"Are you hinting at a professional job?" said Dawes.

Andie shrugged. "At least someone who knew what he was doing."

"A guy like Reems could know a lot of people like that."

"That's probably true," said Andie.

They watched as the assistants from the medical examiner's office rolled the gurney toward the Dumpster to collect the body. Andie said, "The manhunt is over, and now begins the search for his killer."

"Well, at least your work is done."

"It's never done," said Andie. She thanked him, stepped away from the police tape, and then reached for her cell phone. Their last date had ended with a certain air of finality, but for some reason she still had Jack Swyteck's number programmed into her directory.

Only just beginning, she thought as she placed the call.

Theo met Jack at the Latin American Cafeteria, a landmark Coral Gables restaurant that specialized in hot pressed sandwiches made on Cuban bread. An early lunch had been Jack's idea, and he was waiting at the busy counter when Theo arrived.

Like every other customer but Jack, Theo wanted to dine in air-conditioned comfort and watch the knife-wielding chef carve up the roast pig and cured hams like a skilled samurai. Jack said he needed to speak to Theo in private, however, so they placed their order inside and endured an isolated table in the sunshine. The outside seating area had lost its shade trees in the last hurricane season, and even though summer was technically a month away, it felt like a sticky August afternoon. The wait for their food came with a view of noisy Coral Way and endless waves of heat rising from the paved parking lot. Theo couldn't stop wiping his brow with a napkin, but Jack seemed content. They were indeed alone, save for a handful of old Latinos who were dressed in their Sunday guayaberas and standing at the takeout window, sipping tazas of Cuban coffee and arguing about everything from politics to beisbol.

"Where's Rene?" said Theo.

"The mall."

"They don't have one of those in the cocoa region?"

"Yeah, but every time Rene comes to Miami she suddenly feels the urge to barter for something other than live chickens and goats. Go figure."

The waitress came with their order on a tray. "Dos cubanos?" she said. Two Cubans? She meant the sandwiches, not the customers. She placed the plates in front of them and handed them their beverages. Materva, a Latin soft drink for Jack. A large mamey milkshake for Theo.

When the waitress was gone, Jack said, "So, what do you think about Isaac Reems? Any idea who would shoot him?"

Theo removed the plastic lid from his milkshake and gulped some down. "You mean other than half the city of Miami?" Theo unwrapped his sandwich. "We gonna talk or eat?"

"Go ahead. Eat."

"First, a tribute." Theo lifted his sandwich from the plate and started singing to it, putting his own words to the tune of Human League's 1986 number one hit, "Human."

I'm just a cuban.

Of cheese and bread I'm made.

I am also ham… please forgive me.

He devoured a third of his cuban sandwich in one huge bite.

"You forgot to mention the pickles and sliced pork," said Jack, deadpan.

"Artistic… license," he said with his mouth full. It was the same license that turned Madonna's first Latin hit into "Last night I dreamt of some bagels," and Stevie Nicks's "Edge of Seventeen" into "Just like a one-winged dove" – a true Theo Knight classic, this mental image of a little white bird flying around in circles.

"I got a phone call from Andie Henning this morning," said Jack. "She's looking into the Reems murder."

Theo chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. "I may not have a law degree, but how does the FBI get involved in a run-of-the-mill shooting of a pissant criminal?"

"You're right, local law enforcement does normally have jurisdiction over homicide. So I asked her that question myself."

A bus rolled by on Coral Way adding diesel fumes to the ambience. "What was her answer?" said Theo.

"It turns out that Andie has been appointed to head up the task force that will be looking for answers about Reems's escape."

"Well, they tapped one sharp agent. But I still don't see how her work on a task force gets her into Isaac's shooting."

"Reems didn't climb out of a barred prison window on a rope made out of bedsheets, hop a nine-foot fence topped with razor wire, and then run to freedom without someone on the inside looking the other way."

"Maybe. But what's that got to do with the shooting?"

"Here's the way Andie sees it. If she finds out who killed Reems, she'll bet dollars to doughnuts that the answer will also point the way to whoever greased the wheels to bust him out of prison."

"Mmm. Doughnuts." hocus.

"Sorry."

Jack turned serious. "Andie wants to talk to you."

"Okay. Like I told you before: I got no problem with Andie. I'm sure she's just doing her job."

"And I gotta do mine, too. So tell me something, and don't get cute on me. When's the last time you had anything to do with Isaac Reems?"

Theo didn't answer right away.

Jack said, "When Rene and I dropped off Uncle Cy at your place last night, we heard Isaac's message."

"Dude, don't tell me you were listenin' to my phone messages."

"We were sitting on your couch when he left it. Heard it all"

"Did Cy hear it too?"

"I don't think so. He was upstairs in bed."

Theo nodded, but he was still silent.

Jack flashed his lawyer expression. Theo knew it well – his don't-you-dare-lie-to-me look. "Give it up, Theo. When was the last time you heard from Isaac?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I do," said Jack.

Theo glanced toward the traffic on busy Coral Way then back at his friend. "This conversation – it's privileged, right?"

"Yup," said Jack. "Attorney-client, all the way."

Theo put down his sandwich. And then he told him.

On Monday morning Jack took Rene to the airport for a 12:50 p.m. flight to Abidjan via Paris. Jack didn't even try to talk her into staying another day – and it wasn't because he thought she would say no.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"It's definitely something."

They were walking side-by-side across what was arguably Miami's greatest work of public art – the striking black terrazzo floor at the airport's international terminal. Michele Oka Doner's "A Walk on the Beach" was exactly what the name implied. Thousands of inlaid bronze sculptures reminiscent of the ocean and the artist's native Miami Beach dotted the mile-long concourse. Jack's gaze shifted from two-dimensional brain coral to driftwood to starfish, his thoughts churning.

"Are you mad at me for leaving too soon?" said Rene.

"No – well, yes," he said with a flat smile. "But it has nothing to do with that."

"Are you worried about Uncle Cy?"

"Uncle Cy?" he said, but then he clarified his own confusion. The old man hadn't been himself at all when they put him to bed early Sunday morning. "I'm sure he'll be fine. Like you say, the doctor just needs to adjust his blood pressure medication."

"Then it must be Theo."

Jack tried not to bite. "Why would I worry about Theo?"

"Well, duh. It sounded like someone was trying to extort money out of him for information about his poor mother's murder."

Rene knew about Isaac Reems – even if the cops hadn't shown up at Sparky's on Saturday night, the Sunday morning news coverage of the shooting was inescapable – but Jack still hadn't told her that the phone message they'd overheard at Theo's place had been from Isaac. And he certainly hadn't told her that Andie Henning wanted to meet with him and Theo.