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they pay her for.”
    Tough summation, I thought. No sympathy, either.
    “It’ll be more of everything,” I said. “Emotion, the bullshit. No fun.”
    “She was having fun at lunch today.”
    “Do I want to know about this?”
    “I shouldn’t have said that,” she said.
    “We don’t keep tabs on each other.”
    Marnie nodded. “I know. Sam and I thrive on trust, too. I apologize.”
    “You were thinking about my ‘April weather’ remark.”
    “Cloudy, windy, and eighty.” She almost smiled. “That’s actually funny.”
    “This has been a long one for all of us. It’s about to start up again.”
    She agreed. “Go get your cameras. If you’ve got any crackers or bananas in there, my stomach’s crying for help.”
    As I turned back to the house, my mind spun. Two in one day? Naomi, just like that?
    Who else was crying for help?
    I needed a long nap. I needed to keep my eyes wide open.

4
    R IVIERA D RIVE IS A mix of luxury homes, cement-block Florida specials, and dumps disguised by vegetation. By Key West standards, it’s an upscale neighborhood. Houses to the north have back-fence neighbors. Southside homes, like Steve Gomez’s, back up to a deep canal and a shallow salt pond bordered by twisted, bug-filled mangroves.
    Marnie and I didn’t need an address. Four unmarked Crown Vics had jammed to within fifty feet of Gomez’s twin sago palms. Spotlights, beefed shocks, window tint dark enough to win civilians a love note from city hall. Not exactly unmarked. The house looked new, from what I could see beyond the wall. I had heard that Gomez had knocked down an eyesore to build before he ran for office, had turned his double-lot yard into a showplace.
    Marnie wedged her Jeep into the last spot in sight, snug behind Teresa’s blue Shimano motor scooter. A blowsy middle-aged woman in a huge denim shirt and strained cutoffs marched to the edge of her sparse lawn. She stood guard, made sure the Jeep’s tires didn’t dig up her turf.
    Marnie faced forward, reached behind my seat to grab her briefcase. “The old bag has eight toilets out behind her house,” she said quietly. “She turned them into yard planters. She called the paper and asked us to do a story on her. She’s a chatter. Let’s move fast.”
    We saw no one out front. Except for a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot square of turf for the palms, only a two-car garage was open to the street. Key West’s Crime Scene van sat on a short, peach-colored apron in front of the garage.
    Riding across town I had recalled the last time I had seen Naomi Douglas. She had been sitting on the deck at Louie’s Backyard, smirking in the late-day sun, not quite enjoying a ribald joke. I had wanted to capture the life in her eyes, the mischief and goodwill that matched her smile, but I hadn’t brought my camera. Now, two weeks later, I would have to focus on the shredded remains of a man’s head, details of nature I didn’t want to know. I felt as if I had reversed my priorities in life. I took peace in the idea that a week on Grand Cayman might fix my brain as well as my wallet.
    “No sheriff’s car,” said Marnie. “Not even his fancy-ass Lexus.”
    “He must have caught a ride with someone else.”
    Four years ago Fred “Chicken Neck” Liska had waggled money in my face. I blamed him for drawing me into my grim sideline. He had been a detective with the KWPD and had asked me to photograph evidence. Before he turned in his city badge, then won last year’s election to become Monroe County’s sheriff, he had worked six years under Mayor Gomez. I recalled times when Liska had spoken of the mayor. His tone had shown respect for the way the man did business. From Fred Liska, those words had amounted to effusive praise. If this had been murder rather than a suicide, he could have opted to take jurisdiction. I knew he would be shaken by the mayor’s suicide. I was equally certain of his relief at not having to take the case.
    The Crime Scene van began to