"We're thinking of forming a club," said Carrie. Joe Winder bit his lip and looked away. Molly's Cadillac took off, eastbound – a crown of white hair behind the wheel, the burglars slouched in the back seat.

"I'll give you this much," the ranger said, "you sure don't look like poachers." A Florida Highway Patrol car pulled up and parked beside Sergeant Dyerson's Jeep. A muscular black trooper got out and tipped his Stetson at the ranger.

"Whatcha know?" the trooper said affably.

"Tracking a panther. These folks got in the way."

"A panther? You got to be kidding."

The trooper's laughter boomed. "I've been driving this stretch for three years and never saw a bobcat, much less a panther."

"They're very secretive," Sergeant Dyerson said. "You wouldn't necessarily spot them." He wasn't in the mood for a nature lesson. He turned to the old tracker and told him to run the frigging dogs one more time.

"Ain't no point."

"Humor me," said Sergeant Dyerson. "Come on, let's go find your other hound."

Once the wildlife officers were gone, the trooper's easygoing smile dissolved. "You folks need a lift."

"No, thanks," Joe Winder said.

"It wasn't a question, friend." The trooper opened the back door of the cruiser, and motioned them inside.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The trooper took them to lunch at the Ocean Reef Club. The clientele seemed ruffled by the sight of a tall black man with a sidearm.

"You're making the folks nervous," Joe Winder observed.

"Must be the uniform."

Carrie popped a shrimp into her mouth. "Are we under arrest?"

"I'd be doing all three of us a favor," Jim Tile said, "but no, unfortunately, you're not under arrest."

Winder was working on a grouper sandwich. Jim Tile had ordered the fried dolphin and conch fritters. The dining room was populated by rich Republican golfers with florid cheeks and candy-colored Izod shirts. The men shot anxious squinty-eyed glances toward the black trooper's table.

Jim Tile motioned for iced tea. "I can't imagine why I've never gotten a membership application. Maybe it got lost in the mail."

"What's the point of all this?" Winder asked.

"To have a friendly chat."

"About what?"

Jim Tile shrugged. "Flaming bulldozers. Dead whales. One-eyed woodsmen. You pick the subject."

"So we've got a mutual friend."

"Yes, we do." The trooper was enjoying the fish platter immensely; despite the stares, he seemed in no hurry to finish. He said, "The plane scared him off, right?"

"It doesn't make sense," Winder said. "They're not after him, they're after a cat. Why does he run?"

Jim Tile put down the fork and wiped his mouth. "My own opinion – he feels a duty to hide because that's what the panther would've done. He wears that damn collar like a sacred obligation."

"To the extreme."

"Yeah," the trooper said. "I don't expect they'll find that missing dog. You understand?"

Carrie said, "He's a very interesting person."

"A man to be admired but not imitated." Jim Tile paused. "I say that with no disrespect."

Winder chose not to acknowledge the warning. "Where do you think he went?" he asked the trooper.

"I'm not sure, but it's a matter of concern."

The manager of the restaurant appeared at the table. He was a slender young man with bleached hair and pointy shoulders and brand new teeth. In a chilly tone he asked Jim Tile if he were a member of the club, and the trooper said no, not yet. The manager started to say something else but changed his mind. Jim Tile requested a membership application, and the manager said he'd be back in a jiffy.

"That's the last we'll see of him," the trooper predicted.

Joe Winder wanted to learn more about Skink. He decided it was safe to tell Jim Tile what the group had been doing in the hammock before the airplane came: "We were hatching quite a plot."

"I figured as much," the trooper said. "You know much about rock and roll?"

Carrie pointed at Winder and said, "Hard core."

"Good," said Jim Tile. "Maybe you can tell me what's a Mojo? The other day he was talking about a Mojo flying."

"Rising," Winder said. "Mojo rising. It's a line from The Doors – I believe it's got phallic connotations."

"No," Carrie jumped in. "I think it's about drugs."

The trooper looked exasperated. "White people's music, I swear to God. Sinatra's all right, but you can keep the rest of it."

"Shall we discuss rap?" Joe Winder said sharply. "Shall we examine the lyrical genius of, say, 2 Live Crew?" He could be very defensive when it came to rock. Carrie reached under the table and pinched his thigh. She told him to lighten up.

"Rikers Island," Jim Tile said. "Is there a song about Rikers Island?"

Winder couldn't think of one. "You sure it's not Thunder Island?"

"No." Jim Tile shook his head firmly. "Our friend said he'd be leaving Florida one day. Go up to Rikers Island and see to some business."

"But that's a prison," Carrie said.

"Yeah. A prison in New York City."

Joe Winder remembered something Skink had told him the first day at the campsite. If it was a clue, it foreshadowed a crime of undiluted madness.

Winder said, "Rikers is where they keep that idiot who shot John Lennon." He cocked an eyebrow at Jim Tile. "You do know who John Lennon was?"

"Yes, I do." The trooper's shoulders sagged. This could be trouble," he added emptily.

"Our mutual friend never got over it," Winder said. "The other night, he asked me about the Dakota."

"Wait a minute." Carrie Lanier made a time-out signal with her hands. "You guys aren't serious."

Gloomily Jim Tile stirred the ice in his tea. "The man gets his mind set on things. And these days, I've been noticing he doesn't handle stress all that well."

Joe Winder said, "Christ, it was only an airplane. It's gone now, he'll calm down."

"Let's hope." The trooper called for the check.

Carrie looked sadly at Winder. "And here I thought you were bonkers," she said.

Agent Billy Hawkins told Molly McNamara that the house was simply beautiful. Old-time Florida, you don't see pine floors like this anymore. Dade County pine.

Molly said, "I've got carpenter ants in the attic. All this wet weather's got 'em riled."

"You'd better get that seen to, and soon. They can be murder on the beams."

"Yes, I know. How about some more lemonade?"

"No, thank you," said Agent Hawkins. "We really need to talk about this telephone call."

Molly began to rock slowly. "I'm completely stumped. As I told you before, I don't know a living soul in Queens."

Hawkins held a notebook on his lap, a blue Flair pen in his right hand. He said, "Salvatore Delicato is an associate of the John Gotti crime family."

"Goodness!" Molly exclaimed.

"Prior arrests for racketeering, extortion and income-tax evasion. The phone call to his number was made from here. It lasted less than a minute."

"There must be some mistake. Did you check with Southern Bell?"

"Miss McNamara," Hawkins said, "can we please cut the crap."

Molly's grandmotherly expression turned glacial. "Watch your language, young man."

Flushing slightly, the agent continued: "Have you ever met a Jimmy Nardoni, otherwise known as Jimmy Noodles? Or a man named Gino Ricci, otherwise known as Gino The Blade?"

"Such colorful names," Molly remarked. "No, I've never heard of them. Do you have my telephone bugged, Agent Hawkins?"

He resisted the impulse to tell her that Sal Delicato's telephone was tapped by a squadron of eavesdroppers – not only the FBI, but the New York State Police, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, the Tri-State Task Force on Organized Crime and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The New York Telephone box on the utility pole behind The Salamander's butcher shop sprouted so many extra wires, it looked like a pigeon's nest.