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report?”
    “Given my history, Alex, I take Bob Dylan’s advice. ‘The cops, they don’t need you and, man, they expect the same.’ Let’s just say ‘911’ is not in my vocabulary.”
    Fifteen years ago Spence had served a hand-slap federal sentence. He’d been a money courier for a short-lived smuggling operation, marijuana by sailboat from Colombia to the U.S. East Coast. Somehow the prosecutors had excluded him from the conspiracy indictment. He’d managed to avoid testifying against his employers, one of whom had been a fraternity brother at the University of Georgia. These days, Jesse Spence could pass for a mid-level executive. To my knowledge, he had remained low-key and legit since his problems.
    “It’s 820 Seminary, near Grinnell,” he said.
    I’d started the morning with nothing on the calendar. My day had filled up like a shoal draft dinghy on a rainy night.
    “I’ll get there when I can. It might be a while.”

3
    A tropical island is a small world unto itself. Coincidence rules.
    I mulled the chance of a link: the Front Street murder and Cahill’s failure to appear at Mangoes. Too far-fetched, even in a small world.
    Second question. Did Zack’s vanishing act warrant my sounding a general alarm or minding my own business? I wasn’t inclined toward either choice. Yelling “wolf” with no evidence wouldn’t cut it. Burying my head in the sand, ostrich-style, could get me whacked in the rear end by some other surprise. Whatever I did, I wanted to be a respectful visitor to this coincidental wilderness: I wanted to leave no evidence of my having been around.
    I hate scraping embarrassment off my shoes.
    I pissed away forry-five minutes pacing the cottage, restacking piles of “to do” and “to file” crap on my desk and on the corners of tables. I threw away a sugar bowl that had drawn ants. I refilled a salt shaker, adding a teaspoon of rice to absorb humidity. I chewed my lower lip to shreds. I conjured up one less-thanbrilliant idea, but watching passengers board the four-thirty flight promised no better than break-even results. If Zack showed, no matter what I learned about his seven-hour absence, I’d be pissed off. On the other hand, if he didn’t show up, I’d still be pissed.

    I found it difficult to believe that he’d been kidnapped out of Sloppy Joe’s.
    My phone remained quiet.
    I called Claire Cahill in Winnetka, reminding myself not to reveal concern or stick my nose too far astray. I had always enjoyed talking with Claire. Our relationship had been solid and trusting since the first time Zack brought her to Key West. It also had been flirtatious and mischievous. Over the years, Claire had taken as her duty the analysis and review of the women I’d dated and lived with. Her accuracy as to which would turn out heartbreakers or losers or keepers had helped me survive. Her intelligence fed her refreshing outlook.
    “Your voice in the afternoon, Alex.” She sounded upbeat. “It’s odd to hear it. Usually you call evenings.”
    “I still have a crush on you.”
    She chuckled. “You always say that, but you never do anything about it.”
    “It’s that nagging old rule, ‘Do a married man a favor. Don’t screw his wife for him.’”
    A tapping at the screen door. My buena amiga, dear neighbor, Carmen Sosa, waved as she entered. She wore navy-blue shorts and a white blouse, an approximation of her U.S. Postal Service uniform. The exaggerated, frozen disgust on her face told me that she’d overheard my recitation of the nagging old rule. Carmen curtsied and headed for the kitchen.
    Claire said, “I wish Zack didn’t travel so much. I caught myself yesterday checking out the paper boy.”
    “And he’s traveling now …?” Or is he somewhere on the island, sleeping off a pre-noon binge?
    “Yes, and I usually forgive St. Louis and Charlotte. But I never forgive San Francisco or New Orleans. Right now he’s in New Orleans. I’m jealous.”
    Confirmed: a nose in