"You want me to disable his vehicle?" asked the uniformed cop named Billy.

"What are you talking about?"

"Flatten the tires, so he can't get away."

Garcia shook his head. "No, that won't be necessary." The standards at the police academy had gone to hell, that much was obvious. Anybody with an eighteen-inch neck could get a badge these days.

"He said he'd be here, right?" the other cop asked.

"Yeah," Garcia mumbled, "that's what he said."

So where was he? Why hadn't he taken his own car? Garcia was more miffed than curious.

The cop named Billy said, "Suppose the jalousies on the back door suddenly fell out? Suppose we could crawl right in?"

"Suppose you go sit under that palm tree and play with yourself," Garcia said.

Christ, what a day. It began when the Hialeah grave robbers struck again, swiping seven human skulls in a predawn raid on a city cemetery. At first Garcia had refused to answer the call on the grounds that it wasn't really a murder, since the victims of the crime were already dead. One of them in particular had been dead since before Al Garcia was born, so he didn't think it was practical, or fair, that he should have to reinvestigate. Everybody in the office had agreed that technically it wasn't a homicide; more likely petty larceny. What could a crumbly old skull be worth on the street? they had asked. Fifteen, twenty bucks, tops. Unfortunately, it developed that one of the rudely mutilated cadavers belonged to the uncle of a Miami city commissioner, so the case had hastily been elevated to a priority status and all detectives were admonished to keep their sick senses of humor to themselves.

About noon Garcia had to drop the head case when a real murder happened. A Bahamian crack freak had carved up his male roommate, skinned him out like a mackerel, and tried to sell the fillets to a wholesale seafood market on Bird Road. It was one of those cases so bent as to be threatened by the sheer weight of law-enforcement bureaucracy—the crime scene had been crawling not just with policemen, but with deputy coroners, assistant prosecutors, immigration officers, even an inspector from the USDA. By the time the mess was cleaned up, Garcia's bum shoulder was throbbing angrily. Pure, hundred-percent stress.

He had spotted the express packet from New Orleans when he got back to the office. A perfectly shitty ending to a shitty day. Now R. J. Decker had made like a rabbit and Garcia was stuck in a crackerbox trailer park trying to decide if he should leave these moron patrolmen to wait with the warrant. He was reasonably sure that, left unsupervised, they would gladly shoot Decker or at least beat the hell out of him, just to make up for all the aggravation.

"Screw it," Garcia said finally, "let's go get some coffee and try again later."

"He'll be back," Decker said when he heard the police cars pull away.

Skink had let go of his neck. They were still in the darkroom, where Skink's fluorescent rainsuit shone almost white in the wash of the red bulb. Skink appeared more haggard and rumpled than Decker remembered; twigs and small pieces of leaf hung like confetti in his long gray braid. His hair stuck out in clumps from under the shower cap.

"Where have you been?" Decker asked. His neck was torturing him, like someone had pounded a railroad spike into the crown of his spine.

"The girl," Skink said. "I should have known."

"Lanie?"

"I got back to the room and there she is, half-undressed. She said you'd invited her to fly up—"

"No way."

"I figured," Skink said. "That's why I tied her up, so you could decide for yourself what to do. You cut her loose, I presume."

"Yeah."

"And screwed her too?"

Decker frowned.

"Just what I thought," Skink said. "We've got to get the hell out of here."

"Listen, captain, that cop is a friend of mine."

"Which one?" With one blackened finger Skink scratched absently at a brambly eyebrow.

"The Cuban detective. Garcia's his name."

"So?"

"So he's a good man," Decker said. "He'll try to get us a break."

"Us?"

"Yeah, with the New Orleans people. Al could make it as painless as possible."

Skink studied Decker's face and said, "Hell, I guess I squeezed too tight."

They went to a Denny's on Biscayne Boulevard, where Skink fit right in with the clientele. He ordered six raw eggs and a string of pork sausages. Decker's neck had stiffened up, and he had the worst headache of his life.

"You could have just tapped me on the shoulder," he complained.

"No time to be polite," Skink said, without a trace of apology. "I did it for your own good."

"How'd you get in, anyway?"

"Slim-jimmed the back door. Two minutes later and your bosom buddy Garcia would have had you in bracelets. Eat something, all right? We got a long damn ride."

Decker had no intention of taking a long damn ride with Skink, and no intention of getting picked up as an accessory to murder. He had decided not to turn Skink in to the police, but the man would have to make his own escape; the partnership was over.

Skink said, "Your neighbors'll raise hell about the dead dogs."

"Oh?"

"Couldn't be helped," Skink said, slurping a drip of yolk from his mustache. "Self-defense."

"You killed the pit bulldogs?"

"Not allof them. Just the ones that were chasing me."

Before Decker could ask, Skink said, "With a knife. No one saw a thing."

"God." Decker's brainpan felt like the bells of Notre Dame. He noticed that his fingers twitched when he tried to butter a biscuit. It dawned on him that he was not a well person, that he needed to go to a doctor.

But before he abandoned Skink he wanted to ask about Dickie Lockhart. He wanted to hear Skink's version, in case it never came out.

"When you left the motel in Hammond," Decker began, "where'd you go?"

"Back to the lake. Borrowed a boat and found Dickie's fish traps."

"You're kidding."

Skink beamed. A brown clot of sausage was stuck between his two front teeth. 'The boat I took was Ozzie Rundell's," he said. "Dumb fucker left the keys in the switch and a map in the console."

"A depth chart of Lake Maurepas," Decker guessed, "with the trap sites marked."

"Marked real clear, too," Skink said, "in crayon, just for Ozzie."

It made sense. While Dickie Lockhart was celebrating his victory, the Rundells would sneak out on the lake to clean up the evidence. Dickie was so cheap he probably used the same traps over and over.

"Those fish he won with were Florida bass," Skink was saying. "Probably trucked in from Lake Jackson or maybe the Rodman. That mudhole Maurepas never saw bass that pretty, you can bet your ass—"

"What'd you do after you found the traps?" Decker cut in.

Skink set down his fork. "I pulled the plug on Ozzie's boat and swam to shore."

"Then?"

"Then I stuck out my thumb, and here I am."

Two cops came in, walking the cowboy walk, and took a booth. Cops ate at Denny's all the time, but still they made Decker nervous. They kept glancing over at Skink—hard glances—and Decker could tell they were dreaming up an excuse for a hassle and ID check. He laid a ten on the table and headed for the car; Skink shuffled behind, shoving a couple of biscuits into the pockets of his rainsuit. No sooner were they back on the boulevard than Decker spotted another patrol car in the rearview. The patrol car was following closely, and Decker could only assume that Al Garcia had put out the word. When the blue lights came on, Decker dutifully pulled over.

"Hell," Skink said.

Decker waited until both cops were out of the car, then he punched the accelerator and took off.

Skink said, "Sometimes I like your style."