“Even if I’m just called in for questioning, it’ll create a ton of bad press. And if they decide to hold me, you’ll be left on your own to get us out of this disaster.”

Lily put a massive breakfast burrito in front of me and refilled my coffee. I ate half of the burrito and gave the other half to Beans.

Forty-five minutes later, Hooker and I were in the marina parking lot. The black BMW had returned and was neatly wedged between two other cars. We parked the SUV at the edge of the lot, far away from the BMW, and got out to take a look, bringing a tire iron with us.

“No blood dripping from the trunk,” Hooker said, standing to the rear of the car. “That could be a good sign.”

Hooker rapped on the trunk and called hello, but no one answered. I tried the door and found it locked, so Hooker rammed the tire iron into the crevice by the trunk lock and popped the trunk open. Empty. No blood. Hooker mashed the trunk down to make it catch.

I peeked through the driver-side window. “No blood on the seats or splattered on the windshield. The floor mat is missing from the back. Probably Rodriguez bled on it big-time. There are a few smears on the carpet but nothing major. Maybe they just drove Rodriguez to a doctor. Maybe they didn’t whack them or anything.”

“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or disappointed.”

We crossed the lot to the cement walk that ran the length of the marina. Two piers down, the Huevo yacht was a hub of activity as crew members worked to clean up the damage caused by the fire. Five men in slacks and short-sleeved dress shirts stood talking on the dock, not far from the boat. From time to time, one of the men would gesture at the boat and everyone would look that way. Two of the men held clipboards.

“Insurance agents,” I said to Hooker.

After a couple minutes, the three men from Zurich emerged from the main salon and left the boat without a backward glance, two crew members trailing behind them carrying luggage.

“Dollars to doughnuts they’re going to be coming our way,” Hooker said. “I’m guessing they’re heading for the parking lot. We need to make ourselves disappear.”

We stepped off the walkway and were immediately swallowed up by the birds-of-paradise bushes and dwarf date palms that provided a greenbelt between the walkway and the parking lot. We snaked around the palms, skirted the lot, and hid behind the SUV.

The men from Zurich and the luggage toters weren’t far behind us. They crossed the lot to the black BMW, went to the trunk, and stared at the gouges we’d just made. They looked around. They did some disgusted head shaking. They tried to open the trunk. It was jammed. They loaded the suitcases into the backseat and got into the car.

“They’re leaving,” Hooker whispered. “They’re going home. What does that mean?”

“They aren’t going home. Home is Zurich, and it’s cold in Zurich now. They’d have their suits back on if they were going home. These guys are all in short-sleeved shirts. I think they’re just getting off the boat. Probably everything smells like smoke.”

We waited until the BMW left the lot, and then we hopped into the SUV and tailed them to Collins. Easier this time. No lights. Less traffic. They drove up to a small boutique hotel where they valet-parked the car, gave their luggage over to the bell captain, and followed him into the lobby.

“I’d really like to know who these guys are,” Hooker said. “Maybe one of us could go talk to the guy at the desk and be incredibly charming and get some information out of him.”

I did an eye roll. “I can’t just walk up to the desk and start asking questions.”

“You could if you hiked your T-shirt up so the desk clerk could see some skin.”

“You’re pimping me out,” I said.

“And?”

I reached for the door handle. “If I’m not out in ten minutes, come in guns blazing and rescue me.”

I pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and tied the hem into a knot so it sat just below my boobs, leaving a lot of skin exposed. I sashayed across the street and swung my ass Suzanne style into the lobby.

It was a pretty little lobby with black and white marble floor tiles and potted palms and an elaborate gold-trimmed art deco reception desk. An immaculately tailored and turned-out man stood behind the desk. His nails were buffed, his hair was perfectly cut, his skin was flawless. He wore a tiny rainbow pin in his lapel. I untied my shirt and tucked it back into my jeans. It was going to take more than a bare stomach to entice this guy. The bare stomach was going to have to be attached to equipment I didn’t possess.

“Oh, sweetie,” he said to me. “You’re too perfect to cover up. This is South Beach. You work out, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“What can I do for you? If you’re looking to make rent money, I might have something for you.”

Okay, so I came in half naked and swinging my hips…it was still sort of upsetting that I was instantly sized up as a hooker. “I’m not cheap,” I said to him.

“Of course not! Although, a manicure might not be a bad idea. And you are showing some roots.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Three men just checked in. Would one of them be looking for a…lady? The one with the blue shirt and touch of gray at the temples?”

“He didn’t request one. Although, Mr. Miranda has stayed here before, and in the past has used our ser vices to obtain female companionship.”

“I thought I recognized him. I did him last year. He was here for the Orange Bowl, right? I remember him because he has a crooked…you know.”

“Don’t you hate that?” the desk clerk said. “Did you charge extra?”

“What’s his first name again?”

“Anthony.”

“Anthony Miranda. Yep, that’s the guy.” I borrowed the pen on the counter and wrote a fake number on the back of a hotel brochure. “Here’s my cell number,” I said to the desk clerk. “Tell Anthony Miranda that Dolly says hello.” I swung my ass out of the lobby, across the street, and into the SUV. “Anthony Miranda,” I said to Hooker.

“Anything else?”

“That’s it. Just a name. I probably could have learned more, but I would have needed a manicure.”

Hooker returned to the marina lot, parked, and got Skippy up on the speakerphone.

“I need some help,” Hooker said to Skippy.

“No shit.”

“I need information on a guy. Anthony Miranda. Know anything about him?”

“No.”

“Well, Google him or something and call me back.”

“Whatever happened to the good old days when all NASCAR had to worry about were pregnant pit lizards and trashed hotel rooms? Earnhardt Senior wouldn’t have called up and asked me to Google for him. He was a driver.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Hooker said, disconnecting.

“You’re a good driver,” I said to Hooker. “You just suck as a detective.”

A limo pulled into the lot and idled at the path leading to the marina. The limo door opened, and Suzanne Huevo got out. She was wearing a pale yellow suit, her hair was pulled tight, her doggie bag was on her shoulder, and her earlobes were weighed down with diamonds.

“Damage inspection,” Hooker said.

Suzanne disappeared down the path, and the limo waited at idle. Five minutes later, Suzanne reappeared, got into the limo, and the limo took off.

Hooker put the SUV in gear. “Might as well follow her,” he said. “We follow everyone else. And we haven’t got anything else to do.”

The limo rolled down Collins and pulled into the porte cochere on a condo building a couple doors down from the Ritz. Suzanne got out and strutted into the building. The limo left.

“Huh,” Hooker said. “That didn’t amount to much. This is where she’s living now.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“There’s a Starbucks around the corner. We could get coffee and one of those cranberry cakes with the icing on top.”

“I meant do you have any ideas about how we can get ourselves off the Most Wanted list.”