“Take my word for it. The money’s gone,” he said.

“Why would I take your word for anything? You were filing bankruptcy while two hundred and fifty investors were getting a judgment against you for money they couldn’t collect. Turns out you had it all the time, playing poor while you had millions stuffed under the mattress.”

“I know it looks like that.”

“It doesn’t just look like that. That’s how it was.”

“You can’t possibly think I had a motive for killing Wendell. You don’t even know if he’s dead. Chances are he’s not.”

“I don’t know what the chances are one way or the other. Let’s just look at it this way. You had the money. He came back to collect his share. You’d had the cash so long you were beginning to think you were the only one entitled to it. Wendell’s been ‘dead’ for five years. Who’s really going to care if he’s ‘dead’ for the rest of time? You’d be doing Dana a big favor. Wendell turns up alive, she has to give the money back.”

“Hey, I talked to the guy on Thursday. That’s the last I ever saw of him.”

“That’s the last anybody ever saw of him except Renata,” I said.

He got up abruptly and headed for the door. I was right on his heels, banging through the door behind him. People turned to watch as he pushed his way across the crowded bar with me in his wake. He clattered down the stairs, around the corner, and out through the front door. Oddly enough, I wasn’t worried, and I didn’t care if he got away. Something was stirring at the back of my mind. Something about timing, about Wendell and the sequence of events. The dinghy bobbing in the water, trailing along behind the Lord like a little duckling. I couldn’t put my finger on it yet, but I was going to get it soon.

I could see Carl ahead of me, pausing at the locked gate. He was fumbling for his card key, and I trotted down the ramp behind him. He looked back in haste, and then his eyes flickered up toward the breakwater behind me. I glanced up. There was a woman at the railing. She was barefoot, in a trench coat, staring down at us. Her bare legs and the pale oval of her face were like punctuation against the darkness. Renata.

I said, “Hang on a minute. I want to talk to her.”

Eckert ignored me, pushing on through the gate while I retraced my steps. The curving wall along the breakwater is about eighteen inches wide, a ledge of hip-high concrete. The ocean crashes perpetually against the barrier, water shooting straight up. A line of spray is forced along the wall and around the bend, which is marked by a row of flagpoles. The wind off the ocean blows a constant mist in this direction, waves splatting onto the walkway on the harbor side. Renata had hopped up on the wall and she was walking the curve, waves catching at her shoulder almost playfully. Her raincoat was getting soaked—dark tan on the ocean side, lighter tan on the left where the fabric was still dry. It was like getting rained on, that spray. I could feel it on my face.

“Renata!”

She didn’t seem to hear, though she was only fifty yards ahead of me. The walk was slippery from seawater, and I had to watch my step. I broke into a trot, moving gingerly, hopping over puddles as I tracked her progress. The tide was in. I could see the ocean churning, a massive black presence disappearing into blackness. All the flags were snapping. There were lights at intervals, but the effect was ornamental.

“Renata!”

She glanced back then and saw me. She slowed her pace, waiting until I caught up with her before she started up again. She stayed one pace ahead of me. I was on the walkway below while she kept to the top of the wall so that I was forced to look up at her. I could see now that she was crying, mascara smudges below her dark eyes. Her hair was a series of dripping strands that hugged her face and clung to her neck. I tugged at her coat hem and she stopped, looking down. “Where’s Wendell? You said he took off Friday morning, but you’re the only one who ever claimed to have seen him after Thursday night.” I needed details. I really wasn’t sure how she’d managed to pull it off. I thought about how haggard she’d looked when she showed up in my office. Maybe she’d been up all night. Maybe she was making me part of her alibi. “Did you kill him?”

“Who cares?”

“I’d like to know. I really would. CF took me off the case this morning and the cops don’t give a shit. Come on. Just between us. I’m the only one who believes he’s dead, and nobody’s listening to me.”

The answer was delayed as if traveling from a distance. “Yes.”