"The air conditioner doesn't get much better than that, I'm afraid," Warren said pleasantly.

"Where's Paul?"

"The senator's at the club. We're having media planning sessions. He said I should drop you at his bungalow." And then Warren flashed Mickey a dazzling smile that seemed to say, "Don't worry, I'm in on the secret."

The Sporting Club had originally been a haven for blue-water fishermen, but it now mostly catered to conventions and vacationers. The clubhouse was a large stone building with a tile roof that faced the water. Palm trees and red hibiscus vibrated in a strong, offshore breeze. There was a picturesque wooden wharf where three 30-foot sport-fishing boats with outriggers for trolling were tied. Warren drove the car past the clubhouse and down a shell road lined by dense mango plants. He pulled to a stop in front of a secluded bungalow.

"The afternoon conference should be breaking up soon. I'm sorry there's no cooler place to wait, but the senator said you'd understand."

"I'll see you," Mickey said, dismissing the man whom he had taken an unreasonable dislike to.

Warren put the Ford in gear and zipped off, gunning the engine unnecessarily.

The bungalow had a wood plaque on the door announcing it as the FLAMINGO SUITE. The front door was locked, so Mickey walked around to the back, where there was a louvered glass door next to an outdoor shower. Also locked. A window air conditioner had been cut into the wall, and it growled ominously. He cursed under his breath, then kicked a louver out with his foot, breaking a glass pane by the handle. He reached through the shards and opened the door.