“Anything unusual about Mr. Quick, Kevin? Did he have any visitors? Put anything in your safe?”

Kevin shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Louis folded the papers and glanced around the lobby. “I understand Mr. Quick asked about going fishing the morning he was killed. Do you know where?”

“Well, there’s lots of fishing around here.”

“Such as?”

“You could do back bay, where you hire a guide. Or you can go on one of the charters that go out to the gulf. Or you could just go down to the pier and rent a pole.”

“What do most tourists do?”

“Charters. I think I remember him looking at those brochures.” He pointed to a rack behind Louis.

Louis plucked out the four brochures on fishing charters. There were trips on everything from small skiff rentals to large overnight charters that went to the Keys. Most of the charter boats were located at Fisherman’s Wharf, near the bridge he had passed over that led to the beach.

He thanked Kevin and left. As he backtracked to the bridge, he had a sinking feeling that this, like the trip to see Van Slate, was going to be another waste of time. If Quick had shown up at Fisherman’s Wharf, the sheriff’s deputies probably had it covered. Besides, there was no proof Quick had gone fishing the day he died. The check Wainwright had run on Quick’s credit cards had revealed no charges to fishing boats. And as the hotel clerk pointed out, Quick could have gone to any number of places to fish. To top it all off, Quick’s car was found back at the hotel.

The docks fronted a narrow baylike body of water that faced Fort Myers Beach. The slips were crowded with boats: fancy sailboats, fishing skiffs like Dodie’s, and at the far end a couple of shrimp boats, great hulking contraptions festooned with nets and huge poles extending outward like antennae.

Louis scanned the charter boat office and bar that fronted the docks. The office was closed but there was music and laughter coming from the bar.

He started by showing Anthony Quick’s picture at the bar, but no one could remember seeing him. Back outside, there was only one charter boat in dock, a beat-up-looking tub with a sign announcing CAP’T ED’S FISHING CHARTERS.

It appeared deserted but as he drew closer, Louis heard a banging sound inside the cabin.

“Hey! Anyone around?” he called out.

It took some more yelling before a man emerged brandishing a hammer. He was squat and bandy-legged, wearing grimy cutoffs and worn Docksiders. His bare chest was suntanned to a dark mahogany, his sparse hair bleached out to white.

“Ain’t hiring out today,” the man said.

Louis came forward. “I’m not here for fishing. I’m looking for some information.”

The man squinted up at him. “Oh, yeah? ’Bout what?”

Louis held out Quick’s photo. “You ever seen this man?”

The man didn’t move. “You a cop?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing.” Louis extended the photo. “You seen him around here in the last two weeks?”

Slowly, the man came forward and took the picture, glanced at it, and held it out. “Nah. Never seen him.”

Louis took it back. “He was a tourist. You’re sure?”

The man shrugged. “Hell no, I ain’t sure. We get lots of tourists down here. I can’t say for certain he wasn’t one of them.”

Louis slipped the photo back in the file. “How many other boats are usually here?”

“Five of us. We come back ’bout four-thirty. I’d be out myself if it weren’t for the damn generator.”

Louis’s eyes wandered over the empty slips. Shit, he would have to come back. He started to his car, then doubled back to the bar and ordered a hamburger and beer. He stood at the open bar, sipping a beer and watching a large brown pelican waddle down the dock. There was a stink of rotting fish in the air. Louis thought of Dodie, who had been bugging him to go out fishing. As long as he lived, he would never understand the allure of sitting for hours waiting for a damn fish to bite.

He finished eating and returned to the parking lot. He was about to get in the car when he noticed a ramshackle wooden structure on the far edge of the lot. It had a loading dock open to the parking lot and a rusted corrugated-roof carport filled with junk. Fishing nets were strung below a sign that said DIXIE FISH CO. WHOLESALE AND RETAIL. WE SHIP UP NORTH. There was a toilet on the dilapidated porch. It was planted with bright pink geraniums.

Louis trudged up the steps and pushed open the screen door.

It was dark as a cave inside, except for a lighted refrigerator case. Behind the frosted glass, Louis could see slabs of fish and piles of pink shrimp. The weathered plank walls were covered with bumper stickers, pictures, and junk.

“Howdy.”

The voice was husky female. Squinting, Louis made out a figure silhouetted against the far open window. He went forward and she came into view.

Medium height, shapely, blond hair piled on her head, hand propped on cocked hip. And very large tanned breasts barely covered by a bright pink bikini top.

He had to struggle to keep his eyes on her face. She noticed and gave him a smirky smile.

“You want something?” she asked.

He pulled out Quick’s photo. “Have you seen this man around here?”

She didn’t even look at the picture. Her smile faded. “I got fish. You want fish?”

“Not really. I—”

She turned away, grabbing a remote and aiming it at the wall. The place filled up with the sound of Charlie Parker’s buttery sax.

“Okay, okay!” Louis yelled.

She punched the remote, lowering the volume, and looked back at him.

He glanced at the glass fish case. “Give me some shrimp.”

“How much?”

When he hesitated, she sighed. “How many you feeding?”

“Three,” he said.

“What size? We got small, medium, and jumbo.”

“You decide.”

She smiled and moved languidly to the case. He could see her breasts clearly in the light of the case as she shoveled the shrimp, but not her face. She plopped a plastic bag down on the counter. “That’s forty-five bucks.”

“What?”

“They’re jumbos, hon.”

Louis dug into his pocket and pulled out two twenties and a ten. “Keep the change,” he said.

She gave him a smile as she deposited the money in a drawer. His eyes were getting used to the dim light. She wore her ponytail high on her head like that little girl in the Flintstones cartoon. She could have been eighteen or forty; he couldn’t tell.

“I hate cops,” she said.

“Most people do,” Louis said. He held out the photo. “This man might have been here about two weeks ago. Did you see him?”

She glanced at it, shrugged, and turned away, bending down to pick up some paper, making sure Louis got a prime view of her ass in the tight cutoffs.

“How’s business?” he asked.

It took a moment, but she smiled. “Beats flipping burgers in a hair net at Wendy’s. I get a lot of men customers off the boats.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Louis held out Quick’s photo again.

“I saw him,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. I’m here every day and I notice things.”

“How do you know it was him?”

She shrugged. “We don’t get many black guys coming in here. But this guy I remember. He had just come in off a charter and he came in here to buy some fish to ship home.”

“Why would he buy fish?”

She smiled. “ ’Cause he didn’t catch anything and he wanted to send a big fish home to impress his kids.”

“Do you know what boat he chartered?” Louis asked.

She shook her head. “They all get back in around four-thirty or so.”

“Thanks. I’ll be back.” Louis picked up the bag of shrimp. At least he’d have something to take back to Margaret for dinner. He started to the door.

“You’re the first, you know,” she said.

“The first what?”

“The first cop I told this to.”

Louis stepped back toward the woman. “Did the sheriff’s deputies come talk to you?”