“How’s it going, Hurd?”

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Shine.”

“Call me Ed; everyone does.”

“We seem to be in good shape, Ed.”

“You meet your new employees?”

“Yes, one’s on the gate, and the other is back at the station, manning the phones.”

“When is your first golf lesson?”

“I haven’t scheduled anything yet.”

“Start soon; the pro is bored rigid.”

“I’ll do that, Ed. See you later.” Hurd drove on past the empty tennis courts, then turned and went out to the airfield. A King Air twin turboprop, belonging to Shine, was the sole aircraft parked there. Then, as he watched, a business jet came whistling in and landed on the six-thousand-foot runway. A large van bearing the Blood Orchid logo drove up, just in time to meet the airplane as it taxied in. Hurd saw a group of four men, all accompanied by rather flashy women, disembark and be greeted by the salesman. They all piled into the van, while the airplane’s crew stowed their luggage in the rear, then they drove off, just another group arriving to hear Ed Shine’s sales pitch. They’d be put up in the guest cottages and would, no doubt, be on the golf course by mid-afternoon.

Hurd drove back to his office and parked the Range Rover. One of his two officers sat, his feet on the desk, obviously talking to a woman. Hurd pushed his feet off the desk to get his attention, and the officer put his hand over the phone.

“Yeah, what is it?” he asked irritably.

“Hang up the phone; you’re at work.”

“I’ll call you back, baby,” the man said, then hung up.

“Not from the office, you won’t,” Hurd said, “and not from a patrol car, either. Talk to her on your own time; right now, you’re at work.”

“There isn’t any work,” the man said.

“Then find a broom and sweep up,” Hurd said, going into his office. The man had a point, he thought; the golf pro wasn’t the only staffer who was bored rigid. He looked out his window at the shop across the street, where a truck of goods was being unloaded. This was the first of the shops to be reopened, and Hurd had not met the man who ran it.

He got up and went across the street, introduced himself to the man, whose name was Carter.

“What sort of shop are you opening?” Hurd asked.

“Jewelry,” the man said, setting down a carton on a showcase and lifting out a number of trays filled with diamond earrings and bracelets.

“Looks expensive.”

“You better believe it,” Carter said. “That’s the way Ed wants it.”

“You know, we’re a little underpopulated here so far; it may be a while before you have some customers.”

“Hurd, my first customers are already here,” Carter said, nodding at the group approaching the shop. The people who Hurd had seen get off the jet walked in and started shopping immediately, forcing Carter to open more cartons.

Hurd left them to get on with it and went back to his office. He had nothing else to do, so he started setting up a file system, one for each property on the place. It took him less than an hour, and when he was finished, he had nothing to do. He picked up the phone and called the golf club.

Holly found Harry Crisp on the other end of the phone.

“Afternoon, Harry,” she said.

“Hello, Holly.” His cold sounded a little worse. “Where did you get this tattoo you sent me?”

“From the guy who came to my house with pizza and tried to kill me,” she said. Somebody came into the room and handed her a report on the man’s fingerprints. “And his prints were on file with the INS.”

“What’s his name?”

“Alexei Bronsky. He emigrated to the States less than a year ago, supposedly resides in New York.”

“What else do you have on him?”

“Just his prints and the tattoo. The ME said he might have been a boxer at one time; there was evidence that he’d taken one or more beatings, although he looked like the kind of guy who’d be delivering them. What did you get on the tattoo?”

“This is really weird,” Harry said. “D.C. had only seen one other like it, also on a dead guy. They traced it back to a special branch of what used to be the KGB, a branch that was devoted to rough stuff. Your dead guy was probably not a very nice person.”

“That was my impression when he was shooting at me,” Holly replied. “You get anything yet on the background of Pio Pellegrino?”

“Nothing yet,” Harry said. “I’ll let you know.”

Harry didn’t sound very convincing.

“Harry, you’re not holding out on me, are you? Remember the two-way information highway?”

Harry ignored her. “I got the report from Sarasota about the double homicide.”

“Yeah. We’ve got to get Trini off the streets or we’ll be wading in blood.”

“I’ve got Lauderdale, Miami, and the state police all over it,” Harry said. “We’ll pick him up soon.”

“Harry, how did your tail lose Trini after I called you in?”

“They, uh, just lost him; the guy’s good.”

“How does a red Explorer just vanish?”

“Holly, let it go, will you? I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up.

Holly had the distinct feeling that the two-way information highway was running in only one direction again.

Holly arrived back at Grant’s house to find Grant and Marina having a drink in the living room. Marina was wearing her new clothes, but she still seemed very subdued.

“You look very nice,” Holly said, pouring herself a bourbon and sitting down.

“It’s a very nice mall-big discounts,” Marina said. “Holly, what am I going to do about burying my mother and my aunt?”

“There are certain procedures the Sarasota police will have to go through before the bodies can be released,” Holly said. “It will probably be a few days. Do you know of a funeral home in Lauderdale?”

“Yes, the one that buried Carlos,” Marina replied. “They were all right.”

“You might want to call them and put them in touch with the Sarasota police, so that they can bring the bodies home.”

“All right, I’ll call them tomorrow morning.”

“Remember not to tell them where you are.”

“I’ll give them my cellphone number,” Marina said. She set down her drink. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go and have a nap before dinner.” She rose and went upstairs.

“So, how was your day?” Holly asked Grant.

“Okay,” he replied. “And yours?”

“Less than okay. I’m getting the distinct impression that Harry is holding out on me again.”

Grant looked uncomfortable but didn’t say anything.

“He and I supposedly had an agreement to share information,” she said, “and it’s not happening. I tried to talk to him about the background check on Pio Pellegrino, and he cut me off and hung up.”

Grant stared at the ceiling and sighed.

“What?”

“I’m trying to think of a way you could have found this out, other than from me.”

“Find what out?”

“You’re going to have to keep this to yourself, Holly; if Harry should find out…”

“Grant, what are you talking about?”

“Pio Pellegrino’s real name is Pietro Falcone; his father kept his old name, Ignacio. He was known in New York as Iggy the Finger.”

“Iggy the Finger? That’s colorful. What does it mean?”

“If Iggy wanted a guy taken out, he would point his finger at him and wiggle his thumb, like the hammer on a gun. He always smiled when he did it, but the guy who got the finger got dead.”

“Why did they change their names?”

“Iggy was high up in the New York mob, one of three or four top guys. He got off on a murder rap about four years ago and just faded into the wallpaper. We finally stopped tapping his phones, it got so boring. Then he just dropped off the map.”

“What about Pio?”

“His daddy’s boy. He had a clean sheet, but he was a main go-between for the old man. They disappeared together. A year or so later, Pietro opens the restaurant in Miami, and he has a success. Nobody made him and the old man for a while, and when we did, we figured they were retired.”