“Well, Metro’s not all that excited,” Cordova said.

“How come? Who’s the stiff?”

“Name of Tony Traviola, wise guy. Jersey state police got a fat jacket on him. Tony the Eel, loan-collector type. Not a very nice man, from what I understand.”

Stranahan said, “They think it’s a mob hit?”

“I don’t know what they think.”

Stranahan carried the filets into the house and ran them under the tap. He was careful with the water, since the tanks were low. Cordova accepted a glass of iced tea and stood next to Stranahan the kitchen, watching him roll the filets in egg yolk and bread crumbs. Normally Stranahan preferred to be left alone when he cooked, but he didn’t want Luis Cordova to go just yet.

“T hey found the guy’s boat, too,” the marine patrolman went on. “It was a rental out of Haulover. White Seacraft.” Stranahan said he hadn’t seen one of those lately. “Few specks of blood was all they found,” Cordova said. “Somebody cleaned it pretty good.”

Stranahan laid the snapper filets in a half inch of oil in a frying pan. The stove didn’t seem to be working, so he got on his knees and checked the pilot light-dead, as usual. He put a match to it and, before long, the fish started to sizzle. Cordova sat down on one of the wicker barstools. “So why don’t they think it was the mob?” Stranahan asked.

“I didn’t say they didn’t, Mick.”

Stranahan smiled and opened a bottle of beer.

Cordova shrugged. “They don’t tell me every little thing.”

“First of all, they wouldn’t bring him all the way down to Florida to do it, would they, Luis? They got the exact same ocean up in Jersey. So Tony the Eel was already here on business.”

“Makes sense,” Cordova nodded.

“Second, why didn’t they just shoot him? Knives are for kids, not pros.”

Cordova took the bait. “Wasn’t a knife,” he said. “It was too big, the M.E. said. More like a javelin.”

“That’s not like the guineas.”