“No cop really does until it happens,” Louis said. “Stop beating yourself up.” He paused, realizing she looked tired. He wondered how much she had slept.

“I’ve got to get going,” Louis said. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bring my briefcase,” she said.

By the time he got back to the Dodies’, it was nearly four. Margaret was nowhere to be seen so he grabbed a Dr Pepper and a leg of leftover chicken from the refrigerator and headed out to the patio. Issy followed him, patiently waiting at his feet until he tossed her a sliver of chicken.

A boat was motoring slowly toward the dock. It was Dodie, his burnt face bright beneath the aqua Miami Dolphins cap. Louis went down to the dock.

“Need some help?” he asked.

“Yeah, tie that off,” Dodie said, tossing a line and cutting the engine.

Louis hesitated, then started to wrap the line around a piling. Dodie gave an impatient grunt and stepped onto the dock. He took the line and, in one quick move, knotted it off.

“I’m telling you, Louis, you gotta come fishing with me,” Dodie said, holding out a cooler.

Louis took the cooler while Dodie hauled up his gear and his catch for the day—two puny-looking gray fish.

“Why should I?” Louis said. “Doesn’t strike me as worth the effort.”

“Well, with fishing, it ain’t the destination, it’s the journey,” Dodie said, heading toward the house.

Louis deposited the cooler on the patio. Dodie dropped into his lounge chair and pulled a beer can from the cooler. “Last one. You want it?” he asked, holding it out.

“Got my soda,” Louis said.

“Where’s Margaret?” Dodie whispered.

“I heard the washer go on,” Louis said.

“Good.” He popped the top and took a swig.

Louis sat down in the nearby chair.

“I saw the news this morning,” Dodie said. “You found Miss Farentino. TV said she’s okay.”

“He didn’t hurt her,” Louis said.

“Thank God.”

“I went over to see her earlier. She’s doing as good as can be expected.”

Dodie shook his head. “Seems kinda weird, don’t it?”

“What?”

“That he didn’t kill her?”

“We thought the same thing.” Louis shook his head in frustration. “We seem to be just one step behind him.”

“You want to bounce some stuff off me?” Dodie asked.

Louis looked at Dodie. He was leaning forward, his eyes avid. Louis sighed. He told Dodie about the shrimp shack.

“You find anything helpful there?” Dodie asked.

“Blood, paint. Fresh prints. They’re not back yet.”

“What else?”

“Nothing . . . just some trash, shrimp shit, and fish scales.”

“What kind of fish scales?”

“Jesus, Sam—snapper, mackerel, spit-tail, or something. What difference does it make? We know he’s a fisherman.”

Dodie sat back and took a sip of beer.

“What kind of mackerel?”

Louis closed his eyes. “I”m not sure. King?”

“King mackerel? Well. Them kings are big-ass fish,” Dodie said.

Louis put his hand over his eyes.

“I seen a king once,” Dodie went on. “We were out on one of them deep-sea boats. This was up near Tampa after I took Margie to Bush Gardens.”

Dodie leaned forward. “You should have seen it, Louis. Even the crew guys were excited ’cuz I guess it was a pretty rare bird, that fish. Fifty pounds. You ever seen a fifty-pound fish, Louis?”

Louis shook his head.

“Shit, it took that guy an hour to land that sucker. And it bled all over the damn boat.” He paused. “Damn trip cost me fifty bucks and I didn’t catch jack-shit.”

Louis didn’t say anything.

“Well, I’m going in to shower,” Dodie said. He rose and went inside.

Louis lowered his hand from his brow and stared after Dodie. Through the kitchen window, he could see him kiss Margaret and wander away.

Christ. That had been a pretty shitty thing to do. Dodie only wanted to help.

He shook his head. Big-ass fish.

Big fish. Rare bird. King mackerel. Deep sea.

Suddenly his brain kicked into a new gear.

He got up and went inside, going to the bathroom door. He opened it an inch.

“Sam!” he called.

“What the . . . Louis?”

“Where did that deep-sea boat take you?”

Dodie stuck his head out of the curtain. “Where? Clear out to the Gulf of Mexico.”

Chapter Forty-one

Louis walked into the war room and drew up short. The bulletin board was gone. The table was clear. There was one box on the table.

Wainwright came out of his bathroom, saw the look on Louis’s face, and shrugged. “I had it all carted over to Horton’s office. We’ll work out of there.”

Louis nodded, understanding but not liking it. It had been their work. The faces on that bulletin board had kept him going.

“Dan,” Louis said, “I think I can put Mayo in the shrimp shack.”

“How?”

“Blood from a king mackerel was found in the shack. It was fresh, Dan. And the only place you can catch that fish is in the gulf. I checked with a guide today. There are five boats at the wharf. Only one—the Miss Monica—goes to the Gulf of Mexico. We know Mayo worked on the Miss Monica.”

Wainwright sat down. “Not bad. But I’d rather have something concrete, like Mayo’s prints on the chair.”

“Nothing back on that yet?”

Wainwright shook his head.

Louis sighed and looked back at the empty space where the board had been. “Horton have anything for us to do?” he asked.

Wainwright shook his head again.

Louis looked down at the box on the table. “What’s in this?”

“Just some of Farentino’s personal papers and useless files. I didn’t want to toss them. She wouldn’t be too happy about that.”

“Won’t be happy about what?” a voice said from behind them.

They turned to see Emily standing in the doorway. Louis went over to her.

“Hey, Farentino. How you doing?” he said.

“Hey, Kincaid. Not bad.” Her smile faded as she noticed the blank bulletin board. “Where’s all our stuff?” she asked.

“Everything’s downtown,” Wainwright said.

Emily looked at them. “Then why are we here?”

Louis slid his hip on a desk. “We’re on standby.”

“You mean we’re out of it,” Emily said.

Neither answered her.

“Louis has a theory,” Wainwright said.

Louis told her about the shrimp shack connection to Mayo. Emily looked unimpressed.

“What?” Louis asked.

“Fresh blood?” she asked. “Louis, Mayo hasn’t been on a boat in almost a month. We know that. We have every boat under surveillance.”

Louis paused, then turned away. “Fuck!” he said. He kicked a chair. It rolled and crashed into the wall. Wainwright and Emily just stared at him.

“Goddamn it,” Louis said, shaking his head, hands on hips.

“Louis—” Wainwright said.

“I was so fucking sure,” Louis said, staring at the empty bulletin board. They were all silent for a moment.

“Louis,” Wainwright said finally, “we’ll find another way to place him there.”

“Don’t try to handle me, Dan,” Louis said. “Please. Not now.”

“Look, if we have to go back to square one, turn over every lousy piece of evidence, we will,” Wainwright said.

Louis threw his arm out to the empty bulletin board. “We don’t have any fucking evidence!”

“Hold on,” Emily said.

She reached into the box, pulled out a legal pad, and tossed it at Wainwright. He caught it in his lap.

She turned to Louis. “Interview me again.”

“What?”

She pulled a chair up to the desk and sat down. “I’ve been thinking, trying to remember more details. I want to try something. Interview me again.”

“Are you sure?” Louis asked.

“Yes.”

Louis glanced at Wainwright and came back to the desk. He sat on the edge, facing Emily. Emily drew in a breath and closed her eyes. Louis waited, giving her a moment.