“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

“Are people looking at us?”

“Looking at us? No. Of course not.”

He paused, then smiled smugly. “This is awesome.”

“What is?”

“I’ve done most of my practicing on people I know only on a casual basis, but it works even better with people I know well.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My hearing. And my ability to tell when people aren’t telling the truth.”

She returned the smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay, okay. We are being watched.”

“Happens every time I go out. People staring and saying, ‘Hey, who’s the lucky girl with that incredibly hot blind guy?’”

That drew a little laughter. The waitress brought them fresh drinks-white wine for Alicia, another Heineken for Vince. When the waitress was gone, Alicia said, “Actually, it’s my father who’s watching over us.”

“Is that so? Maybe my hearing isn’t as good as I thought it was. I completely missed the band’s spontaneous rendition of ‘Hail to the Chief.’”

“He’s not here, turkey. What I mean is that about half the City of Miami police force is within a three-block radius of me at all times. I can count three off-duty cops right now.”

“Your father’s concerned for you,” he said, taking on a more serious tone.

“That’s an understatement.”

“It’s only natural. Things have changed, now that we know your stalker is a killer.”

She thought back to the autopsy room. “It was absolutely brutal, what he did to that poor woman.”

“You could have called me to cancel tonight. I would have understood.”

“It’s good for me to get out. Even if we are being watched.”

“Pretty cushy job for those guys. I would imagine you’re still easy on the eyes.”

She didn’t know how to respond.

Vince said, “Have you changed much? Your appearance, I mean.”

“Well…no. Not really. It’s only been six months. I was upset when we split, but I didn’t get crazy and cut off all my hair or tattoo a ticking biological clock on my forehead.”

He drank from his beer glass and carefully placed it back on the coaster. “I’m starting to forget what people looked like.”

She looked at him-not with sympathy but intrigued. Vince had never been one to speak freely about his feelings, and it was a little disorienting to hear so much from his heart. He was different now, in so many ways. Not all of the changes were bad. Not bad at all. “I suppose that’s another skill you’ll develop with time. You’ll learn to reconstruct those images in your mind.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“It’s strange, really. My grandmother, who has been dead for over two decades, I can picture perfectly in my mind. But with my brother, who I see every week, it’s now almost impossible for me to attach a face to his voice.”

“What about your uncle Ricky?”

“Of course I remember the red hair and those blue eyes. But with the distinguishing lines of the face, it’s like everyone else. The best way to describe it is to imagine that there is a big photo album in my mind. If people are part of my past, they stay there forever, just as they were. But if I make them a part of my new life, their image fades. The more contact I have with them, the more they are defined by things that don’t depend on sight. For those folks, there will eventually be nothing left in the photo album but the shaded outline of where the picture used to be and a little label that tells me who it was.”

Again, she found herself struggling for a response. “There’s more to a person than just a face.”

“Thank God for that. Because the way things are now, a face is nothing.”

“I don’t think I agree with that.”

“It’s true. There are no expressions that I can pick up, no little nuances of an arched eyebrow or parted lips. No more talking without words. I try to direct my face toward yours when we’re having a conversation, but it’s simply a matter of projection. That’s all any face is now. Just a place where the voice comes from.”

Alicia gazed at him, wondering if he could sense it. She wanted to say the right thing, but words seemed inadequate. She hesitated, then followed her impulse. She reached across the table, took his hand, and held it in hers. Slowly, she drew it toward her and pressed it against her cheek. Even after she let go of his hand, he left it there, cradling the side of her face, taking in her warmth and softness.

A lump came to his throat, followed by a sad but appreciative little smile on his lips. “Well,” he said softly, “I can’t always be right.”

J ack had no idea where he was headed. The trick was not to let Falcon know that he was completely ad-libbing.

Theo shot him a nervous glance from the passenger seat. Jack kept driving. A gun to his head didn’t make it any easier to bluff his way through this treasure hunt. They were headed north on Biscayne Boulevard, away from the downtown area. On the left was the Freedom Tower, a distinctive Mediterranean revival-style high-rise where thousands of Cubans, including Jack’s mother, had been processed through immigration in the 1960s. Across the street was the basketball arena, with a five-story likeness of Shaquille O’Neil that almost qualified as life-sized.

“Watch your speed,” said Falcon. He obviously didn’t want to be pulled over by a patrol car. Jack slowed the car to thirty-five miles per hour.

For years, city planners had made much of the “Manhattanization” of Miami’s skyline, but its downtown area was still a far cry from the city that never sleeps. Beyond a handful of clubs and restaurants around the design district and Little Haiti, the stretch of Biscayne Boulevard north of the old Omni Hotel basically shut down by midnight, even on the weekend. Many of the storefronts were secured with roll-down metal shutters, and the homeless slept in doorways on cardboard mattresses. Cross-traffic was minimal, but that didn’t stop the traffic-planning geniuses from scheduling red lights for no apparent reason. Jack was thankful for any reason to stop; he still hadn’t figured out where he was taking Falcon. They were at the Twenty-first Street intersection, virtually on the doorstep of the famous “blue-tile building,” Miami’s first example of Cuban-inspired architecture that didn’t sport the classic Mediterranean look. Jack knew it only because it was Theo’s favorite building in Miami, though his taste had nothing to do with the fact that the building was blue and Cuban, or red and Russian, or green and Martian. It mattered only that it was the U.S. headquarters for Bacardi spirits.

“Probably a few hundred grand sitting around in there somewhere,” said Theo.

“No talking!” said Falcon.

The traffic light changed, and the journey continued. “How much farther?” said Falcon.

“Not too much,” said Jack.

“Where are we going?”

“The marina. It’s where I keep my boat.”

“That’s a lie. There’s a boat behind your house.”

Jack was caught, but a trial lawyer was nothing if not quick on his feet. “That’s my little boat. We need my really big boat to get to the Bahamas.”

“Is my money still in Nassau?”

“If I tell you, you’ll just shoot me and go by yourself.”

“Maybe I’ll just shoot you now.”

“And then you’ll never see your money.”

Falcon’s voice tightened. “Don’t tell me what I’ll see or won’t see.”

Theo said, “Dude, get a grip.”

“Shut up, both of you! I’m in control here.”

“Do you even know what control is?” said Theo.

Jack shot him a sidelong glance, as if to say, “Who asked you?”

The gun pulled away suddenly, but it returned with a vengeance. The metal butt landed in front of Jack’s ear, just below the temple. The blow stunned him. The car swerved, but Jack fought it off and quickly recovered. Falcon jabbed his gun at the side of Jack’s skull.