His phone whistled in his pocket. Two voicemail messages had arrived during the drive inland. The first message was a familiar voice.

‘Cab, it’s Caprice. I enjoyed last night. We should do it again. I set up a private meeting for you with Diane tonight at 9 p.m. Call me after if you want a late drink.’

He thought about Lala’s very specific suggestion not to have sex with Caprice. A late drink at her place would likely lead to bed. As appealing as that idea sounded, he decided he wouldn’t call her. He hoped his willpower lasted through the evening.

The second voicemail message was a complete surprise.

‘Cab, this is Ramona Cortes. I believe we met briefly at a family wedding over the winter. I’d like to talk to you at lunch tomorrow. Let’s say the Pilot House at the Tampa Yacht Club at 1 p.m. Call my aide if there’s a problem.’

Ramona had a slight hint of a Hispanic accent in her prosecutorial voice. Cab knew her enough to know that there was steel at the heart of her personality. Lunch with the Attorney General wasn’t a request. It was an expectation. Drop everything, and be there.

Things were getting interesting.

Cab slid his phone into his pocket, but he didn’t have time to think about what Ramona might want with him. Instead, a voice called to him from the end of the dock: ‘Get those long arms in the air, friend.’

Cab turned around slowly. A small black man in his fifties stood in the overgrown grass. In one hand, he cradled a foot-long baby alligator. In the other, he held a grimy revolver with a wooden grip and eight-inch barrel that looked as if it hadn’t been fired since the 1970s. Cab spread his fingers wide and cocked his forearms.

‘I’m Detective Bolton, Mr Twill. We spoke on the phone.’

‘Yeah, I talked to somebody. Let me see a badge and a photo ID, so I can see who you really are.’

Cab kept his hands up as he walked back along the dock, which shifted under his feet, almost throwing him into the lake. ‘I hope I don’t look like a member of the Liberty Empire Alliance,’ he said.

‘You’d be surprised.’

At the end of the dock, Cab peeled back the lapel of his coat and reached inside with two fingers to extract his wallet and badge. Twill leaned forward to study his credentials, and when he was satisfied, he shoved the big gun into his paint-streaked cargo pants.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ Twill added.

‘I understand. You should probably clean that gun. It’s just as likely to blow up in your face as it is to shoot somebody else.’

Twill shrugged. ‘It’s not loaded. I hate guns.’

‘I’m not a big fan either,’ Cab admitted. ‘Who’s your friend?’