Completely flustered, he said, “Didn’t do anything but straighten out a mistake.” To quickly change the subject and get Alicia to move back a pace, he looked at the two wrestling boys in the family room and said, “They don’t look too upset by the whole thing.”

“They were. It was actually quiet here over the weekend. It’s Daniel that likes the noise and confusion. He stirs it up more often than not.”

Tasker felt relieved when her husband came back from the rear of the house. She immediately slid away from Tasker.

He had an odd feeling, like she was coming on to him. From his experience with rural families, he decided he was imagining it. His body wasn’t, but he was.

Tasker and Wells moved to the small dining room and sat at the round table.

“I owe you a lot, Mr. Tasker. And one day I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me a thing.” He paused and then said, “You know I had some help getting you off the hook.”

“Really,” was all Wells said.

“There was a photograph that was supposed to show you at a Nazi summit of some kind.”

Wells laughed. “Nazis! I wouldn’t hang out with them. Their idea of anarchy is blowing up an empty bus. And they’re very unreliable in payin’ bills. Just a bunch of dumb-asses, you ask me.”

Tasker looked at him. He didn’t know what that meant. Before he could ask, Alicia Wells came out in a short skirt with a new, sheer tank top. Her pink nipples clearly showed through the top as her long, smooth legs glided her toward the dining room.

Tasker stood. “Gotta go.”

Alicia registered disappointment, but Daniel Wells pushed him along, thanking him again.

As he backed his Jeep out of the driveway, Tasker’s headlights fell across the old step van next to the garage. The whole visit had left him somewhat uneasy. When he pulled out onto the road, he saw Daniel Wells watching him from the carport.

“Billy, you gotta get back on the horse what threw ya,” said his supervisor, in his typical Long Island take on English.

“Sure, boss. Just take me a few days to get a handle on something decent.”

“In the meantime, I got a lead request from our Pensacola office about some fugitive down here.”

“What’s he wanted for?”

“Selling some kind of homemade explosive. Got him as part of a RICO on dope smuggling as well as separate charges having to do with an incendiary device. Could be fun.” He handed Tasker a folder with six sheets of paper and a photograph. The wide, dark-haired man had a surfer cut. He looked like he might be thick with broad shoulders and a perpetual five-o’clock shadow.

“I’ll jump right on it. Do you mind if I let my buddy from the city tag along?”

“Free manpower, no problem.”

“He just likes to get out once in a while, and I screwed up his chances on the Stinger case.”

“Don’t forget, he’s on your badge outside the city. Keep a good eye on him.”

“Believe me, boss, with Sutter you always keep an eye on him. If you don’t, he’ll have your woman, your money-and still be your friend.” Tasker winked and headed out.

Derrick Sutter stood outside the Miami Police substation on Fifty-fourth Street, waiting for Tasker to pick him up. He tried to dress down, based on where they were headed. No one in Florida City would appreciate his imitation leather jacket or fine, almost real, jewelry. He’d even changed his shiny Thom McAns for a pair of hiking boots he never thought he’d wear.

He spotted Tasker’s gold Monte Carlo a block away and moved to the street, looking from one apartment complex to the next. He jumped in, suddenly conscious that he didn’t want anyone from this neighborhood seeing him with a white guy. Even a real decent white guy like Tasker. Was he a racist? He couldn’t care less.

“Appreciate you taking the brother outta the city for a while,” Sutter said with a smile.

“How’d you clear it with your boss?”

“He assigns me all over the place. I’m workin’ with vice four times in the next three weeks. He don’t know I’m not on the missile case. Hell, he probably didn’t even see it on the news. Now what do we got?”

“Fugitive from the panhandle. Lives in Florida City. Shouldn’t be a problem to find.”

“I never been to Florida City.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Furthest south I been is that tittie bar near Kendall.”

“You love your topless joints,” Tasker said.

“That a problem?” asked Sutter.

“Only if you’re short of cash like me.”

“If Florida City or Homestead don’t have a notable titty bar, then I never been there. In fact, I think the Wells house is the furthest south I ever been and that was just last week.”

“You had to pass Florida City to get to the Keys.”

“Never been to the damn Keys. Hate the beach. That’s why I only visit my folks on holidays.”

“Your parents live on the ocean?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Haitians ain’t the only black folk that came from waterfront property.”

“I didn’t mean that. I just figured they lived in the City.”

“Hell, I don’t even live in the City. And just because I live on Miami Beach don’t mean I do it ’cause of the beach. I live there ’cause of the pussy.”

“Where do your parents live?”

Sutter folded his arms. He usually avoided this type of conversation. It chipped away at his image as the urban defender of the people. Tasker was a friend. Probably his best friend. He wouldn’t give him a hard time. “They live over on Hollywood Beach.”

“For how long?”

“I dunno. Fifteen, eighteen years.”

“So you lived there too? What, until you were eighteen?”

“Twenty-two.”

Tasker broke out in a broad smile. Sutter had noticed that the FDLE agent didn’t smile all that much, so he didn’t mind if it was at his expense once in a while. He waited for the inevitable grilling about his childhood as he took in the scenery, heading south down US 1 after the interstate ended.

Tasker held off a minute and then asked, “Where were you born?”

“ Miami.”

“How old were you when you moved?”

“Two days.”

Tasker just looked at him.

Sutter wanted to move this along. “I was born at Jackson Memorial because my mom was a nurse there and got a good discount. I grew up in Hallandale until I was twelve, when we moved to the condo on Hollywood Beach. Satisfied?”

“What’d your dad do?”

“Liquor store robber.”

“Good money in that, huh?”

“You moron, he’s an accountant.”

Tasker slowed so he could look over at Sutter. “So Mr. badass, supercool Miami urban legend was raised on the ocean in Hollywood.”

“Only since I was twelve.”

“What about being from the street?”

“ Ocean Avenue is a street. How do you think we drove home?”

Tasker kept staring at him. His mouth even dropped open.

Sutter said, “Now you can stop, you’re giving me the creeps.”

“So the urban-street stuff is all bullshit?”

“That’s one way to look at it.”

“Is there another way to look at it?”

Sutter gazed out at the Dadeland Mall as it sprawled, and simply said, “Not really.”

Using some information on data sheets that Sutter had never seen as a City of Miami cop, they drove right up to a house that the fugitive, Anthony Mule, probably lived in. At least he’d paid the electric there in the past month. The small concrete-block house sat on the northern edge of Florida City. The place wasn’t in bad shape, with a fairly new roof. Sutter thought about it and realized that every house in Florida City had a fairly new roof, at least since Hurricane Andrew.

“What’s the plan?” asked Sutter.

“Let’s ask a few neighbors, to see if he’s around.” Tasker surveyed the street. “You take this one and I’ll go next door.” He pointed at the two small houses sitting in front of them.