Brian Keyes was not affected by this crime because the only typewriter in his office was an old Olivetti portable, a leftover from his days of covering politics for the Miami Sun.The other items of potential value were an antique desk lamp and a telephone tape recorder, but the lamp was broken and the tape recorder was made in Korea so the burglars wanted no part of either.

The highlight of the office was a fifty-gallon salt-water aquarium, a going-away present from his friends at the newspaper. Keyes had erected it in the foyer, where a secretary ordinarily might have sat, and filled it with whiskered catfish that sucked the algae off the glass.

Except for the aquarium, the place was just as cramped, ratty, and depressing as Keyes had feared it would be. He was rarely there. Even when he had nothing to do, he'd find an excuse to leave the bank building and stroll around downtown. He had an answering service, and an electronic beeper that fit onto his belt. The beeper didn't make Keyes feel particularly important; every shyster lawyer, dope dealer, and undercover agent in Dade County wore one. It was mandatory.

On the morning of December 5, Keyes was down at Bayfront Park, munching a sandwich and watching the tugboats, when the beeper on his belt went off loudly enough to wake a derelict two benches away.

Keyes found a pay phone and called his service. Al Garcia was trying to reach him. It was important. Keyes phoned Homicide.

"Meet me on the beach," Garcia said. "The Flamingo Isles, near Sixty-eighth and Collins. Look for the cop cars out front."

The Flamingo Isles was not a classic Miami Beach motel. There was nothing charming about the color (silt) or the architecture (Early Texaco). At this motel there were no striped canvas awnings, no wizened retirees chirping in the lobby, no lawn chairs lined up on the front porch, no front porch whatsoever. Basically the Flamingo Isles was a dive for pimps, chicken hawks, and hookers. Rooms cost ten dollars an hour, fifteen with porno cassettes. It was rumored that some of the vestibules were equipped with hidden movie cameras to secretly record the sexual antics of Florida tourists. It was not a good place for an innocent man, but Keyes was hopeful that this was where Sparky Harper had spent his final earthly moments. If so, it meant that Harper had likely died in some bizarre sexual accident and not at the larcenous hands of Ernesto Cabal.

Keyes goosed his little MG convertible across the causeway and made it to the motel in eighteen minutes flat. Al Garcia already was interviewing a Jamaican maid in the lobby. He kept hollering for an interpreter and the maid kept insisting in perfect English that she spoke perfect English, but Garcia wouldn't believe her. He finally enlisted a black Miami Beach detective to take the maid's statement, and went upstairs, Keyes in tow. They entered room 223.

"Here you have it," Garcia said.

A pile of men's clothing lay in the middle of the floor: blue silk socks, turned inside-out; an undershirt; a pair of soiled Jockey shorts; and a powder-blue double-knit suit with a J. C. Penney label. The legs of the suit had been sheared off below the knees. Lying beneath the clothes was a pair of highly polished black Florsheims.

The room showed no signs of a mortal struggle. There was a half-finished bottle of Seagram's and a couple cans of soda on the dresser. On the nightstand, next to the Magic Fingers machine, sat three plastic bottles of Coppertone tanning butter with coconut oil. A fingerprint man studiously dusted the containers; he was crouched on his haunches, oblivious of everything.

With a long pair of tweezers, Garcia picked a plastic bag off the floor. The red-and-white lettering on the bag said: "Everglades Novelties."

"This," Garcia intoned, "was used to transport the instrument of death."

"The toy alligator?"

Garcia nodded.

"So this is where it happened."

"The murder? No, we don't think so."

Suddenly a big redheaded cop barged out of the bathroom. It was Harold Keefe, the lead detective.

"Who're you?" he asked Keyes.

"A friend of Al's." Keyes looked at Garcia. Garcia had an oh shit!look in his eyes.

"Don't touch anything," Keefe growled on his way out the door. "Al, don't let him touch anything, got it?"

Garcia checked the bathroom to make sure no other detectives were sneaking around. He didn't say another word until the fingerprint man packed up his kit and left.

"Christ! I didn't know that bastard was in the john!"

"Relax, Al. He doesn't know who I am."

Garcia started stuffing B. D. Harper's clothing in a clear plastic evidence bag. "Check out the stains on the floor," he told Keyes.

Two streaks of dried blood made a wavering trail from the bedroom to the bathroom. It was not very much blood, certainly less than one would have expected.

"The lab guys are on their way," Garcia said, "so I'm gonna give it to you once. Then I want you to get out of here before I get in trouble."

"Whatever you say, Al."

"On the night of November 30, two men rented this room for one week. They paid cash in advance, three hundred and sixty bucks."

"What'd they look like?"

"One was described as a muscular black male in a tight yellow pullover," Garcia said, "and the other was a young Latin male wearing blue jeans."

Keyes grimaced. "I suppose you showed Cabal's mug shot to the desk clerk."

"Yeah, and she's seventy-five percent sure it was him."

"Seventy-five won't cut it in court, Al."

"Don't worry, she'll be one hundred percent positive by the time this goes to trial."

"Anyone see them with B. D. Harper?"

"We got a couple faggots in room 225 who saw the Latin male enter this room about eleven P.M. with a chubby Anglo matching Harper's description. They heard some loud voices, and then the door slammed. The fairies peeked out just in time to see Harper being led down the stairs by the black dude and the little Cuban. Oh yeah, and the Cuban is carrying a red Samsonite."

"So they took Harper someplace, killed him, cut his legs off, stuffed him in the suitcase, and—"

"Brought him back here," Garcia said. "This is where the weird shit happens. These blood smears come from dragging the corpse into the bathroom. That's where they dress him up in that stupid flowered shirt and smear the Coppertone all over and stuff him in the suitcase."

"Don't forget the sunglasses," Keyes said.

"Right. Then they drive out to Key Biscayne and heave him into the bay."

"Why all the trouble?"

Garcia said, "Beats the hell out of me. Anyway, the black guy and the Cuban haven't been back since early on the morning of December 1. The maid just opened the room today. She saw the blood on the floor and called the Beach police."

"Well, this is great news, Al."

"I'm not finished. Remember I told you I had a line on those goofy clothes? Well, I got a sales clerk at a joint down the street who says she sold them to a skinny little Cuban guy on November 29."

"Ernesto?"

"She's eighty percent sure. The creep was wearing a floppy hat, so she's not absolutely certain."

"Give her time," Keyes said glumly. Things were looking bleak for Senor Cabal. Keyes wondered if he'd been wrong about the little guy. Maybe he wasn't just a crummy car burglar trying to get by.

Garcia knotted the top of the evidence bag and scanned the room to make sure he hadn't missed anything. "Time for you to hit the road," he told Keyes. "And remember, I don't know your fucking name."

"Right, Al."

Keyes was in the parking lot, strolling toward the MG, when he heard Garcia call from a balcony.

"Hey, Brian, you wanna reallyhelp your client?"

"You bet."

"It's easy," Garcia shouted. "Find the black guy."