“Yes, it’s exactly like that,” said Hammer, who had slipped across marble and hardwood quite enough in life whenever new shoes had all-leather soles that needed to be roughed up by bricks, pavement or perhaps a serrated knife.

“So how does somebody know enough about our brand-new website to download fish?” West asked. “I mean, come on. We all know damn well the fucking Fling address is how the fish got in.”

“That’s a very good point,” said Hammer.

“The op-ed that ran Sunday a week ago. Remember? I said we were starting a web page so citizens could write in their questions, concerns, complaints, whatever. They were told the new address would be ready in a couple days and they could call HQ for it. Obviously Fling gave it out.”

“That’s how the fish swam in then,” West said again, gulping Miller. “Got to be unless someone inside the department did this.”

“Sabotage. A virus,” Brazil thought out loud.

“I’m afraid that’s also possible,” Hammer said. “But saying it’s not a virus or a deliberate attempt to crash the system, then there is the other thought that the fish might be a symbol, perhaps a code of some sort.”

“Probably making a joke of us, as usual,” West said. “First we’re the Ninjas, then the Ni-Jays, then the Nee-gees. Now we’re fish. Maybe fish out of water, implying that everyone wants us to go home.”

“I don’t think this is about us being fish out of water or fish, period,” Hammer stated.

“Maybe we’re fishing for something, then.” West wouldn’t let it go.

“Like what?” Brazil asked. “And you know, if you don’t mind, Chief, I think I’d like a beer.”

“I don’t care.”

Brazil got up and went into the kitchen.

“Fishing for clues? For crime patterns? For hot spots?” West kept on.

“This is nonsense.” Hammer was pacing.

Niles slinked back into the dining room. Brazil was right behind him, sipping a Heineken.

“Took the good stuff,” he politely said to West. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s Jim’s good stuff, not mine.”

Brazil sat down and drained half the bottle in one swallow.

“Andy,” Hammer was thinking. “Is there any way to trace this fish-thing?”

He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning, his heart pounding irregularly and dully.

“I doubt it,” he said.

“Let’s break it down for just a minute.” Hammer stopped pacing and leaned closer to the brilliantly colored map on the screen. “Sector 219 is outlined in flashing bold red and there are one, two, three, four . . . , eleven bright blue fish inside it. Everywhere else we find just the usual icons.”

She looked at both of them.

“Possible this could be a warning of some sort?” she suggested.

“Fish?” Brazil thought about it. “There are only a few fish markets in 219. No lakes or reservoirs or even many seafood restaurants except Red Lobster and Captain D’s.”

“What possible illegal use could there be for fish?” Hammer explored. “I can’t imagine a black market in them, not unless there’s a proposed fish bill we don’t know about yet, a huge fish tax in the works and the lawsuits that would inevitably follow.”