But I did, she said through her son, and held up one hand, palm outward. Not to get the number, that only happens in the old movies. But I know it was a Florida license plate. The yellow one with the cartoon of a child, she said, and she stopped talking and glared at me, because I was giggling. It’s not at all dignified, and certainly not something I practice on a regular basis, but I was actually giggling and I could not help myself.

Deborah glared at me, too. What is so goddamned funny? she demanded.

The license plate, I said. I’m sorry, Debs, but my God, don’t you know what the yellow Florida plate is? And for this guy to have one and do what he does . . . I swallowed hard to keep from laughing again, but it took all my self-control.

All right, damn it, what’s so funny about the yellow license plate?

It’s a specialty plate, Deb, I said. The one that says, CHOOSE LIFE.

And then, picturing Dr. Danco carting around his wriggling victims, filling them with chemicals and cutting so very perfectly to keep them alive through it all, I’m afraid I giggled again. Choose life, I said.

I really wanted to meet this guy.

We walked back to the car in silence. Deborah got in and called in the description of the van to Captain Matthews, and he agreed that he could probably put out an APB. While she talked to the captain, I looked around. Neatly manicured yards, mostly consisting of colored rocks. A few children’s bicycles chained to the front porch, and the Orange Bowl looming in the background. A nice little neighborhood to live in, work in, raise a family in—or chop off somebody’s arms and legs.

Get in, said Deborah, interrupting my rustic reverie. I got in and we drove off. At one point, stopped at a red light, Deb glanced at me and said, You pick a funny time to start laughing.

Really, Deb, I said. This is the first hint of personality we’ve got from the guy. We know he has a sense of humor. I think that’s a big step forward.

Sure. Maybe we’ll catch him at a comedy club.

We will catch him, Deb, I said, although neither one of us believed me. She just grunted; the light changed and she stomped on the gas as if she was killing a poisonous snake.

We moved through the traffic back to Deb’s house. The morning rush hour was coming to an end. At the corner of Flagler and 34th a car had run up onto the sidewalk and smacked into a light pole in front of a church. A cop stood beside the car between two men who were screaming at each other. A little girl sat on the curb crying. Ah, the enchanting rhythms of another magical day in paradise.