"What do you mean?"

  "Before this new shit it was basically the ground-up seeds of the datura plant that they transformed into a powder using a method similar to turning coco leaves into cocaine. That's a pretty basic drug, unlike ecstasy or molly which are both a mix of stuff that makes you feel a variety of ways. You can buy "up" ecstasy or "down" ecstasy and each version will work on you differently. Now someone is doing it with datura. Only instead of "up" or "down", it's how long it lasts, how compliant the victim is, how much they remember, how horrific the hallucinations."

  "Wow," I sat back and sipped at my mojito. "So who is selling it and who is buying it?"

  "Mostly it's in Colombia. I should know more about Miami soon."

  "There are rumors that Ivan Zhovra is giving it to his girls."

  "I've heard that."

  The waiter arrived with our food and we ordered another round of drinks.

  #

  When I woke up the next morning I could feel that first mojito and its three siblings sitting on my forehead laughing at me. Blue noticed I was awake and jumped off the bed ready for our morning jog. "Not today," I muttered, before rolling myself back up in the blankets. Blue warbled at me, ending his protest with a high pitched whine. "Shut up," I said, but Blue came around to my face and pushed his wet nose into the covers until he found my eye and then licked. "Ew," I said and rolled away from him again.

  He barked once, short and high pitched. "Ah, Jesus, fine," I said, throwing the covers aside. Blue pranced around me as I made my way to the bathroom. He tried to follow me in but I closed the door, leaving him to wait while I brushed my teeth and made myself somewhat presentable to the world. I drank a big glass of water, gulping it down like medicine, then walked back out into the room.

  Blue pranced around me, occasionally letting out a small warble of excitement as I dressed. Finally, shoes tied, sunglasses on, hat low, I left the room and headed down to the beach. Instead of staying on the path, I cut over to the sand and slipped out of my sneakers, leaving them hidden in some of the foliage that grew from the dunes before heading out barefoot onto the beach. It was early enough that the sand did not burn my feet but I jogged toward the water anyway. The ground was surer by the waves, more compact, better for running. Blue jumped into the sea as I ran parallel to it. The warm waves washed over my toes with each undulation. Wet, Blue ran to my side. I tapped my left hip and he moved to that side, then my right. Gentle, persistent training was important for both of us.

  The sun was still just above the horizon as we passed several young men, tan and wearing white shorts. They pulled out chaises for the customers who were sure to arrive. Between the beach club operations, large swaths of empty beach greeted me, only the occasional early-bird family setting up their site, preparing for the sun to beam more fully down on them.

  We ran until the sun reached my shoulder and slanted across the sand, casting our long shadows up toward the dunes. I turned us around. We settled into an easy, loping jog, a pace I felt I could maintain forever. But then the music in my headphones changed and the beat seemed to speak directly to my feet. I felt the wave of it, the force of the sounds pushing me forward faster. And soon, Blue and I were sprinting, running as fast as I could, legs extended, arms pumping, mouth open and pulling air between my teeth in raspy whooshes that couldn't go on for long. The beat played on but I slowed, my heart racing, legs burning, feet feeling fully polished.

  #

  Heading back to the viewing room, I walked past a secretary who offered me coffee. I agreed and she brought it into the room as I queued up my footage. "Mr. Maxim would like to see you, is now a good time?" she asked as she placed my coffee on the desk.

  "Sure." I began to stand up and head for the door but she stopped me.

  "Mr. Maxim is going to come to you."

  "He is?"

  She nodded, looking as confused as me.

  Fifteen minutes later he showed up. I was watching the "same but different" footage of the gas station, starting to recognize the commuters and notice similarities among the tourists. He knocked but didn't wait for an invitation to enter. "Hi," I said, pausing the footage and turning my chair to the door.

  He smiled and took a seat on the couch that lined the back wall. "Good to see you," he said. In the muted light he looked nicer somehow. The sharpness of his jaw, the glint in his eyes all seemed softened. I nodded, not wanting to encourage him. He shouldn't think I wanted to see him, because I didn't. And yet, I'd waited for his arrival with impatience in my gut and a spark of excitement in my breast.

  "How are you liking it?" he asked, gesturing toward the computer in front of me.

  "I'm learning to use it," I answered.

  He nodded. "How sure are you he didn't do it?"

  "Did Mulberry tell you about the datura idea?"

  "Yes, he briefed me yesterday. It's interesting."

  "If we find it in his blood sample, will that be enough evidence?" I felt silly asking the question, like a kid who wants something to be true but knows it isn't. I knew that simply evidence of drugs was not a defense, especially a defense never tried before. It was very possible, I realized in that moment, that even if I did everything right, even if we gathered every shred of evidence and proved that Hugh was not in his right mind when he committed the murder, it still might not be enough.

  Bobby didn't answer for a moment. He just stared at me, watching the thoughts crossing my face. "You know the answer to your question and that's why I'm wondering if he would prefer to run?"

  "What?"

  "We could get him a new identity. Do you think he is very attached to his life here? Would he go?"

  "Not without a fight," I answered him.

  "In time we will see what we can do. I promise to use every power I have to keep him free, but, Sydney, there is only so much I can do."

  I laughed. "I don't believe you."

  He smiled. "I like that you have faith in my abilities."

  "Yeah, well, I've never doubted those."

  He sat forward. "Are you liking it here in Miami, the car, it's good?"

  I sat back, made uneasy by his earnest tone. "Yes," I couldn't keep a smile from drifting onto my lips as I thought about the car. Bobby nodded in silent agreement.

  "I hope you like it here, Sydney. I hope that you stay."

  "In Miami. I don't know." I said, surprised that I didn't just throw the offer back in his face.

  "You can live wherever you want. You can do whatever you want. As long as we're on the same side."

  "Same side," I said, pulling a knee up to my chest. "That's an interesting idea."

  Bobby looked down at his watch. "We can talk more soon. Dinner tonight perhaps."

  "I'm busy," I said. "Working." I pointed at the machine before me.

  Bobby smiled. "Perhaps I'll stop in later then."

  Two hours later I was bored out of my mind. To alleviate the boredom I decided to double check Ashley's work. She said she'd watched the kitchen footage from the night of the fire for three days prior, and I believed her. I just wanted to see it for myself. I called the secretary and had her switch the files for me. It looked simple enough and I thought I'd be able to get back to it on my own.

  I started with dinner service the night before the fire. Unfortunately, the angle in the kitchen covered up the oven in question so it was impossible to know if someone had cleaned it or not; it also meant that someone could have sabotaged it without being seen. The only angle in the kitchen was from the far side of the service bar where the waiters picked up their dishes.

  I watched the prep work, admiring again the way that Hugh and Santiago moved together in the kitchen. Even as the speed picked up there was very little tension. Though it was silent I could see Santiago calling out the orders as each one popped up from his printer and then turning back to his stovetop. Hugh worked rapidly, moving from one station to the next, hardly speaking to his staff who seemed to know what to do without his interruption. Often he took a small spoon and tasted from the pots and saucepans that bubbled and steamed on the stove top. Before each plate went out he reviewed it and then placed it on the metal, shoulder-height shelf. I saw his hand come down soundlessly onto a small bell over and over again.

  It was strange to watch the kitchen crew in black and white, silent, like a 1920's film. How much had changed since those first flickering films that captured the imagination of a species.

  The orders slowed and the crew began to clean up. With the last dishes out and the kitchen cleaned the team opened beers and laughed, enjoying their end-of-shift drink. I sped up the tape, watching them all leave in quick, jerky steps, the lights went out and darkness fell upon the screen.

  I sped through the darkness until the lights flicked back on and the routine I'd watched the day before repeated itself. Right as dinner service was about to begin in earnest, someone off camera called the crew out of the kitchen. As the last one came around the counter the screen went black. The explosion tripped the electric. The fire investigators and insurance investigators had looked at these tapes. They agreed the trap just wasn't cleaned enough.

  I switched to the footage from the front of the restaurant provided by one of the city’s webcams. It was in color and stuttered occasionally. I pulled a knee up to my chest and hugged it as I fast forwarded through the days, looking for something to click; for a clue to present itself to me.

  At around noon the secretary knocked on my door and offered me lunch, but I waved her away, my mind and body consumed with the task at hand. After going back a week, I went back another. Lawrence hardly showed up on the kitchen tapes and it became clear that he spent his time in the front of the house. There was no indoor video, but I saw him come and go at least a couple of nights a week. Always greeting his guests at the door. They ranged in age, gender, and physical beauty, but they all had one simple little thing in common. Money. They all looked like money.

  His wife, who only showed up once in the weeks I watched, looked most like money of them all. In the grainy footage she appeared ageless, her figure lithe, posture proud, outfit flawless. She seemed intensely subtle next to her TV-personality of a husband.

  Ivan came often. He brought a group with him every time. The women were always different, the men almost always the same. He entered the place like he owned it. Kissing the hostess on the cheek and stopping among the outside tables to shake hands and laugh.

  If Taggert was at the restaurant they sat together, often in a corner booth by the window. I could just make them out through the sidewalk tables, umbrellas, and patrons. I could see them talking calmly. Then as the wine bottles came and went they would slowly get drunk, the stiffness of Ivan's lines melting a little. By the time the brandy landed on the table, Ivan's big hands would be pawing the woman closest to him. Taggert comfortable and smiling, watching the show. The woman's face was almost always obscured.

  I rewatched the footage from the night of the fire repeatedly. While I could not hear the explosion, the moment was obvious. A woman in a short skirt who was walking by the restaurant jumped and her mouth opened in a silent scream. The man walking next to her moved his body to protect her.

  In the front row of tables a group of four men in suits all held their cocktails loosely, their bodies relaxed. Then they lurched to the ground, dropping their glasses, two of which broke, the third rolling down the sidewalk, dumping ice and booze as it spun. Closer to the door, two women, dressed for fun in high heels and tight jeans, got up and ran, their postures mimicking frightened horses. Head back, neck long, heels stuttering, they pushed past the tables to get out to the street.

  Then I saw him, he was dining alone and his face was obscured by an umbrella stand but when everyone else jumped, he didn't. The man didn't even flinch. I leaned forward, biting down hard on my bottom lip, and moved the footage one click at a time, waiting for him to reveal himself. But he never did. Soon after the explosion, when the crowds began to pour out of the restaurant, smoke following them in a billow of gray, he left, hidden from sight by the crowd of scared pedestrians.

  I backed up the footage, figuring I'd find him when he arrived but the man climbed out of a cab directly in front of the restaurant, never turning his face toward the camera. Was this the guy? The puppeteer? Or was I just grasping at straws?

  I watched him take his seat, a low hat blocking his face as he turned, repositioning the umbrella pole between the camera and himself. A white guy about average height, dressed in a button-down shirt and dark pants, his sleeves rolled up to combat the dying heat of the day. Dark hair peeked from beneath his hat.

  What did that get me? Looking for a puppeteer, average height and weight with dark hair. Should I put an ad in the classifieds? I laughed aloud at the idea and that's when I realized I needed a break.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Unhelpful Botanists

  Blue and I went down to the lobby and out onto the street. It was hot and a breeze blew down the block, seeming to pick up speed as it rushed between the tall buildings. It was late afternoon, the sun tilted toward the west side of the world. Traffic was beginning to clog the narrow streets as rush hour began. A Lamborghini, yellow and absurd, revved its engine and then shot off down the block, braking hard at the next red light.

  I'd neglected to leash Blue and he wandered down the block, sniffing at trees and tires. I followed him, letting my mind wander over the image of the man in the hat. My phone rang and I saw Dan was on the line. "Hey," I said, watching Blue as a mother pushed a stroller by him. She eyed him but didn't look nervous.

  "Hey," Dan said. He sounded excited. "I found out that a world-renowned expert on datura teaches at Sloan University right here in Miami."

  "Really?" Blue looked up at the tone of my voice and pricked his ears.

  "Yes, I was going to head over there tomorrow and see if I could talk to him. Want to come?"

  "Yes," I answered. "Where should I meet you?"

  #

  Traffic was light when I left for the university the next afternoon. During the twenty minute drive I thought over the tapes I'd rewatched, seeing a ton of people who could have been the guy, the one who didn't flinch, but I had no way of knowing. He was just too nondescript.

  I parked in the school’s visitors lot. It was a small institution from what I could tell, housed in a complex of low-rise buildings with palm trees and paved paths. Blue and I started toward a board with a map on it when I heard Dan call my name. "Hey," he said as he crossed the parking lot towards us. He looked down at my car. "Nice ride," he said. "Where'd you get that?"

  "It's a loaner," I answered.

  Dan let it go and we started toward the botanical building. Dan held the door for me and we walked into a carpeted hallway, the air cold, the lights fluorescent. Everything about it cried institution and it made my skin itch. The first door to our right was open, a plaque next to the entrance announced it as the office. The young woman sitting behind the desk smiled. Her medium-length brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She wore a sweater over a matching top. I believe that's called a sweater set, I told myself as we approached her. "Hi," she said, "how can I help?"

  Dan smiled at her and asked about seeing the professor. On the counter were several pamphlets about the courses offered there. I picked one up and scanned down the list of classes. It might as well have been in Latin. Then I realized it was in Spanish and felt like kind of an idiot. I put it back and was about to return my attention to Dan and the girl behind the counter when I saw a pamphlet for a “Semester in the Swamp.” I picked it up and opened the front flap when I realized Dan was talking to me. "Sydney, that works for you?"

  "Whatever you think is best," I said. Dan smiled and nodded, a note of amusement in his eyes.

  The girl came around the corner and led us down the hall. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at Dan before opening a door and motioning for us to enter. We walked into a lab room. Two students wearing white coats looked up from microscopes. "Here you go," she said. "Professor Nablestone will be here soon. This is his next class."

  Dan thanked her and she left. The two students, a girl with short blonde hair and a boy whose skin was so black it glowed almost purple, watched us. "Hi," Dan said, moving down the aisle between the large black lab tables, each with its own sink. "You guys the TAs?"

  They both nodded and then the boy spoke. "Yes," he said, a slight accent on it that made it sound musical.

  "You work on research with the professor?" Dan asked.

  "Yes, can I help you with something?" He sat back on his stool, leaning away from the microscope.

  Dan smiled. "That's nice of you. We're doing some research for a case we're working on. We're private investigators and we suspect that one of our clients has been drugged with datura."

  The man's brow furrowed. "I see."

  "Well," the girl said, "that's something the professor has written about extensively."

  "Yes," I smiled. "That's why we're here."

  She looked over at me. Her eyes were light brown under eyebrows plucked almost into non-existence. "He's widely published. Anything he hasn't published he's not going to want to tell you."

  Dan cleared his throat. "Really, we're just looking for basic knowledge."

  "Then I wouldn't waste the professor’s time. Read his work," she said.

  And with that she returned her attention to the microscope in front of her. I looked over at the boy. "I'm Sydney, by the way," I said, extending my hand as I stepped up to him. He shook it politely, his hand was rough with callouses. "You do a lot of gardening?" I asked.

  "I'm a botanist," he answered and, again, I felt a bit like an idiot. Kind of an "I carried a watermelon" moment.

  "This is Dan," I said, moving on, "and Blue."

  "I was not aware they allowed dogs in the classrooms," the girl spoke up again.

 

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