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he had lapped me. Again. My aching left shoulder, courtesy of shrapnel from the Battle of Chora in Afghanistan, complemented with a bullet I’d taken to the same shoulder the night Impulse took one in a speaker, confirmed Morgan’s observation. Hard to believe ten and two for two hours, but my mind had raced so far ahead of the truck that I barely remembered the drive. As for the Jones reference, it didn’t surprise me. He’d told me the James Jones war trilogy was among his favorites. Mine as well. Kathleen had presented me with first editions for my birthday, and Morgan had borrowed them, as he planned to reread them.
    “And”—guess he wasn’t done—“whatever is eating you is unlikely to be resolved in a day or two, or else you would have told me why we’re here.”
    “You had your plugs in.” It was a weak defensive remark. I should have just taken the Fifth.
    The elevator arrived—four stabs at the button, for future reference, is the magic number—and we stepped in after the lady. She exited two floors before us. The beach went with her. We both observed until the doors, like metal stage curtains, sliced our vision shut. When a woman leaves an elevator and a man is left behind, it’s impossible for the man not to watch as she walks away. Above all, trust me on this.
    “And you never would have left without the essentials,” Morgan said.
    I peered into the box he hugged against his chest: 1800 Reposado tequila, Grant Marnier, limes, a partially eaten block of Welsh cheddar, bread, wine, and tapenade. And speakers. The man is a connoisseur of what goes in his ears. He thinks Edison’s gift—music from air—to be the greatest invention of all.
    We entered our unit, and Morgan took the back room with double beds and left me the Gulf-front bedroom with the king. He announced he was going for a walk and would meet me at Fish Head. The door slammed shut, and I said, “Okay.” I gazed down at the Gulf from nine floors up.
    Jenny Spencer.
    Susan had called when I was in the truck. She instructed me when to meet at her house and provided more details. The police considered Jenny’s actions on the beach to be self-defense, yet she had run. Maybe she just needed some time alone. Maybe she was sitting in a dark booth, spilling it all to a priest. Maybe she’d do evolution a favor and go for the priest too. Hard to say. Dead bodies collect more than fleas. They collect interest, stories, guilt, and often revenge.
    But those things had nothing to do with why my hands had been glued to ten and two.
    I had called Kathleen before we’d left and informed her I was going to Fort Myers Beach for a day or so. I told her an old friend called and was worried because her niece had run away. I gave their names but omitted that the “old friend” was a hot woman I didn’t trust myself to be around. Think that makes a difference? At worst, I’d get a ticket for being disingenuous.
    “Teenage runaway?” Kathleen had asked.
    I’d hesitated then said, “There’s a body involved.”
    She came in late. “You’re going back in, aren’t you?”
    When I left the army, Colonel Janssen had recruited me, along with my partner, Garrett Demarcus, for contract work. I’d been making a good living recovering stolen boats and could still take on an occasional misplaced vessel. Easy money. Guy buys a boat for half a mil and sells it to the Columbians for two fifty. He then reports it stolen and files an insurance claim for 500K. They acquiesce, and he makes 50 percent on his investment. It’s not that simple, because it’s burrowed funds, but that’ll suffice. Scenario two: The insurance company hires me for 20 percent of the boat’s retail value. I locate the boat and return it to the company. They pay me 100K and unload the boat. The same game occurs in the art world, but instead of turning the trick with a Donzi, they flip a Degas. It’s not all tea and crumpets. Occasionally, I need to tango with men brandishing