THIRTEEN

Rummaging through a dead man's belongings at midnight was not Joe Winder's idea of fun. The lab was as cold and quiet as a morgue. Intimate traces of the late Will Koocher were everywhere: a wrinkled lab coat hung on the back of a door; a wedding picture in a brass frame on a corner of his desk; a half-eaten roll of cherry-flavored Turns in the drawer; Koocher's final paycheck, endorsed but never cashed.

Winder shivered and went to work. Methodically he pored through the vole file, and quickly learned to decipher Koocher's daily charts: size, weight, feeding patterns, sleeping patterns, stool patterns. Some days there was blood work, some days there were urine samples. The doctor's notes were clinical, brief and altogether unenlightening. Whatever had bothered Koocher about the mango-vole program, he hadn't put it in the charts.

It was an hour before Joe Winder found something that caught his eyes: a series of color photographs of the voles. These were different from the glossy publicity pictures – these were extreme close-ups taken from various angles to highlight anatomical characteristics. Typed labels identified the animals as either "Male One" or "Female One." Several pictures of the female had been marked up in red wax pencil, presumably by Will Koocher. In one photograph, an arrow had been drawn to the rump of the mango vole, accompanied by the notation "CK. TAIL LENGTH." On another, Koocher had written: "CK. MICROTUS FUR COLOR – is THERE BLOND PHASE?" In a third photograph, the animal's mouth had carefully been propped open with a Popsicle stick, which allowed a splendid frontal view of two large yellow incisors and a tiny indigo tongue.

Obviously the female vole had troubled Koocher, but why? Winder slipped the photos into his briefcase, and turned to the next file. It contained a muddy Xerox of a research paper titled, "Habitat Loss and the Decline of Microtus mango in Southeastern Florida." The author of the article was listed as Dr. Sarah Hunt, PhD, of Rollins College. In red ink Koocher had circled the woman's name, and put a question mark next to it. The research paper was only five pages long, but the margins were full of Koocher's scribbles. Winder was trying to make sense of them when he heard a squeaking noise behind him.

In the doorway stood Pedro Luz – pocked, bloated, puffy-eyed Pedro. "The fuck are you doing?" he said.

Joe Winder explained that a janitor had been kind enough to loan him a key to the lab.

"What for?" Pedro Luz demanded.

"I need some more information on the voles."

"Haw," said Pedro Luz, and stepped inside the lab. The squeaking came from the wheels of his mobile steroid dispenser, the IV rig he had swiped from the hospital. A clear tube curled from a hanging plastic bag to a scabby junction in the crook of Pedro Luz's left arm; the needle was held in place by several cross-wraps of cellophane tape.

The idea had come to him while he was hospitalized with the ferret bites. He had been so impressed with the wonders of intravenous refueling that he'd decided to try it with his anabolic steroids. Whether this method was effective, or even safe, were questions that Pedro Luz hadn't considered because the basic theory seemed unassailable: straight from bottle to vein, just like a gasoline pump. No sooner had he hung the first bag than he had felt the surge, the heat, the tingling glory of muscles in rapture. Even at ease, his prodigious biceps twitched and rippled as if prodded by invisible electrodes.

Joe Winder wondered why Pedro Luz kept staring down at himself, smiling as he admired the dimensions of his own broad chest and log-sized arms.

"Are you feeling all right?" Winder asked.

Pedro Luz looked up from his reverie and blinked, toadlike.

Affably, Winder remarked, "You're working mighty late tonight."

Pedro Luz grunted: "I feel fine." He walked up to the desk and grabbed the briefcase. "You got no authorization to be here after hours."

"Mr. Chelsea won't mind."

Invoking Charlie's name made no impression on Pedro Luz, who plucked a leaf out of Joe Winder's hair. "Look at this shit on your head!"

"I spent some time in the mangroves," Winder said. "Ate snake-on-a-stick."

Pedro Luz announced: "I'm keeping your damn briefcase." He tucked it under his right arm. "Until I see some fucking authorization."

"What's in the IV bag?" Joe Winder asked.

"Vitamins," said Pedro Luz. "Now get the hell out."

"You know what I think? I think Will Koocher was murdered."

Pedro Luz scrunched his face as if something toxic were burning his eyes. His jaw was set so rigidly that Joe Winder expected to hear the teeth start exploding one by one, like popcorn.

Winder said, "Well, I guess I'll be going."

Pedro Luz followed him out the door, the IV rig squeaking behind them. To the back of Winder's neck, he growled, "You dumb little shit, now I gotta do a whole report."

"Pedro, you need some rest."

"The doctor wasn't murdered. He killed hisself."

"I don't think so."

"Man, I used to be a cop. I know the difference between murder and suicide."

Pedro Luz turned around to lock the laboratory door. Joe Winder thought it would be an excellent moment to snatch his briefcase from the security man and make a run for it. He figured Pedro Luz could never catch him as long as he was attached to the cumbersome IV rig. Winder pondered the daring maneuver too long.

Pedro Luz glanced over his shoulder and caught him staring at the briefcase.

"Go ahead," the big man taunted. "Just go ahead and try."

Francis X. Kingsbury and Jake Harp had an early starting time at the Ocean Reef Club, up the road a few miles from the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Kingsbury played golf two or three times a week at Ocean Reef, even though he was not a member and would never be a member. A most exclusive outfit, the Ocean Reef board had voted consistently to blackball Kingsbury because it could not verify several important details of his biography, beginning with his name. Infuriated by the rejection, Kingsbury made himself an unwelcome presence by wheedling regular golf invitations from all acquaintances who happened to be members, including the famous Jake Harp.

Reluctantly Jake Harp had agreed to play nine holes. He didn't like golf with rich duffers but it was part of the deal; playing with Francis X. Kingsbury, though, was a special form of torture. All he talked about was Disney this and Disney that. If the stock had dropped a point or two, Kingsbury was euphoric; if the stock was up, he was bellicose and depressed. He referred to the Disney mascot as Mickey Ratface, or sometimes simply The Rat. "The Rat's updating his pathetic excuse for a jungle cruise," Kingsbury would report with a sneer. "The fake hippos must be rusting out." Another time, while Jake Harp was lining up a long putt for an eagle, Kingsbury began to cackle. "The Rat's got a major problem at the Hall of the Presidents! Heard they had to yank the Nixon robot because his jowls were molting!"

Jake Harp, a lifelong Republican, had suppressed the urge to take a Ping putter and clobber Francis X. Kingsbury into a deep coma. Jake Harp had to remain civil because of the Falcon Trace gig. It was his second chance at designing a golf course and he didn't want to screw up again; over on Sanibel they were still searching for that mysterious fourteenth tee, the one Jake Harp's architects had mistakenly located in the middle of San Carlos Bay.

As for his title of Falcon Trace "touring pro," it was spending money, that's all – tape a couple of television spots, get your face on a billboard, play a couple of charity tournaments in the winter. Hell, no one seriously expected you to actually show up and give golf lessons. Not the great Jake Harp.