“You got that from Star Trek.”

“Yeah, that was a great movie. It had whales and everything.” Hooker plugged the key into the ignition and cranked the motor over. “Let’s drive out to the airport. I want to see who’s arriving tonight.”

Hooker was stretched back in his seat, hands locked behind his head, eyes closed against the ambient light from the terminal.

“Surveillance doesn’t actually work if you keep your eyes closed,” I told Hooker.

“Are your eyes open?”

“Yes.”

“Good enough.”

We were parked to the side of the Signature terminal, and there wasn’t a lot of activity.

“The plane’s late,” I said to Hooker.

“If they’re coming from out of the country, they have to go through customs and immigration, and it’s in a different part of the airport. After they clear customs, they’ll get back into the plane, and the plane will taxi them over here. I’ve been through the process at this airport, and it usually goes pretty fast, but the plane still has to get from point A to point B.”

At nine thirty-five, three men in suits and two men in uniform exited the terminal. The men in uniform and two of the suits carried luggage. Three small rolling suitcases and a computer case. They were traveling light. The third man was luggage free. They were all Caucasian. The uniformed men were young, in their twenties. Flight attendants. The three men in suits were forties to fifties. I didn’t recognize any of them. That didn’t say a lot because I never recognized anyone. Okay, maybe if Brad Pitt walked by. The Russian premier, the queen of England, our own vice president (what’s-his-name), the ambassador to Bulgaria, were all safe with me.

“Do you think this is our man?” I asked Hooker.

“Seems to be the only plane with a nine o’clock landing.”

“Do you recognize any of these guys?”

“No. They look like average middle-management businessmen.”

A six-seat limo pulled up, the luggage was loaded, the three suits got into the limo, and the limo pulled away with us a couple car lengths behind. We followed the limo south on Route 95 and then east on 395, across the MacArthur Causeway. The lights of South Beach were directly in front of us. Four behemoth cruise ships parked at the Biscayne Bay cruise ship docks were to my right. I’d expected the limo to take Collins and head for Loews or the Delano or the Ritz. Instead, the limo right turned onto Alton.

“He’s going to the boat,” I said to Hooker. “What does that mean?”

“I’m guessing no one’s told him about the missing Ray.”

The limo pulled into the marina lot and stopped at idle in front of the walkway leading to the piers. Lights still on. Motor running. Hooker cut his lights and slid into a shadowed slot at the back of the lot.

Two uniformed crew members came running from dockside. They were followed by someone who was also in uniform but clearly was higher on the food chain. Maybe the captain or purser. The limo driver got out and popped the trunk. The three suits got out, and after a brief conversation, the luggage was turned over to the crew members, and everyone headed for the boat. The limo driver got into his car and drove away.

“Looks like these guys were invited to stay on the boat and the invitation stands,” Hooker said.

Hooker and I got out, quietly closed the car doors, skirted the lot, and found a dark bench on the marina boardwalk where we could watch the action. Problem was, there didn’t seem to be any action to watch. The three men had disappeared into the bowels of the ship and all was quiet.

“This is sort of boring,” Hooker said. “We should do something.”

“What did you have in mind?”

He inched closer to me.

“No,” I said.

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“I want to see what’s going on inside the boat. Let’s walk down the pier and look in the windows.”

We passed through the gate that said OWNERS AND GUESTS ONLY and walked the length of the wood dock. The Huevo boat was still tied up at the very end of the pier. Both decks were lit, but the salon and cabin windows were tinted and not much could be seen. A uniformed crew member stood watch.

Hooker took his cell phone out of his pocket and called the boat number. We could very faintly hear Huevo’s phone ringing inside the salon. A male voice answered and said that Ray Huevo was not available. Hooker didn’t leave a message.

“He could be in there,” I said. Wishful thinking.

“It’s unlikely.”

“But not impossible. Maybe we could see more from the other side.”

“Darlin’, there’s water on the other side.”

“Yeah, we need a boat.”

Hooker looked down at me. “And you would get one how?”

“We could borrow one. There are lots of little boats here. I bet no one would mind if we borrowed one for a couple minutes.”

“You want to steal a boat?”

“Borrow,” I said.

“Okay,” Hooker said, taking my hand. “Let’s go for a stroll and look around.”

We got to the last pier and Hooker stopped in front of a medium-size cabin cruiser. Dark inside. Nobody home.

“I know the guy who owns this boat,” Hooker said. “He’s only here weekends. And he keeps a dingy tied to the back. It should be easy to borrow.”

We climbed onto the boat and made our way to the back where the dingy was tied, just as Hooker had predicted. We scrambled into the boat, Hooker released the rope and turned the key. The motor hummed to life and Hooker pushed off.

“Keep your eyes open,” Hooker said. “I don’t want to run into anything.”

There was just a sliver of moon in the sky. The piers were lit and some of the boats had their running lights on. A few boats had interior lights on, as well, but not much light reflected onto the black water. The air was still. No wind. Not a lot of tide running.

Boats occasionally came and went at night here, but none was currently under way. Only us. We came abreast of the Huevo boat and sat at a distance, watching. Not much was happening. Windows and doors were closed and sound wasn’t carrying.

“Huh,” I said. “Disappointing.”

Hooker was fidgeting around in the dingy. He’d turned to the back and was poking through a watertight chest. “I might be able to produce some action. At least get everyone on deck so we can take a head count.”

I looked over his shoulder, into the chest. “What did you have in mind?”

Hooker pulled a snub-nosed, fat-barreled gun out of the chest. “Flare gun. I could lob a flare over the boat and maybe draw them out.” He two-handed the gun, holding it at arm’s length, raised the barrel so the flare would arc high, and pulled the trigger. A flare went off with a loud phunnf and sailed into the night sky. The flare gracefully curved up and away from us, reached its zenith, fell on a sloping downward trajectory toward the Huevo yacht…and crashed through a window on the first deck.

“Oops,” Hooker said.

The flare exploded with a burst of light that danced around the main salon like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Sound carried out through the gaping hole in the tinted window, and we could hear the hiss of the flare and the panicked voices of the people inside.

Hooker and I sat in stupefied, bug-eyed silence. There was a small explosion, and then the crackle of fire, and a yellow flame licked up the side of the salon.

“Oh shit,” Hooker whispered. “If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

“You have some good luck. You have me.”

“I don’t have you. You won’t even sleep with me.”

“That’s true, but I’m here with you now.”

Hooker got that look in his eyes.

“No,” I said.

“How about you tie the anchor to my ankle and throw it overboard.”

“I have a better idea. How about we sneak away before someone sees us sitting out here.”