Hell, Stranahan thought, that was a stupid move. On the counter was the Herald, open to the page with the story about the dead floater. Miami being what it is, the floater story was only two paragraphs long, wedged under a tiny headline between a one-ton coke bust and a double homicide on the river. Maybe Luis Cordova wouldn’t notice.

“You must’ve got up early to get to the marina and back,” he said.

“Grocery run,” Stranahan lied. “Besides, it was a nice morning for a boat ride. How was the fish?”

“Delicious, Mick.” Cordova slapped him on the shoulder and said so long.

Stranahan walked out on the deck and watched Cordova untie his patrol boat, a gray Mako outboard with a blue police light mounted on the center console.

“If anything comes up, I’ll give you a call, Luis.”

“No sweat, it’s Metro’s party,” the marine patrolman said. “Guy sounds like a dirtbag, anyway.”

“Yeah,” Stranahan said, “I feel sorry for that shark, the one that ate his foot.”

Cordova chuckled. “Yeah, he’ll be puking for a week.”

Stranahan waved as the police boat pulled away. He was pleased to see Luis Cordova heading south toward Boca Chita, as Luis had said he would. He was also pleased that the young officer had not asked him about the blue marlin head on the living-room wall, about why the sword was mended together with fresh hurricane tape.

Timmy Gavigan had looked like death for most of his adult life. Now he had an excuse.

His coppery hair had fallen out in thickets, revealing patches of pale freckled scalp. His face, once round and florid, looked like somebody had let the air out.

From his hospital bed Timmy Gavigan said, “Mick, can you believe this fucking food?” He picked up a chunk of gray meat off the tray and held it up with two fingers, like an important piece of evidence. “This is your government in action, Mick. Same fuckers that want to put lasers in outer space can’t fry a Salisbury steak.”