“Miss Sullivan.” Collazo made no other movement behind the dark glass. “I need to speak to you for a moment.”

I walked over to the car and bent down to speak to him through the open driver’s-side window. “It’s late and I’m really tired, Detective.” The drops of sweat on his face sparkled in the light from the street lamps.

“Me too,” he said. He motioned with his head. “Get in.”

He wasn’t a bad guy, Collazo, but he had the social graces of a Neanderthal. As I walked around the car, I wondered if he had any kind of life outside his job. I slid into the passenger’s seat and rolled down the window. Being in a hot, closed car with Detective Collazo was enough to make me revisit my Quarter Pounder with Cheese.

“You went to the hospital.”

“Uh-huh.” Tired as I was, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Maybe it was even a little perverse of me, but I found it impossible to be cooperative with this man.

“The girl’s refusing to talk,” he said.

“Yeah, I heard you were there with an interpreter this afternoon. You know, I wouldn’t say she’s refusing, exactly. It happens when you’ve been through something like this. She’s just sort of timed out for a while.” I didn’t want to lie to him, but I didn’t want to tell him that she had spoken to me at the hospital, either. She needed her rest. There would be time for her to tell more, later, when she was stronger.

Collazo stared out the window at the Larsens’ dark, hulking house and didn’t speak for almost a minute. I was about to climb out of the car when he finally said, without turning his head to face me, “She was the fourth one.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. “The fourth what?”

He didn’t answer me for a long time, and I thought it was another one of his waiting games. When he started speaking, his face was still turned away from me, and I had to sit forward on the seat to hear his voice.

“The first one was found on the beach at Pompano just south of Hillsboro Inlet about three weeks ago. A woman. Witness in one of the condos along that stretch said he had seen lots of people on the beach around three in the morning when, as he put it, he ‘got up to take a leak.’ They were swimming in the surf line, he said. Hundreds of them. Boat must have dropped them off just offshore. Beach clean-up crew found her in the surf line at sunrise.” He turned and looked straight at me. “Severe head trauma. Medical report said it was probably a machete—nearly cleaved her skull clean in half.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with—”

He ignored my question and continued talking. “Then tonight, this Border Patrol guy, Elliot, tells me the same thing happened in the Keys last week. Down near Marathon. Some smugglers dropped off a load of Haitians in the early-morning hours, and they found one man walking around, hole in his head so big his brains were hanging out. He collapsed on US-1 and died in the hospital down there. Found the other one on the beach the same night. A man. Monroe County medical examiner says it was the same thing— massive head injuries.”

“I haven’t seen anything about this in the papers.”

“They aren’t releasing any of the details to the public. For some reason, the press hasn’t put it together yet. They will with this one, though. They will with number four.”

1 thought about what Helmut Hair – the woman reporter had said to me at the hospital. She asked me about the other victims. Now that made sense. “I think they already have, Collazo.”

“We’re putting together a task force made up of FLPD, INS, and the FBI. They’re calling it the Deceased Alien Response Team—DART.”

“Sounds like alphabet soup.”

“The child. She may be able to tell us something, but she seems frightened by authority figures. My Haitian translator tells me that’s typical for their culture. Elliot says they can’t get any of the Haitians to talk about the smugglers. Ever since Papa Doc and the Tonton Macoutes, they don’t think much of police or authorities.”

“I’m impressed, Collazo. You seem to know quite a bit about Haiti.”

Again, it was as though I had not even spoken. “We are operating on the assumption that they were aboard the boat that sank up in Deerfield, and they were put off into the smaller boat.”

“There’s a problem with that theory. The timing doesn’t work. The Gulf Stream runs at two to three knots. That boat should have been much farther north if they were dropped off thirty-six hours before they were found.”

“There were no other boats in the area.”

“None that you know of,” I said. I’d heard estimates that the authorities stopped only ten to twenty percent of the illegal immigrants flooding into Florida.

“We want you to get close to the child,” he said. “See if you can get her to talk, find out what she knows. Anything at all about the people behind this operation and their location in the Bahamas.”

I jumped at the mention of the islands. Tired as I was, I suddenly wondered if they had somehow listened in on my conversation with Solange. “Why do you say the Bahamas?”

“The plastic water bottles and the food cans in the boat with the dead woman. The labels were all Bahamian. Get her to tell us something that will indicate where in the Bahamas.”

“I don’t know, Collazo, she’s just a little kid. I don’t think she knows anything.” I wanted to protect her from this mess. She had talked about the “bad man,” and I was fairly certain she would recognize him if she saw him again.

“It doesn’t really matter what you think, Sullivan. What really matters is what the killer thinks.”

That tightness in my chest returned. I felt so stupid. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I slid over on the seat and reached for the car door. “Solange, they might try—”

“It’s taken care of. There is a guard. She’ll be safe. For now.”

After Collazo left, I opened the gate and walked behind the Larsens’ house to my cottage in such a daze that I barely saw the shrubbery, the path, or the wide yard out back.

Abaco seemed to sense my mood, and though she rubbed her wet nose against my hand, she wasn’t insistent when I didn’t reach down to rub her head. My mind was busy trying to make connections, to draw some kind of lines between the small dots of information I had.

I let myself in and went straight to the fridge, thirsty after all those french fries. A bottle of Corona in hand, I dialed Mike’s cell phone. I pulled out the sunglasses I’d found on the Miss Agnes and examined the paintings of the skull and crossbones under the light as the phone rang again and again. I was about to give up when he finally answered.

“Mike? This is Seychelle. Did I interrupt something?”

“Nah, I just couldn’t find the damn phone. I’m glad you called, young lady, ’cuz I wanted a chance to give you hell for sticking me with that sniveling bastard Perry Greene.”

“That’s why I’m calling, Mike, to apologize, even though there wasn’t much else I could have done under the circumstances.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Good. And look, promise you’ll get that electrical system fixed. I mean, what were you thinking out there all night using all that juice?”

“It was my buddy Joe, I swear. He called me up to shoot the shit, and we got started talking fishing. I told him I lived aboard a fifty-three-foot sailboat now, and next thing I knew, we were motoring out through Port Everglades. We had lots of catching up to do. Joe always did like flash, and my boat impressed the hell out of him. He wanted me to turn everything on. See, he was DEA back in the eighties when he got to go undercover with flashy cars, big houses, and fast women. I think he misses those days.”

“Yeah, right. The good old days.”

“That isn’t really why you called, the apology thing, is it?”

“Maybe not the only reason.”

“So spit it out.”

“It’s hard to explain. I need someone to talk to—about this Haitian kid. Mike, I’ve got to help her stay in the States, and I don’t even know where to begin. What if her father doesn’t want to be found? What if he’s some married guy who doesn’t want his wife to know he has this kid. I mean, doesn’t it strike you as a little weird that an American father would bring his daughter to the States on one of these cattle boats?”