It was early morning and the sky over Miami was a brilliant azure. Not a cloud visible, and already the sun was heating things up. It was the first day of the workweek in a neighborhood of hardworking people. Clumps of Cuban immigrants and first-generation Americans stood waiting at bus stops. Not far off, in South Beach, the traffic was light and the gleaming and immaculate pricey cars of the rich and famous were cooling off in air-conditioned garages after a night on the town. In Little Havana, dusty trucks and workhorse family sedans hustled down streets, carrying kids to relatives’ houses for day care and adults to jobs citywide.

Hooker drove past the front of the warehouse and turned at the corner. He circled the block and we looked for cars occupied by cops, Huevo henchmen, or crazed fans. There were no occupied cars that we could see, and the traffic was minimal, so Hooker found a parking spot on the street and we unloaded Beans. Felicia had given us a key to the side door. We let ourselves in, switched the lights on, and closed and locked the door behind us.

Everything was just as we’d left it. I found a jumpsuit, pulled on a pair of gloves, and went to work on the car.

“What can I do?” Hooker asked.

“You can go through the hauler and make sure there aren’t any more dead people in there.”

Hooker prowled through the hauler and cleaned up after me as I methodically examined the car.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked.

“No. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t here. It just means I haven’t found it yet.”

Hooker looked inside the car. “I have to give Huevo credit. They take every opportunity to make the car better. Right down to the gearshift knob.”

“Yeah, I’m taking the knob with me. It’s aluminum and super light. They’ve even used a carved design to shave an ounce off it. I thought we might adapt it for your cars. Steal the concept but change the design.”

The side door opened and Felicia and Rosa bustled in.

“It’s all over the television,” Rosa said. “It’s a big hoohah.” She looked at Beans, sprawled on a blanket we’d lifted out of the hauler. “What’s with him? Why isn’t he trying to knock us over?”

“He’s got a stomach full of French toast and sausage. He’s sleeping it off.”

“Good to remember,” Rosa said.

“We saw pictures of Mr. Dead Guy,” Felicia said. “He was on the news. They have a television at the cigar factory and Rosa saw it and called me so I could put the television on at the fruit stand. First they had pictures of Mr. Dead Guy getting taken away in the truck thing…what’s it called?”

“Meat wagon,” Rosa said.

Felicia shook her finger at Rosa. “Don’t stand near me if you’re going to disrespect the dead. I don’t want God to get confused when he sends the lightning bolt down.”

“You worry too much,” Rosa told Felicia. “God’s a busy guy. He don’t have time to micromanage. What are the chances he heard that? It’s early in the morning. He’s probably having breakfast with Mrs. God.”

Felicia made the sign of the cross two times.

“Anyway, they had him covered up with a blanket in those pictures,” Felicia said. “You couldn’t actually see him. But then they interviewed the restaurant worker who found Mr. Dead Guy, and this is the good part…the worker said this was the work of some kind of monster killer who eats dead flesh. He said Mr. Dead Guy was all wrapped up like a mummy, but that he could see through the plastic wrap that he was shot in the head and that someone ate part of Mr. Dead Guy’s shoulder. And it was someone with real big teeth.”

“And then there was a press conference and the police person said it was true that someone or something had eaten part of the deceased. And they think the fact he was all wrapped up might be part of some devil ritual,” Rosa said.

“They didn’t say devil,” Felicia said. “They just said ritual.”

“They didn’t have to say devil,” Rosa said. “What other kind of ritual could it be? You think they used him for shrink-wrap practice at butcher school? Of course it would be a devil ritual.”

“Then they showed some pictures of him before he got wrapped up,” Felicia said. “Pictures of him with his wife. And a picture of him with his race driver.”

“What about the hauler?” Hooker asked Rosa and Felicia. “Did anyone say anything about the missing sixty-nine car hauler?”

“No,” Rosa said. “Nobody said anything about that. And I got a theory. You ever see the girlfriend that goes along with the Mr. Dead Guy race driver? I bet she’s the one ate Mr. Dead Guy.”

“Beans ate Mr. Dead Guy,” Felicia said. “We saw it.”

“Oh yeah,” Rosa said. “I forgot.”

“We gotta get back to work,” Felicia said, heading for the door. “We just wanted to tell you.”

“We need to talk,” Hooker said to me. “Let’s take a break here and find a diner. I didn’t get a chance to eat at Felicia’s house. And after the diner, I need to go shopping. You took your bag with you, but I’ve just got the clothes on my back. I thought I’d be home by now.”

I pulled my gloves off and peeled myself out of the jumpsuit. Hooker snapped the leash on Beans and we locked up and loaded ourselves into the SUV. It was a couple blocks to a bunch of coffee houses and small restaurants on Calle Ocho. Hooker chose a restaurant that advertised breakfast and had a shaded parking lot attached. We cracked the window for Beans and told him to hang tight and promised to bring him a muffin.

It was a medium-size restaurant with booths against the wall and tables in the middle of the floor. No breakfast bar. Lots of signed photographs on the wall of people I didn’t recognize. Most of the booths were filled. The tables were empty. Hooker and I slid into one of the two empty booths, and Hooker studied the menu.

“Do you think the fact that Oscar was shot while naked and flying his colors would suggest angry husband?” I asked Hooker.

“It’s possible. What I don’t get is the shrink-wrap, hide him in the hauler, and ship him to Mexico thing. Wouldn’t it have been easier and safer to dump him in the ocean? Or turn him over to an undertaker for transport? Why would someone want to smuggle him across the border?”

The waitress brought coffee and gave Hooker the once-over. Even if you didn’t recognize Hooker, he was worth a second look. Hooker ordered eggs, sausage, a short stack of pancakes with extra syrup, home fries, a blueberry muffin for Beans, and juice. I stayed with my coffee. I figured I wasn’t going to look great in prison clothes. Best not to compound it by getting fat.

Hooker had his cell phone in his hand. “I have a friend who works for Huevo. He should be at the shop by now. I want to see what the guys know.”

Five minutes later, Hooker disconnected and the waitress showed up with his food. She gave him extra syrup, a complimentary second muffin, more juice, and she topped off his coffee.

“I’d like more coffee,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “Let me get a fresh pot.” And she left.

I looked over at Hooker. “She’s not coming back.”

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta have more faith in people. Of course she’ll come back.”

“Yeah, she’ll come back when your coffee cup is empty.”

Hooker dug into his eggs. “Butch says everyone’s in shock over Oscar Huevo. He said a lot of people weren’t all that surprised to hear Huevo was shot, but everyone’s having a cow over the shrink-wrap and the biting thing. Butch said half the garage thinks it’s the work of a werewolf, and the other half thinks it’s a contract hit. And the half that thinks it’s a hit thinks it was bought by Huevo’s wife. Apparently Huevo was getting ready to trade up, and Mrs. Huevo was mucho unhappy with Mr. Huevo.”

I looked into my coffee cup. Empty. I looked for our waitress. Nowhere to be seen.

“Anything about the hauler?” I asked Hooker.