pillar to pillar and used as a guide under water. His buddy diver, a scroungy-looking young man
identified only as Whippet, who I later learned was a bootlegger by trade, kept track of his progress
by means of a tie line around Baker‟s waist.
“If I get in trouble,” said the master diver, “Whippet will endeavour to pull me up, careful but sure, in
hopes that I will survive whatever calamity might befall me.”
Baker also had a theory, derived from looking for more than just a few murder weapons in his time.
“A man most likely will throw the gun out in the water, such as flingin‟ a baseball,” he said, “whereas
a lady, who don‟t normally have much truck with guns, will tend to just drop the weapon
straightaway, so as to get ii out of hand as quick as is possible. I will operate from the edge of the
channel in, thereby usin‟ the tide to my advantage.”
“If I were guessing,” I volunteered, „I‟d say he or she dumped the gun fast, as soon as they reached
the end of the walk. There were witnesses who heard the shot from fairly close by.”
“Thank you, sir,” Baker said formally. “I‟ll keep that in mind.”
Fully dressed with mask and tanks, he could have modelled for a Hollywood monster, an enormous
black bulk peering like an owl through his face mask. He clambered down the side of the fishing pier,
vanished into the fog, and a moment later splashed into the water fifteen feet below us.
“If you got somethin‟ t‟do, might‟s well get on with it,” Whippet said, stuffing snuff under his lip.
“This‟ll most likely take a while.”
Stick and I groped our way through the fog, found a coffee shop, and took on breakfast.
“1 got a crazy idea,” I said.
He started to laugh. “Is that supposed to surprise me?” he asked. “Shoot.”
“This is a real long shot, but how about checking the local gun shops. Start with the better ones. See if
Donleavy, Seaborn, Raines, Sutter, or Logan, owns a .38 or something close to it.”
“Raines?”
“He‟s got a wife,” I said, without looking up from my eggs.
“Cover all the bases, don‟t you old buddy?” he asked coldly.
“No one is immune,” I answered, just as coldly.
“I thought murder was off our beat.”
“Anything that relates is our beat,” I said. “Humour me on this, I‟ve got an idea.”
“Okay, you‟re humoured. Want to tell me what it is?”
I gave him the short version of the idea before we were interrupted.
Charlie One Ear arrived bringing with him the autopsy reports on all the victims up to and including
Tony Lukatis and Stitch Harper.
“The same gun killed Tagliani, Stinetto, O‟Brian, Harper,” he told us. “A .22. All of them shot to hell
and gone except for Lukatis. He was shot only once, back of the head, with a .337. A .223 removed
Stizano and his people.”
“Coup de grace,” I said.
“What?” Charlie One Ear asked.
“Just thinking out loud.”
“So what else do you think?” he said.
“What I‟ve always thought. We got an M-16, probably with a forty-millimetre grenade launcher
mounted on it, that takes care of the Stizano massacre and Draganata. We got an American 180,
sounds like a dentist drill, fires a hundred eighty rounds in six seconds, which takes care of the
Tagliani kill, O‟Brian, and the boys on the boat. The rope trick was used on Logeto and Della
Norman. And we got a .337 that was used to put the insurance shots into Stinetto, Tagliani, and
Lukatis. Not that big an arsenal for all the damage that‟s been done to date.”
“How about Harry Raines?” Charlie One Ear asked.
“We won‟t know for sure until they get the slug out. Dutch says it was probably a .38 or close to it
That means it could be .357 or even a nine-millimetre. They‟re all about the same diameter.”
“And Nance shoots a nine-millimetre Luger, right?” Stick asked.
“Nance didn‟t shoot Harry Raines.”
He looked at me with surprise.
“How do you know that?”
“Instinct,” I said. “Really, logic. First of all, he‟s not a contact killer. He likes to work from a distance.
Second, he‟s a planner. He wouldn‟t ice his mark in a fog with two people twenty yards away. It‟s too
risky. Nance is a pro, He‟s only made two mistakes that I know of.”
“What were they?”
“He missed me twice,” I said.
Dutch and our breakfast arrived at the table together. He had found us there to tell us that Harry
Raines was dead.
“About forty-five minutes ago,” the big man said, sinking into the booth beside me. “I been up all
night. It‟s a sad, sad thing. Doe Raines is a wreck and Stoney Titan is blaming everybody but the
President. Donleavy finally stepped in to make the arrangements.”
I listened but didn‟t hear any more. I was thinking about Doe and the devils that had shown
themselves to her in the hospital, devils that could twist her mind into a private hell if they were not
dealt with, and quickly. Strange how lovers and family always assumed the guilt of death. Both
DeeDee and Doe had lost loved ones in the same day and both were assuming guilt for the loss. I still
wondered if Doe knew or cared that Tony Lukatis was dead. She had bigger things to deal with now.
“Does Chief know yet?” I asked finally.
“I dunno, that‟s probably Mr. Stoney‟s chore,” said Dutch. The death of Harry Raines didn‟t seem to
spoil his appetite. He ordered a breakfast that would have given me indigestion for a week.
“I can‟t believe it,” Dutch said. “Sam Donleavy and I were talking about all this as it was happening.”
“What time did he call you?” I asked.
“I called him,” he said. “About five after eight.”
“Where?”
“He lives in the condos out on Sea Oat, just before you cross over the bridge to the Isle of Sighs.”
That gave Sam Donleavy an airtight alibi. I had talked to him at quarter to eight. Even the Stick at his
best could not have driven the distance from Sea Oat to town in less than fifteen minutes. To drive
both ways in twenty minutes was literally impossible.
“I‟ve got something for you, Jake,” Charlie One Ear said, breaking into my reverie. “Stick asked me
to check out the Tagliani bank accounts. Three of those companies are foreign.”
“Incorporated in Panama?” I said.
“Now, how‟d you know that?” asked Dutch.
“Protected corporations,” I said. “Which are they?”
“The Seaview Company, which owns the hotels; a company called Riviera, Incorporated, which does
maid and janitorial service for the hotels and other clients; and another called the Rio Company,
which is some kind of service outfit, although we couldn‟t find out much about it. The Thunder Point
Marina and the Jalisco Shrimp Company are both owned by Abaca Corporation, which is a local
company. The restaurant is a proprietorship.” “Bronicata the proprietor?”
“Yep.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “They need a few legitimate businesses as part of the washing machine.”
Charlie One Ear, encouraged by my enthusiasm, left to see if he could dig up more facts.
Dutch‟s beeper started bugging us and he went to check it out. He returned, both amused and
surprised.
“What now?” asked Stick.
“Everybody seems to be turning their cards up,” he said. “Nose Graves made a wreck out of the
Jalisco Shrimp Company not twenty minutes ago. Nobody‟s hurt but he spread the place all over the
county. What‟s left is burning.”
“Shit!” I said grimly. “It‟s starting.”