This raised the interesting question of how much money Dr. Dismember had, and where it came from. But it was a question that led nowhere at the moment. I had to assume that he had enough for another house when he was done with the first one, and probably in the same approximate price range.

All right then. I went back to my Dade County real estate database and looked for other properties recently purchased the same way, from the same bank. There were seven; four of them had sold for more than a million dollars, which struck me as a bit high for disposable property. They had probably been bought by nothing more sinister than run-of-the-mill drug lords and Fortune 500 CEOs on the run.

That left three properties that seemed possible. One of them was in Liberty City, a predominantly black inner-city area of Miami. But on closer inspection, it turned out to be a block of apartments.

Of the two remaining properties, one was in Homestead, within sight of the gigantic dump heap of city garbage known locally as Mount Trashmore. The other was also in the south end of town, just off Quail Roost Drive.

Two houses: I was willing to bet that someone new had just moved in to one of them, and was doing things that might startle the ladies from the welcome wagon. No guarantees, of course, but it certainly seemed likely, and it was, after all, just in time for lunch.

Baleen was a very pricey place that I would not have attempted on my own modest means. It has the kind of oak-paneled elegance that makes you feel the need for a cravat and spats. It also has one of the best views of Biscayne Bay in the city, and if one is lucky there are a handful of tables that take advantage of this.

Either Kyle was lucky or his mojo had bowled over the headwaiter, because he and Deborah were waiting outside at one of these tables working on a bottle of mineral water and a plate of what appeared to be crab cakes. I grabbed one and took a bite as I slid into a chair facing Kyle.

“Yummy,” I said. “This must be where good crabs go when they die.”

“Debbie says you have something for us,” Kyle said. I looked at my sister, who had always been Deborah or Debs but certainly never Debbie. She said nothing, however, and appeared willing to let this egregious liberty go by, so I turned my attention back to Kyle. He was wearing the designer sunglasses again, and his ridiculous pinkie ring sparkled as he brushed the hair carelessly back from his forehead.

“I hope I have something,” I said. “But I do want to be careful not to get flushed.”

Kyle looked at me for a long moment, then he shook his head and a reluctant smile moved his mouth perhaps a quarter of an inch upward. “All right,” he said. “Busted. But you’d be surprised how often that kind of line really works.”

“I’m sure I’d be flabbergasted,” I said. I passed him the printout from my computer. “While I catch my breath, you might want to look at this.”

Kyle frowned and unfolded the paper. “What’s this?”

Deborah leaned forward, looking like the eager young police hound she was. “You found something! I knew you would,” she said.

“It’s just two addresses,” said Kyle.

“One of them may very well be the hiding place of a certain unorthodox medical practitioner with a Central American past,” I said, and I told him how I found the addresses. To his credit, he looked impressed, even with the sunglasses on.

“I should have thought of this,” he said. “That’s very good.” He nodded and flicked the paper with a finger. “Follow the money. Works every time.”

“Of course I can’t be positive,” I said.

“Well, I’d bet on it,” he said. “I think you found Dr. Danco.”

I looked at Deborah. She shook her head, so I looked back at Kyle’s sunglasses. “Interesting name. Is it Polish?”

Chutsky cleared his throat and looked out over the water. “Before your time, I guess. There was a commercial back then. Danco presents the autoveggie. It slices, it dices-” He swiveled his dark lenses back to me. “That’s what we called him. Dr. Danco. He made chopped-up vegetables. It’s the kind of joke you like when you’re far from home and seeing terrible things,” he said.

“But now we’re seeing them close to home,” I said. “Why is he here?”

“Long story,” Kyle said.

“That means he doesn’t want to tell you,” Deborah said.

“In that case, I’ll have another crab cake,” I said. I leaned over and took the last one off the plate. They really were quite good.

“Come on, Chutsky,” Deborah said. “There’s a good chance we know where this guy is. Now what are you going to do about it?”

He put a hand on top of hers and smiled. “I’m going to have lunch,” he said. And he picked up a menu with his other hand.

Deborah looked at his profile for a minute. Then she pulled her hand away. “Shit,” she said.

The food actually was excellent, and Chutsky tried very hard to be chummy and pleasant, as if he had decided that when you can’t tell the truth you might as well be charming. In fairness, I couldn’t complain, since I generally get away with the same trick, but Deborah didn’t seem very happy. She sulked and poked at her food while Kyle told jokes and asked me if I liked the Dolphins’ chances to go all the way this year. I didn’t really care if the Dolphins won the Nobel Prize for Literature, but as a well-designed artificial human I had several authentic-sounding prepared remarks on the subject, which seemed to satisfy Chutsky, and he chattered on in the chummiest way possible.

We even had dessert, which seemed to me to be pushing the distract-them-with-food ploy a little far, particularly since neither Deborah nor I was at all distracted. But it was quite good food, so it would have been barbaric of me to complain.

Of course, Deborah had worked very hard her whole life to become barbaric, so when the waiter placed an enormous chocolate thing in front of Chutsky, who turned to Debs with two forks and said, “Well…” she took the opportunity to fling a spoon into the center of the table.

“No,” she said to him. “I don’t want another fucking cup of coffee, and I don’t want a fucking chocolate foo-foo. I want a fucking answer. When are we going to go get this guy?”

He looked at her with mild surprise and even a certain fondness, as though people in his line of work found spoon-throwing women quite useful and charming, but he thought her timing might be slightly off. “Can I finish my dessert first?” he said.

DEBORAH DROVE US SOUTH ON DIXIE HIGHWAY. YES, I did say “us.” To my surprise, I had become a valuable member of the Justice League and was informed that I was being honored with the opportunity to put my irreplaceable self in harm’s way. Although I was far from delighted, one small incident almost made it worthwhile.

As we stood outside the restaurant waiting for the valet to bring Deborah’s car, Chutsky had quietly muttered, “What the fuck…?” and sauntered away down the driveway. I watched him as he walked out to the gate and gestured at a maroon Taurus that had casually parked there beside a palm tree. Debs glared at me as if it was all my fault, and we both watched Chutsky wave at the driver’s window, which rolled down to reveal, of course, the ever-watchful Sergeant Doakes. Chutsky leaned on the gate and said something to Doakes, who glanced up the drive to me, shook his head, and then rolled up the window and drove away.

Chutsky didn’t say anything when he rejoined us. But he did look at me a little differently before he climbed into the front seat of the car.

It was a twenty-minute drive south to where Quail Roost Drive runs east and west and crosses Dixie Highway, right beside a mall. Just two blocks in, a series of side streets leads into a quiet, working-class neighborhood made up of small, mostly neat houses, usually with two cars in the short driveway and several bicycles scattered across the lawn.