My first thought upon reading about her was, Shit. Desiree. But after checking into the section of Clearwater where the body was found and hearing the coded language used on last night’s six o’clock news, it became apparent that the victim had probably been a prostitute.

“Sure,” one of the Canadians said, “it’s like the Wild West down here. That is for sure.”

“You are right there, Bob,” his wife said and dipped her entire batter-fried grouper finger in a cup of tartar sauce.

It was a strange state, I’d been noticing, but in ways it was growing on me. Well, actually, the Crab Shack was growing on me. I liked Sandra and Rita and Gene and the two signs behind the bar that said, “If You Like the Way They Do Things in New York So Much, Take I-95 North,” and “When I Get Old I’m Going to Move to Canada and Drive Real Slow.”

I was wearing a tank top and shorts and my normally chalk-white skin had reached a happy shade of beige. Angie wore her black bikini top and a multicolored sarong and her dark hair was twisted and curled and the chestnut highlights were turning almost blond.

I’d enjoyed my time in the sun, but these past three days had been a godsend to her. When she forgot her frustration over the case, or once we’d reached the end of yet another fruitless day, she seemed to stretch and blossom and unwind into the heat, the mangroves, the deep blue sea and salty air. She stopped wearing shoes unless we were actively on the chase for Desiree or Jeff Price, drove to the beach at night to sit on the hood of the car and listen to the waves, even eschewed the bed in her suite at night for the white rope hammock on her balcony.

I met her eyes and she gave me a smile that was part sad knowledge and part intense curiosity.

We sat awhile like that, smiles fading, eyes locked, searching each other’s faces for answers to questions that had never been vocalized.

“It’s been Phil,” she said and reached across the table to take my hand. “It felt like sacrilege for us two to, you know…”

I nodded.

Her sandy foot curled up over mine. “I’m sorry if it’s been causing you pain.”

“Not pain,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Not real pain,” I said. “Aches. Here and there. I’ve been worried.”

She brought my hand to her cheek and closed her eyes.

“Thought you two were partners, not lovers,” a voice cried.

“That,” Angie said, eyes still closed, “would be Rita.”