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  “Fuh. Whadda ya want, anyway? I only came ’cause your message said something about a job. What kinda job?”

  “Do you like fish?”

  “Huh? Naw, fish make me puke.”

  Gabi made a disgusted sound.

  “Not to eat, Claudia. To look at. To admire.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I like to sit around all day and admire the fuck outta fish. You gonna pay me for that?”

  I grinned at the kid. “As a matter of fact, I might.” I sat down in the hot seat. “I’m offering you a job working undercover, at the Santa Barbara Aquarium.”

  That caught her interest, all right. I saw her trying to come up with a smart remark, and failing.

  “Whadda I gotta do?”

  “For starters, change your hair. Maybe undo the ponytail and let it down to cover up that shaved part underneath.”

  “Nope. No fuckin’ way.” She folded her skinny arms across her chest and glared at me. “That way I’d look like some girl.”

  Gabi snorted.

  “What?” Claudia snapped at her with a high yip.

  “That’s it, Miss Jaymie, I’m going.” Gabi rose with dignity from her chair and picked up her new bag, which was the size and general shape of a folding chair. “I got errands to run.”

  “We’ll be done in fifteen.”

  “I’ll be back in one hour, just in case.” She glared at Claudia as she walked around the desk to the door. I could see the truce was about to end.

  “Claudia, here.” I tossed back the phone. “Let’s get down to it.”

  “So far all I got is you wanna pay me to watch fish. Yeah, I can do that. You want me to count them too? That’ll cost more.”

  “You’ll be an aquarium volunteer. I’ll arrange it. There are a couple of other kids volunteering who I want you to keep an eye on. Their names are Vanessa Hoague and Porter Logsdon. They volunteer after school, and you will, too.”

  I could see I’d caught the kid’s interest. She smoothed her baggy white wife beater over her purple shorts. “Never heard of ’em. What am I trying to find out?”

  “You know about Skye Rasmussen, right?”

  She frowned. “I heard he got killed by a jellyfish, man. Fell into a tank.”

  “The thing is, Claudia, Skye didn’t fall. He was probably pushed.”

  “Some asshole pushed him?”

  I nodded. “So you need to be careful. All I’m asking you to do is hang out at the aquarium and keep an eye on Logsdon and Hoague. Nothing spectacular, got it?”

  “Sure. Those two—are they suspects?”

  “Possibly. Vanessa and Porter were close friends of Skye’s until something happened. A fight, maybe, or something else. Your job is to get info about why he split up with them.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Just keep your ears open. The falling-out could have to do with something called the Piñata Party Club.”

  “Piñata Party Club? That’s weird. Sounds like something we did in second grade. Dale, dale, dale. No pierdas el tino.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s the piñata song, what you sing before the kid whacks it. Hit it, hit it, hit it. Don’t lose your aim.”

  “Well, these are no second graders, believe me. I want you to be careful. Now, about your disguise.”

  “I gotta wear a disguise?”

  I was trying to be as diplomatic as possible. “So to speak. You’ll be working undercover, Claudia. The idea is you’re going to get in good with these two.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  Diplomacy be damned. “Like I said, do something about the hair. Lose the basketball shorts and the wife beater. Also, the lingo. Try to fit in.”

  She tipped back her head and stared at me, along the line of her nose. “You tellin’ me to fit in with a couple a lame-ass white kids who go around whacking piñatas? Next thing you’re gonna tell me to wear a fuckin’ dress.”

  “You don’t have to go that far. Though a touch of makeup might not be a bad idea.”

  I’d said this to rile her, and I expected Claudia to shriek with indignation. But instead, after a tense moment the corners of her mouth turned up in a sly little smile.

  “I get it, you want them to like me. Don’t worry, they’ll love me. Trust me, I’ll figure it out.”

  * * *

  I pedaled past the dry dock on my way down to the marina. I got a warm fuzzy pat-myself-on-the-back feeling, just seeing the sleek Icarus mounted high and dry on a lift. The pleasure yacht’s owner, Sutton Frayne, was currently also high and dry in Soledad Prison, and I was the one who’d put him there.

  Today I was headed for a part of the marina that held the berths of working-class boats, rusty buckets loaded down with frayed ropes, stained plastic pails, and lobster traps. The kind of boats that were held together by barnacles and stunk of fish guts. I rode along the breakwater, looking for Neil Thompson and his Lindy Sue.

  I was all the way out to the end before I spotted the guy. His pale red and white hair, tied back in a scraggly ponytail, was the giveaway. Dr. Thompson was bent over a snarl of nets piled on the deck of a small aging fishing boat. Lindy Sue, Santa Barbara CA was painted across the stern.

  “Ahoy there,” I shouted across. “Could you unlock the gate?”

  Neil Thompson straightened up and stared across at me. After a minute he gave a small wave, and bridged the gap between the boat and the dock with his gangly legs. I pedaled back down the breakwater, dodging the errant waves crashing over the wall.

  My timing was off, though. Just as I reached the end of the breakwater, I was doused. The cold wave actually felt good, as the morning air was heating up. But the result, wet T-shirt and jeans plastered to my skin, was not a look I wanted just then.

  “Got caught, huh?” Neil Thompson’s smile seemed welcoming as he held open the steel gate. I was taken by surprise, since his recent behavior to me hadn’t been so friendly.

  “Thought I’d cool off.” I wheeled my bike through, and Neil pulled the gate shut with a clang.

  “By the way,” he said, “you’ve got dead man’s fingers on your sleeve.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to a sprig of seaweed on my T-shirt. “Scientific name, Codium fragile.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever met someone who can name a seaweed before.”

  “It’s an alga, in fact.”

  I followed Neil Thompson along the dock, leaned my bike against a post, and took a leap after him onto the Lindy Sue.

  “As a matter of fact, seaweeds are my specialty. They’re humble but critically important.” He pointed at an ice chest. “Like a root beer? All I’ve got.”

  “Sure. So what do you do, go out in this boat to collect seaweed?”

  “That, and fish for my dinner.” He tossed me a can. “I spend a lot of time on this tub. I’m pretty much here whenever I’m not working at the aquarium.”

  “Your wife must be understanding.”

  “My wife?” He looked puzzled for a moment, then glanced at his hand. “Oh. You noticed my ring.”

  “Was I wrong?” I popped the can.

  “Not exactly. I’m married. But Linda and I, we don’t live together. Haven’t for nearly twenty years. She’s down in Summerland.” He grinned. “That’s how we’ve stayed married for so long.”

  “Got it. So, the Lindy Sue is named after your wife.”

  “Yeah. I named her decades ago. Just never got around to changing it.”

  “If it ain’t broke, I suppose.” I balanced the can on a box. “Dr. Thompson, thanks for agreeing to talk to me.”

  “Sorry I was kind of evasive before. Rod—Dr. Steinbach—he was against us talking to you. I couldn’t see the harm in it, but Skye was his grandson, after all.”

  “Has Dr. Steinbach changed his opinion, then? About the staff talking to me.”

  “Not really.” Neil squatted down and gathered up the nets. “But his daughter—Melanie? She phoned yesterday and asked me to
help you out. Begged me, as a matter of fact.” He shrugged. “Rod might not like it, but I can’t see how it hurts.”

  “Great. The thing is, I’d like to talk with Delia and Cheryl again too. All I’m going to do is ask them some basic questions, go by the book.”

  “I’ll tell the girls they’re free to talk to you.” Neil sat down on an overturned bucket and picked up a net. “Of course, it’s up to them. But I think they’ll both want to help.”

  I watched as Thompson picked at a snarl in the nylon cording. His efforts weren’t very productive.

  “How about you, Neil? Where were you on Friday evening, between the hours of five and ten?”

  Startled, he looked up, rocked back on the bucket and tipped over to the deck. I couldn’t help it, I laughed. It was such a classic Hollywood guilty reaction.

  “Me?” He struggled to his feet. His face was red. “I was with a friend.”

  “Oh?” Delia, I guessed, remembering what I’d observed at the aquarium. “This friend, does she have a name?”

  “Of course she has a name.” He frowned, and a stubborn look settled on his face. “But I won’t be giving it to you. She wouldn’t want that.”

  “Fair enough. But would this person back you up, if push came to shove?”

  “Yes.” He righted the bucket and sat down again. “But why should it come to that?”

  “No reason. Like I said, I’ll be asking everyone the same questions.” I looked him square in the eye. “Including Delia Foley.”

  “So … you know.” His face fell. “Please, don’t say anything to anyone. She’s—she’s got a husband, a mean sonofabitch.”

  “I don’t see any reason for me to gab about her personal life.” I polished off the root beer and tossed the empty into a wastebasket half full of recyclables. “Just one more question, and I’ll leave you in peace. Did Skye Rasmussen know about you and Delia?”

  “Did he … Now look here! Just what are you suggesting?”

  I’d made the guy angry at last. “Did he?”

  “No, he didn’t. Nobody knows.” Neil looked upset, a mix of shame and defiance playing across his face. “Say, maybe Rod’s right about you, maybe you are trouble.”

  “Only for the guilty.” I smiled and shrugged. “If you want to help the Rasmussen family, you’ll let me do my job.”

  * * *

  “Jaymie, baby, you know the rules of the game. Call me at bedtime and you’re gonna get sweet-an’-hot-talk.”

  I sipped my glass of white wine and studied the nearly full moon, trapped in a palm tree. The fronds dug into the moon’s flesh like the teeth of a shark.

  “I need to come and see you, Zave. It’s important—about Brodie.”

  “Brodie?” His voice sobered. “When do you want to come by?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow I’ve got an appointment, at ten. Can you come by first thing?”

  “When’s that?”

  “Before I get out of bed.”

  In spite of my bleak mood, he’d made me laugh. “Just can’t help yourself, can you.”

  “Baby, when you get low like this, I’ll say or do anything to cheer you up. See you round about eight.”

  * * *

  That night I didn’t sleep well. Dexter woke me at five, barking at the door to get out. I didn’t get up. I figured he’d smelled a skunk or a raccoon, and I didn’t need the little cow dog tangling with either of those critters.

  From five till six I lay wide awake, thinking about Brodie. The coroner’s report had stated he’d hanged himself in his cell. I’d never questioned that—why should I? Instead I’d taken it as God’s truth, and agonized for three years over the reason for my brother’s suicide. Had my own persistent in-your-face attitude toward the cops caused them to harass Brodie, to the point where he just couldn’t take it anymore?

  More than that, I’d blamed myself for having ignored his pleas for help for so many months. Months? Make that years.

  Dawn splashed the bedroom with light. I flipped onto my back and stared at the cracked plaster ceiling.

  Now it seemed I’d got it all wrong. Suddenly, I was drenched in sweat.

  Somebody knew something. Somebody knew Brodie’s death wasn’t suicide. And that made it murder.

  I threw back the sheet and jumped out of bed. Zave would help. That’s what I needed: breakfast with Zave.

  * * *

  It was 6:30 A.M. on a Saturday, and the Lower West Side was still nestled in sleep. I circled around a broken beer bottle, looked up and saw a lone runner cross the road in the distance. The guy was jogging along in sweats in spite of the warm sun, shadow-punching the air like a boxer.

  I drew in a deep breath. The mild air was laden with the perfume of the stately magnolias lining the street. Farther along the enticing aroma of simmering chili nearly lured me into the courtyard of an apartment house. I hoped Zave planned to ply me with breakfast.

  I thought about Zave as I pedaled along. He was a complex guy. There was Zave the arrogant attorney, master puppeteer who pulled more strings than anyone in town. There was down-home Zave, who liked to pretend he’d clawed his way out of a ghetto. And there was flirty Zave, who could make you yank off your top with the heat of a sultry look. But there was also Zave my good friend, who’d never let me down. That was the guy I was looking for now.

  The road meandered up Carrillo Hill. The sidewalks disappeared, and the small Spanish-style houses, built in the 1920s and ’30s, sank into their overgrown gardens. I turned into the rutted alleyway that led to La Casa de la Boca del Cañón, Zave’s home.

  As I pedaled along I heard creatures rustling in the mountains of ivy growing on either side of the track. Most likely rats. And sure enough, around another bend I came across one former denizen, recently deceased, being gutted by a glossy crow.

  Another turn, and I arrived at the spiked gate. I pulled up at the keypad and was about to punch in a call when the gate swung silently open. I pedaled on through.

  Zave was waiting for me at the top of the old sandstone steps. His hands were plunged in the pockets of his crimson robe. I knew that robe. It was made of a terry cloth so fine it felt like velvet. And I knew how the robe smelled: musky, sweet.

  “Still no four wheels?” Zave shook his head as I dismounted and climbed the steps. “You could lease one, you know.”

  “I like getting exercise.”

  “Oh, I know you do.” Zave smiled and ran a hand down my arm. “But there’s got to be an occasion or two where you want to show up nice and fresh.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

  “Nothing a shower between us won’t fix.”

  Usually, Zave’s heavy-handed flirting made me laugh. But this time the most I could manage was a lopsided smile.

  “Sorry, Jaymie. You said this is about Brodie.” He opened the carved oak door and stood to one side. “Let’s go in and talk.”

  The interior of the thick-walled Spanish home was cool and dark. We passed through the shuttered living room to the kitchen. Like all the rooms, the kitchen had white plaster walls, a dark redwood-beamed ceiling, and brick-colored saltillo tiles on the floor.

  “Mm—what’s for breakfast?” I edged toward a pan on the stove.

  “French toast with pralines. Egg casserole, Cajun style.” Zave smiled at me. “And you brought the dessert.”

  “I didn’t—oh. I get it.” This time I managed a real smile.

  “But business before pleasure. Let’s talk first.” Zave led me out to the deck off the kitchen. The platform was surrounded on three sides by tropical plants: big-leafed bananas, fishtail palms, and a tall frangipani. I sat down at the round teak table, under a striped umbrella.

  Zave sat opposite me, in the shade. The shadow of the umbrella cut across his face, masking his eyes. “Now tell me. What’s come up?”

  I opened the side pack I’d attached to my belt, and withdrew the cream-colored note. “This.” I held it out to him.
r />   Zave unfolded the sheet of paper and read it, examined the back, then read it again. He met my eyes as he handed it back to me. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was stuck in my office screen door.”

  He leaned back, folded his hands, and pressed his index fingers to his lips. “‘Your brother did not kill himself.’ What do you make of it?”

  “I suppose it could mean Brodie had an accident.” I picked up an ivory-colored frangipani blossom from the tabletop and crushed it between my fingers. “Or it could mean … Well. It could mean he was murdered.”

  “The note—why now? Your brother’s been dead for two years.”

  “Three, almost. I asked myself that. Mike Dawson thinks”—I saw the corner of Zave’s lip curl—“he thinks it’s just a mean joke. But he also wondered if it had something to do with the job I’m working on. The aquarium murders. Somebody, maybe the cops, could be trying to distract me. To get me to drop the case.”

  “That’s a long shot. Still, I suppose the hayseed could be right. Law of averages: it’s bound to happen now and then.”

  No love was lost between Zave and Mike. Mike saw Zave as a manipulative shyster of a lawyer, and Zave saw Mike as a redneck and a plod. And I knew they each saw the other as a rival. I didn’t see it that way, though. Never had.

  “Anyway, I’ve decided I’m not dropping the case. And I’m going to uncover the truth about Brodie.” I ran my fingers over the soft gray teak of the tabletop. “So what do you think I should do?”

  “Do? I know you, Jaymie. It doesn’t matter what I say.” He leaned forward and his eyes burned into mine. “Just stay as cool and discreet as you can. Somebody’s got an axe to grind. Don’t play into their hands.”

  I trailed after Zave as he returned to the kitchen and completed the preps. Then we sat down together and devoured the food. We finished up with strong black coffee laced with thick cream.

  “Got all your energy back?” Zave pulled me down to his lap as I got up to clear the table. “How about a kiss for the cook?” He tasted of raspberries, cayenne, and coffee.

  “Mm. Yeah, I’d say I’m revitalized.”