On June 7, 1988, Mick Stranahan resigned from the prosecutor’s staff. The press release called it early retirement, and disclosed that Stranahan would be receiving full disability compensation as a result of injuries suffered in the Goomer shooting. Stranahan wasn’t disabled at all, but his family connection with a notorious personal-injury lawyer was sufficient to terrify the county into paying him off. When Stranahan said he didn’t want the money, the county promptly doubled its offer and threw in a motorized wheel-chair. Stranahan gave up.

Not long afterwards, he moved out to Stiltsville and made friends with the fish.

A marine patrol boat pulled up to Mick Stranahan’s place at half-past noon. Stranahan was on the top deck, dropping a line for mangrove snappers down below.

“Got a second?” asked the marine patrol officer, a sharp young Cuban named Luis Cordova. Stranahan liked him all right.

“Come on up,” he said.

Stranahan reeled in his bait and put the fishing rod down. He dumped four dead snappers out of the bucket and gutted them one at a time, tossing their creamy innards in the water.

Cordova was talking about the body that had washed up on Cape Florida.

“Rangers found it yesterday evening,” he said. “Lemon shark gottheleft foot.”

“That happens,” Stranahan said, skinning one of the fish filets.

“The M.E. says it was one hell of a stab wound.”

“I’m gonna fry these up for sandwiches,” Stranahan said. “You interested in lunch?”

Cordova shook his head. “No, Mick, there’s some jerks poaching lobster down at Boca Chita so I gotta be on my way. Metro asked me to poke around out here, see if somebody saw anything. And since you’re the only one out here… “

Stranahan glanced up from the fish-cleaning. “I don’t remember much going on yesterday,” he said. “Weather was piss-poor, that I know.”

He tossed the fish skeletons, heads still attached, over the rail.