"Lie down. You'll feel better," she says.

Stretching out, I announce: "You should go back to nursing school. You were born for it."

"How about you, Jack? Are you sleeping with anyone these days?"

"Excuse me?" Again I start to rise but from behind I feel Emma's hands lock on my shoulders.

She says, "It's only fair, since you know all about mysex life."

"Wrong. I only know you're not sleeping with Juan. And you know I'm not sleeping with Juan, so we're even."

"Don't think so, Tagger."

I like the way Emma laughs, I must admit. I like being in her apartment, as opposed to the emergency room at Charity. I even like the way she's holding me down ...

Christ, Jack, snap out of it. Saving Emma will be impossible if I don't soon revert to the irascible prick of her newsroom nightmares. But when she apologizes for socking me in the nose, I tell her I deserved it.

"I'm not a well person," I submit. "I saw those sparkly toenails and was riven with envy. Obviously something inside of you rollicks carefree and fanciful. I've completely forgotten what that's like."

"Doesn't it hurt to talk so much?" Emma asks.

"I can't believe Jay Burns is dead. I can't fucking believe it. Listen, you wanna go for a ride?"

"Jack, it's late. You need to rest."

"Put on some shoes. Hurry up."

The cops had been there first, followed by persons unknown. I show Emma where the yellow crime tape strung around the dock pilings had been broken, then clumsily reattached. I yank the tape down, roll it into a wad and toss it in a bucket. Then we board the Rio Rio.

Whoever sacked the cabin was smart enough to wait until the detectives had come and gone. The place is in shambles now, but it wasn't much neater thirty hours ago when I'd arrived to interview Jay Burns. The porn, pizza cartons and music magazines have been restrewn across the floor and the berths. Add to that mess the unlaundered contents of assorted drawers and cabinets, plus several unappetizing containers from the refrigerator.

Emma and I are poised in the narrow companionway, contemplating a path through the ripening debris. I lead the way, stepping cautiously. Exhilarated, Emma keeps a grip on my arm. The first priority is turning on the air conditioner because the cabin smells like piss, beer and old sneakers.

"What are we looking for?" Emma whispers.

"Something the bad guys didn't find."

I'm guessing it took more than one man to deal with husky Jay Burns. Later, after the boat was searched, the bald intruder was sent to my place on the chance that I'd conned the mystery stash out of Jay, or stolen it outright.

For forty-five minutes Emma and I root through the cabin and turn up nothing but a Baggie of sodden pot, undoubtedly discarded as worthless by the previous searchers. In fact, every hatch, panel and storage bin appears to have been opened and emptied ahead of us. We step back up to the deck and, employing one of Jay's flashlights, check the bait well and the engine compartment. On the console above the wheel is a sprout of loose wires where the bad guys removed some of the Contender's electronics—probably the VHF, depth finder and Loran. This gesture was intended to make it look like a common boatyard burglary, which it most definitely was not. I show Emma the disconnected wires, then flick off the flashlight.

She says, "Now what?"

"Write his obituary, I guess."

"Jack."

"I forgot. He doesn't rate."

Emma says, "If anything, it's a brief for Metro."

Sorry, Jay, but that's how it goes. No space in the newspaper for dead sidemen.

My skull rings like a gong. Carefully I sit down behind the wheel of Jimmy Stoma's boat. I'm wondering what violent chain of events I might have set in motion by surprising Jay Burns and quizzing him about Jimmy's secret sessions. I remember the anxiety in his pig-drunk eyes when he asked me if Billy Preston was still alive, and now I feel like a creep for needling him about outliving Franz Kafka and John Lennon. Maybe he wigged out and did something rash, such as phoning Cleo Rio to warn her I'd been snooping around.

In the shadows, Emma sneezes.

"I'm sorry. I should take you home," I say.

"Sorry for what? This is ... "

"Fun?"

"Exciting, Jack. I spend all my days stuck in boring meetings, or sitting like a goob in front of a video screen. This is my first crime scene."

"Didn't Juan take you to a Marlins game?"

"Go ahead and make fun. Not everyone ... "

"What?"

"Never mind." Emma points. "Hey, maybe it's under those scuba tanks."

I aim the flashlight at the deck in front of the transom, where a dozen white dive tanks are arranged in two upright rows, like jumbo milk bottles. The tanks stand undisturbed, indicating the killers weren't interested. They must have believed that whatever they were seeking was concealed indoors.

While Emma holds the light, I move the scuba tanks one by one. The deck beneath and between them is empty. I'm amused to hear Emma mutter, "Damn."

Then we luck out. While hoisting the next-to-the-last tank, I hear something sliding back and forth inside. Flipping the tank on its top, we find the charred weld where the rounded bottom has been cut away, then recapped. It's a crude job, but the marks are well concealed by the way the dive tanks were aligned. Emma opens the door to the companionway and I drag our find into the ransacked cabin. Among the contents of an overturned toolbox Emma locates a small pick and a heavy mallet.

"Turn on the stereo," I tell her. "Loud."

As we're engulfed by Jay's beloved Led Zeppelin, I go to town on the scuba tank. Smiling, Emma cups her hands over her ears. She's having a blast.

Ten minutes of furious hammering breaks the weld. The bottom piece flies off the tank and lands in the galley sink, spinning like a saucer. I reach into the hollow aluminum cylinder and come out with a bubble-wrapped parcel.

"Drugs?" Emma whispers at my shoulder, but I'm thinking: Gun.

As I unwrap the package I notice my ringers are trembling; Emma's breath is coming in shallow bursts. Yet the bubble-wrapped object is neither a lid of grass nor a pistol. At first glance I mistake it for an eight-track cassette, but it's slightly larger and thicker. "Let me take a look," Emma offers. She turns the black plastic box around in her hands. "See that little doohickey? This thing plugs into a computer."

"What could it be?"

"I haven't got a clue," Emma says, "but I know who would."

"Oh no. Not on a Friday night."

"It's now Saturday morning." She points at her watch.

"Three a.m. We can't possibly do this now," I insist.

"Why not?"

"Because." Hell, I tell myself, just get it over with. "Because he'll have company."

"Oh, who cares," Emma says merrily. "Honestly, Jack."

In the car I twist up the volume on the StomatoseCD and, in memory of the late Jay Burns, play for Emma one of his collaborations with Jimmy Stoma.

Three days in the sack and my dreams came true

But you gotta let me up 'cause I'm all black 'n' blue.

Don't take it personal, ooooh, don't pitch a fit.

My gums are bleedin' and the motor's quit.

I love you, baby, but I'm all humped out.

I love you, baby, but I'm all humped out.

Aw, I want you, baby, but I'm ... all ... humped ... OUT!

"Catchy," Emma says thinly. She remains unconvinced of Jimmy Stoma's genius.

"Could you hear Burns on the piano?"

"Not really, Jack."

"Doing his Little Richard bop."

"Who's Little Richard?" she asks.