The bridge had two spans, which seemed to be modeled after dorsal fins. From a distance, as the sun dipped toward the sea and the sky turned purple, the dorsal fins appeared to have been painted a smoky gold, but as we rode over the bridge itself, we saw that the fins were made up of several yellow beams that converged in ever-smaller triangles. At the base of the beams were lights that when turned on and combined with the setting sun, gave the fins a golden hue.

Christ, they loved their colors down in these parts.

“‘…the unidentified man,’” Angie read from the paper, “‘believed to be in his early thirties, was found facedown on the floor of his room at the Isle of Palms Motel with a fatal knife wound to his abdomen. The suspect, David Fischer, forty-one, was arrested in his room which adjoined the victim’s. Police refused to speculate on motive or comment on what led them to arrest Mr. Fischer.’”

Jay was being held in the Bradenton County Jail, according to the paper, pending a bond hearing, which would have been held sometime today.

“What the hell is going on?” Angie said as we drove off the bridge and the purple in the sky deepened.

“Let’s ask Jay,” I said.

He looked awful.

His dark brown hair was flecked with gray that had never been there before and the bags under his eyes were so puffy I’d have doubted anyone who told me he’d slept this week.

“Well, is that Patrick Kenzie sitting before me or is that Jimmy Buffett?” He gave me a weak smile as he came through the doorway into the visitation area and picked up the phone on the other side of the Plexiglas.

“Barely recognize me, eh.”

“You almost look tan. I didn’t know such a thing was possible for you pasty Celtic folk.”

“Actually,” I said, “it’s makeup.”

“Cash bail is a hundred grand,” he said and sat down in his cubicle across from mine, cradled the phone between chin and shoulder long enough to light a cigarette. “In lieu of a million-dollar bond. My bail bondsman’s a guy name of Sidney Merriam.”

“When’d you start smoking?”

“Recently.”

“Most people are quitting at your age, not starting.”

He winked. “I’m no slave to fashion.”

“A hundred grand,” I said.

He nodded and yawned. “Five-fifteen-seven.”

“What?” I said.

“Locker twelve.”

“Where?” I said.

“Bob Dylan in St. Pete,” he said.

“What?”

“Run the clue down, Patrick. You’ll find it.”

“Bob Dylan in St. Pete,” I said.

He looked over his shoulder at a slim, muscular guard with a diamondback’s eyes.

“Songs,” he said. “Not albums.”

“Got it,” I said, though I didn’t yet. But I trusted him.

“So they sent you,” he said with a rueful smile.

“Who else?” I said.