I was about to order more coffee when Hooker showed up. He sauntered across the room and slouched into the seat next to me. “What’s her problem?” he asked.

“Four martinis. Maybe five. I lost count. How’d you get here? I have the car in valet parking.”

“Took a cab.” Hooker turned his attention to me, grinning. “Darlin’, you’re snockered.”

“What gave me away?”

“For starters, you’ve got your hand on my leg.”

I looked down. Sure enough, my hand was on his leg. “I don’t know how that happened. Don’t get any ideas,” I told him.

“Too late. I have lots of ideas.”

“I hope one of those ideas is about getting Suzanne back to her room.”

Hooker ate a cold onion ring. “Why can’t we just leave her here?”

“We can’t do that. She’d be a spectacle.”

“And?”

“I like her. We’ve sort of bonded.”

“Have you tried waking her?” he asked.

“Yeah. She’s out for the count.”

“Okay, sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

A couple minutes later Hooker returned with a wheelchair.

“That’s genius,” I told him.

“Sometimes this is the only way I can get my team back to their rooms at night. The luggage cart works good, too.”

We got Suzanne into the wheelchair, placed her jacket and the doggie bag on her lap, and Hooker started rolling her toward the door. I followed behind Hooker, took a misstep, and crashed into an empty table. I grabbed at the white linen cloth in an effort to find my balance and took the entire table setting down to the floor with me. Cups, saucers, plates, silverware, napkins, and the little flower vase all slid off the table with the cloth. I was on my back, spread-eagled with the cloth and the crockery around me, and Hooker’s face swam into view.

“Are you okay?” Hooker asked.

“I’m having a hard time focusing. I have the whirlies. You aren’t laughing at me, are you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I look silly.”

“Yeah,” Hooker said, a smile in his voice. “But I don’t mind. I like when you’re on your back.”

He reached down and scooped me up, setting me on my feet, holding me close to him, picking smashed crockery out of my hair. I could hear waiters scrambling around, setting things right. “Is she all right?” the waiters were asking. “Is there anything we can do? Does she need a doctor?”

“Just lost her balance,” Hooker said, positioning me behind the wheelchair, my hands on the handles. “Inner-ear problem. Ménière’s disease. Can’t let her drive. Very sad case.” He had his hand on my back. “Just push the wheelchair, darlin’. We need to take the nice sleepy lady back to her room.”

Hooker scrounged in Suzanne’s bag when we got to the elevator and found her room key still in the envelope marked with her room number. He maneuvered us into the elevator, pushed the button, herded us out at the appropriate floor, and walked us down the hall to Suzanne’s suite.

The suite looked out at the ocean. The décor was South Beach modern, Loews style. Pale pastel fabrics and light woods. Gauzy curtains at the balcony window. Her luggage was in the middle of the living room, still unpacked.

I hung the doggie bag on my shoulder, and Hooker pulled the widow Huevo out of the wheelchair and flopped her onto the bed.

“Mission accomplished,” Hooker said. “Hop into the wheelchair, and I’ll push you out of here.”

“What about Itsy Poo?”

“What’s an Itsy Poo?”

I opened the bag and the tiny dog head popped out.

“What is it?” Hooker wanted to know.

“It’s a dog.”

Hooker looked at the tufted head with the little pink bow. “Darlin’, that’s not a dog. Beans is a dog. This is…what the heck is this? Beans would think this was a snack.”

“It’s a miniature something.” I put the bag on the floor and Itsy Poo jumped out and started investigating.

Loews had set out a doggy welcome center complete with place mat, dog bowls, treats, a chew bone, and a map to the dog park. Hooker filled one of the bowls with water and put a couple treats in the other. “That should hold whatever it is until its owner wakes up,” he said.

“Stick a fork in me,” I told Hooker. “I’m not too far behind Suzanne Huevo.”

“I don’t want to drive all the way back to Little Havana,” Hooker said. “The action seems to be here in South Beach. I’m going to check you into the hotel and take the car back to the marina so I can watch the boat.”

Even before I opened my eyes, I felt disoriented. Too many room changes. The motel at Homestead, Felicia’s guest room, and now I sensed something different again. Big bed; very comfy, warm body next to me; heavy arm across my chest. I looked down at the arm. Tan. Blond hair on the arm. Damn. I was in bed with Hooker. I peeked under the covers. I was wearing my T-shirt and panties. Hooker was in boxers. The boxers were blue with pink flamingoes. Cute.

“Morning,” Hooker said.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

“Sleeping?”

“Why don’t you have your own bed?”

Hooker eased his hand up under my breast. “You don’t remember?”

I pushed the hand down. “No.”

“You begged me to sleep with you.”

I rolled out of bed and collected my clothes. “I don’t think so. I was drunk. I wasn’t insane.”

“I watched the boat until midnight and didn’t see Beans. I don’t think he’s on the boat. Did you learn anything good from the grieving widow?”

“The only thing she’s mourning is the fact that she didn’t get to kill Oscar herself. And she doesn’t think a lot of Ray. Turns out he’s squatting in a boat her sons are due to inherit. She said Huevo Enterprises owns the boat, and Oscar was Huevo Enterprises.”

“I talked to some people last night while I was hanging out at the marina. Word on the street is that the lion’s share of everything goes to the two boys, but Ray is executor until they reach thirty. And that’s ten years down the pike.”

“Anybody know what Suzanne’s going to get?”

“Speculation is…not much. Couple million maybe. The bulk of the assets are in Mexico. No joint property.”

“I’m taking a shower and then I’m going downstairs for breakfast.”

“I’ll go to breakfast with you,” Hooker said. “Just in case you need coffee.”

An hour and lots of pancakes later, Hooker and I were in the lobby, waiting for the elevator, wishing we knew what to do next. The elevator doors opened, and two men stepped out. They were Hispanic. They were wearing dark suits. One was maybe five nine, slim build, bald, pockmarked face, sharp features, bright bird eyes. The other was huge and frighteningly familiar. Horse and Baldy. They didn’t look our way. They were in a hurry, moving toward the hotel’s main entrance.

“It’s them,” I said to Hooker. “It’s Horse and Baldy.”

“Are you sure?”

My stomach was clenched into a painful knot. “I’m sure.”

We trailed behind Horse and Baldy and watched them get into a black BMW. Hooker grabbed a cab and told the driver to follow the Beemer. It wasn’t a long drive. Horse and Baldy parked in the lot at the marina.

“Wow, big surprise,” Hooker said.

It was too early for the tiki bar at Monty’s, so we sat on one of the benches that lined the marina walkway. Horse and Baldy approached the Huevo gangplank and were waved onboard. They went straight to the first-deck salon and disappeared.

We hadn’t been prepared to leave the hotel. No hats. No sunglasses. No binoculars. After a half hour, Hooker was fidgeting.

“I hate sitting around like this,” Hooker said. “It’s boring.”

“I agree. Let’s take turns. I’ll take the first watch, and you can go back to the hotel and get our stuff. We need a car, anyway, in case we want to follow somebody. Maybe one of these guys is the Beans snatcher.”

The sun was just beginning to warm Miami. The water in the marina was as smooth as glass. The air was still. No breeze to rustle palm fronds. The boats were leisurely coming to life. The morning aroma of coffee brewing in galleys mingled with the sharper scent of ocean brine.