not allowing a natural flow, which Paz thought was a little off. He’d had much to do with experts in various fields (mainly women) and had learned that when experts got going on their chosen fields, it was if anything hard to shut them up. Another thing that was off about Cooksey was the way he moved down a path. He made very little noise when he walked and his head moved slightly from side to side at each step. Perhaps field biologists also learned to walk like that, but the last time Paz had observed such a walk was when he was in the marines. Guys who had been in close combat walked that way.

They were on a shady sun-dappled path under large mango trees when Paz noticed something glinting against a low trunk in a thin bar of sunlight. He knelt to examine it, then stood and asked, “What’s that?”

“It’s a hook for a booby trap trip wire,” said Cooksey.

“Really?”

“Yes. Raccoons come in at night and steal fruit and try to catch our fish. One can often annoy them by stretching wires across the paths rigged to let off flash-bangs.”

“Raccoons trip over wires?”

“Not precisely. But they have a fascination with any sort of wires, as you’d know if you’d ever had one in the house as a pet. They pull on them, and the thing goes off and they run away.”

“Very interesting. I didn’t know that. They tell me you’re an expert on tropical animals.”

“Mainly wasps, I’m afraid. But I did some general zoology when I was younger.”

“Know anything about jaguars?” Paz watched the man’s face as he said this, and was surprised to see a faint smile form.

“This is about those two Cuban businessmen, isn’t it?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. But I’d be curious to learn how you came to that conclusion.”

Cooksey gave him a long look. “I read the papers.”

“The papers didn’t mention any jaguars.”

Now a real smile. “No, sir, you have me there. Speaking of ferocious beasts, and the press, I must feed our piranhas. Would you like to watch?”

Paz made an acquiescent gesture and Cooksey led the way into the kitchen of the main house, where he took from the refrigerator a large plastic bag containing a whole beef liver. They returned to the paths, on a route that took them through thick lily thorn and wild coffee on a mild upward slope toward the sound of rushing water. When they came into sunlight again they were on a hill of coral rock some fifteen feet above the pool, with the waterfall pouring forth below them.