immodesty one sees couples performing out on the water from time to time. In the pursuit of my hobby I had done many things on my boat that narrow minds might find objectionable, and it was quiteclear to me that nobody ever sees anything. Not even, apparently, a psychotic and semisupernatural killer lugging a completely limp but rather large dead cop around the Bay and then up over the seawall and into Bayfront Park.
But because this was Miami, it was at least possible that somebody had, in fact, seen something of the sort, and simply decided not to report it. Maybe they were afraid it would make them a target, or they didn’t want the police to find out they had no green card. Modern life being what it is, it was even possible that there was a really good episode of
Mythbusters
on TV and they wanted to watch the end. So for the next hour or so, Debs and her team went all along the seawall looking for that Certain Special Someone.
Not surprisingly—at least, not to me—they didn’t find him or her. Nobody knew nothin’; nobody saw nothin’. There was plenty of activity along the seawall, but it was morning traffic, people getting to work in one of the shops in Bayside, or on one of the tour boats tied up by the wall. None of this crowd had been keeping watch in the dark of the night. All those people had gone home to their well-earned rest, no doubt after a full night of staring anxiously into the darkness, alert for every danger—or possibly just watching TV. But Deborah dutifully collected names and telephone numbers of all the night security personnel and then came back to me and scowled, as if it was all my fault because she had found nothing and I was the one who had made her look for it.
We stood on the seawall not far from the
Biscayne Pearl
, one of the boats that provided tours of the city by water, and Deborah squinted along the wall toward Bayside. Then she shook her head and started to walk back toward the Torch, and I tagged along.
“Somebody saw something,” she said, and I hoped she sounded more convincing to herself than she did to me. “Had to. You can’t lug a full-grown cop onto the seawall and all the way up to the Torch and nobody sees you.”
“Freddy Krueger could,” I said.
Deborah whacked me on the upper arm, but her heart really wasn’t in it this time, and it was relatively easy for me to stop myself from screaming with pain.
“All I need,” she said, “is to have more of that supernatural bullshit going around. One of the guys actually asked Duarte if we could get a
santero
in here, just in case.”
I nodded. It might make sense to bring in a
santero
, one of Santeria’s priests, if you believed in that sort of thing, and a surprising number of Miami’s citizens did. “What did Duarte tell him?” Deborah snorted. “He said, ‘What’s a
santero
?’ ”
I looked at her to see if she was kidding; every Cuban-American knew
santeros
. Odds were good there was at least one in his very own family. But of course, they hadn’t asked Duarte in French, and anyway, before I could pretend to get the joke and then pretend to laugh, Debs went on. “I know this guy’s a psycho, but he’s a live human being, too,” she said, and I was relatively sure she didn’t mean Duarte. “He isn’t invisible, and he didn’t teleport in and out.”
She paused by a large tree and looked up at it thoughtfully, and then turned back around the way we’d come. “Lookit this,” she said, pointing up at the tree and then back to the
Pearl
. “If he ties up right there by the tour boat,” she said, “he’s got cover from these trees most of the way to the Torch.”
“Not quite invisible,” I said. “But pretty close.”
“Right beside the fucking boat,” she muttered. “They
had
to see something.”
“Unless they were asleep,” I said.
She just shook her head and then looked toward the Torch along the line of trees as if she was aiming a rifle, and then shrugged and began to
But because this was Miami, it was at least possible that somebody had, in fact, seen something of the sort, and simply decided not to report it. Maybe they were afraid it would make them a target, or they didn’t want the police to find out they had no green card. Modern life being what it is, it was even possible that there was a really good episode of
Mythbusters
on TV and they wanted to watch the end. So for the next hour or so, Debs and her team went all along the seawall looking for that Certain Special Someone.
Not surprisingly—at least, not to me—they didn’t find him or her. Nobody knew nothin’; nobody saw nothin’. There was plenty of activity along the seawall, but it was morning traffic, people getting to work in one of the shops in Bayside, or on one of the tour boats tied up by the wall. None of this crowd had been keeping watch in the dark of the night. All those people had gone home to their well-earned rest, no doubt after a full night of staring anxiously into the darkness, alert for every danger—or possibly just watching TV. But Deborah dutifully collected names and telephone numbers of all the night security personnel and then came back to me and scowled, as if it was all my fault because she had found nothing and I was the one who had made her look for it.
We stood on the seawall not far from the
Biscayne Pearl
, one of the boats that provided tours of the city by water, and Deborah squinted along the wall toward Bayside. Then she shook her head and started to walk back toward the Torch, and I tagged along.
“Somebody saw something,” she said, and I hoped she sounded more convincing to herself than she did to me. “Had to. You can’t lug a full-grown cop onto the seawall and all the way up to the Torch and nobody sees you.”
“Freddy Krueger could,” I said.
Deborah whacked me on the upper arm, but her heart really wasn’t in it this time, and it was relatively easy for me to stop myself from screaming with pain.
“All I need,” she said, “is to have more of that supernatural bullshit going around. One of the guys actually asked Duarte if we could get a
santero
in here, just in case.”
I nodded. It might make sense to bring in a
santero
, one of Santeria’s priests, if you believed in that sort of thing, and a surprising number of Miami’s citizens did. “What did Duarte tell him?” Deborah snorted. “He said, ‘What’s a
santero
?’ ”
I looked at her to see if she was kidding; every Cuban-American knew
santeros
. Odds were good there was at least one in his very own family. But of course, they hadn’t asked Duarte in French, and anyway, before I could pretend to get the joke and then pretend to laugh, Debs went on. “I know this guy’s a psycho, but he’s a live human being, too,” she said, and I was relatively sure she didn’t mean Duarte. “He isn’t invisible, and he didn’t teleport in and out.”
She paused by a large tree and looked up at it thoughtfully, and then turned back around the way we’d come. “Lookit this,” she said, pointing up at the tree and then back to the
Pearl
. “If he ties up right there by the tour boat,” she said, “he’s got cover from these trees most of the way to the Torch.”
“Not quite invisible,” I said. “But pretty close.”
“Right beside the fucking boat,” she muttered. “They
had
to see something.”
“Unless they were asleep,” I said.
She just shook her head and then looked toward the Torch along the line of trees as if she was aiming a rifle, and then shrugged and began to
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