Alone in the quiet of the morgue, Jenner sat on a steel stool, filling in the paperwork. He’d finished the two autopsies, and done the initial charting and prep work for the skeletons, then sent everyone home. He’d look at the skeletal remains in the morning with fresh eyes, and give Annie Carr a call; Annie was one of the best forensic anthropologists in the country and had been pretty much the best thing about working in New York.

New York. A thousand million miles away. Home. What the hell was he doing in Florida? Whenever Jenner and Douggie Pyke had polished off a few single malts at the Temple Bar, Douggie would lean back expansively and say, “New York, New York, Jenner! If you can make it here, who the fuck cares if you can make it anywhere else?”

According to that logic, since Jenner had done okay in New York (mostly), anywhere else ought to be easy. But, Jesus, Florida had been hard.

He was exhausted. He scraped the stool back across the terrazzo floor, stretched, and looked at the clock at the end of the room; he had to squint to make out the time—maybe he was just getting old.

Nine fifteen p.m. Fuck.

Jenner undressed in the locker room and climbed into the shower. The facility was still pretty new, and the water pressure was fantastic. The hot water blasted his skin like a fire hose; he stood there, arms over his head to embrace the torrent, feeling the grime of his day wash off him, drain away. The lack of sleep, the hangover, the slog through the swamp, the bodies, waiting for the cops and crime lab, back into town, the autopsies, all of it, all of it loosening up and sliding off him.

As he scrubbed, he thought about the next day. The skeletons were pretty far gone; to really analyze them properly, he’d need to deflesh them completely. He wondered what equipment they had in the office; probably nothing. He’d find a restaurant supply store in the morning, put something together.

As he was drying off, his cell phone rang. The sheriff, no doubt.

“Jenner? This is Deb Putnam, from this morning.”

He smiled. “Deb Putnam! It was just a few hours ago, of course I know who you are—after the day we had, we should probably go out and get matching tattoos.”

She said he sounded like he was in a good mood; exhaustion always made Jenner a bit manic. He said, “Yes. Because I’m finishing up here, and getting the hell out. How can I help you?”

They talked about what he’d found, but he soon realized she had something else on her mind. As the initial conversation faded, she paused and then said quickly, “I was thinking you’re new here, probably don’t really know too many people, so I thought maybe we could get together and I could show you the town a bit. If you feel like it, that is.”

Jenner could almost hear her blush. He pressed the phone to his ear with his shoulder and pulled his belt tight. “Well…” The leather went through the buckle at an odd angle and wedged; Jenner yanked it to the side to free it, then struggled to pull the leather back a bit.

She interrupted his silent battle with a hasty “Of course, I’m sure you’re really busy with these cases. Maybe some other time.”

“Oh, no, no—I’d really like that.”

She sounded pleased. “Well, we could go out tomorrow, my treat. Cormo’s on the Bay has a swordfish special.”

“Your treat? I already owe you for the chai!”

Jenner could hear the smile in her voice. “This is Port Fontaine, Jenner—we’re known for our hospitality. How’s about I pick you up five p.m. at your office? They start serving at five thirty p.m., and we want to get there early to get a seat on the dock.”

“I’m looking forward to it—I have so much more to learn about gator holes.”

She laughed as she hung up; he was grinning again.

Closing his locker door, he thought, Who the hell eats dinner at five thirty p.m.?