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has clung to the edge of Sarasota Bay for more than forty years, serving up large helpings of seafood, much of it caught earlier that day by the restaurant’s own boats. The stone crabs had just come into season, and the place was packed. Jock and I took seats at the U-shaped bar that was separated by a wall from the restaurant proper.A large stuffed tarpon dominated the west wall of the bar, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label stuck spout first into its mouth. The north wall was mirrored and TV sets perched in their brackets in each corner, both tuned to a sports channel. Large windows were set into the south wall, giving a view twelve miles down the bay to the city of Sarasota.
    My friend Debbie no longer worked there, and I missed her every time I came into the place. She’d gotten married at the end of the summer to a man who owned a small chain of movie theaters in the Midwest.
    They’d moved to Lakewood Ranch out east of I-75, and Debbie was managing a high-end restaurant in the small village that catered to the wealthy retirees who had bought the homes that bordered the golf courses. I’d had dinner with the happy couple the week before and kept up with her through regular e-mails.
    Barbara had taken Debbie’s place behind the bar and was fast making friends of all the regulars. She put a Miller Lite in front of me, and I introduced her to Jock. He ordered and she went for his O’Doul’s.
    “I gathered from your phone call with J.D. that you knew the lady they found in the bay,” Jock said.
    “I’ve only met her a time or two, but I know her husband, Gene Alexander. He’s a friend of Les Fulcher.”
    “Shit.” Jock pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket and punched a button, waited, then, “Dave, did Gene Alexander retire to Longboat Key, Florida?” Silence. “Yeah. I think his wife’s been killed. I’ll call you back when I know more.” He hung up.
    “What is it, Jock?” I asked.
    “Alexander was one of ours.”
    “He worked for your agency?”
    “Yes. Can’t be two Gene Alexanders on this island. Does the guy you know have just one leg?”
    “Yeah. He lost a battle with a land mine in Vietnam. He wears a prosthesis though, and if he has on long pants, you’d never know it.”
    “Gene was one of our analysts. A damn good one, too. Worked for us for thirty years and retired. I heard that he’d moved here last year. I was planning to look him up for a beer this trip.”
    “Did you know his wife?” I asked.
    “I’ve known her for years, but it was more of an office wife sort of thing. We never socialized. It just wasn’t the kind of thing you do in an agency like ours. I worked a lot with Gene. He had an eye for the unusual blips in all the intel that came across his desk. He saved my ass more than once by keeping me a step ahead of the opposition. Did you say Gene was in Alaska?”
    “Yeah. He and Les Fulcher went out there on a fly-fishing trip. Due back this evening.”
    “Some homecoming. I wonder if J.D. would let me go with her to notify Gene.”
    “Ask her.”
    J.D. was walking through the door that separated the bar from the restaurant. She looked tired and a little sad. Murder was a rarity in our island world, but she’d seen a lot of it in the years she’d worked homicide for the Miami-Dade Police Department. It wasn’t something anybody ever got used to. She took a seat on the stool between us, the one we’d saved for her.
    Barb came over with a glass of white wine. “Hey, J.D.,” she said. “I heard about the murder over near Sister Key. I guess you’ve been busy today.”
    J.D. gave her a sad smile. “Unfortunately, yes. And my day isn’t over, so I’ll have to make do with this one glass. Can we move over to that table?” She pointed to a four top by the windows.
    “Sure.”
    We took our drinks to the table. J.D. said, “I wanted to talk about today, but I didn’t want the whole bar to hear about it. Lord knows, news travels fast enough on this