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and Margaret Gepman. Vacationing here from Chattanooga. They were upset by what they saw and returned home the day after the murder. They won’t help you much, I’m afraid, even if you travel to talk to them.”
    “They the ones saw the Ford driving away?”
    “No, they stumbled on the crime scene right after the murder. The shock put them in a fog; they won’t add to your knowledge.”
    Carver stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket. It made a crackling sound going in. “As you pointed out, we can’t be sure of anything.”
    Desoto swiveled inches this way and that in his chair, holding up the pen he’d used to write the witnesses’ names and staring at it. As if something printed on it intrigued him. “Has Laura returned to Saint Louis with Sam Devine?”
    “I don’t know. She’s going to call me about the funeral.”
    “You think she loves this Devine?”
    “Yeah. A lot.”
    Desoto dropped the pen on the desk. “Well, that’s a good thing for her, maybe.”
    Carver got his cane, placed its tip on the floor, then folded his hand over the curved handle and levered himself to a standing position. The air-conditioner breeze played coolly over his arms.
    “Where to now, vigilante?” Desoto asked.
    “Haven’t made up my mind.”
    “Ah, Carver. We both know you’re going to check out places that sell or rent diving equipment, hangouts for scuba divers along the beach. You’re going to ask about a white-over-blue late-model Ford with a dented fender, and who owns it. Don’t you know the police are doing that? Do you think you can do it better?”
    “Maybe. I’m more motivated.”
    “I won’t try to stop you,” Desoto said. “Or even remind you that interfering in an open case can endanger your investigator’s license and your rather precarious way of earning a living.”
    Carver released a long breath and decided he’d better try not to be such a hardass here in the office. Desoto really was a friend. “I’m sorry if I cause you trouble. I mean that.”
    Desoto’s liquid brown eyes were sympathetic. “I know. But this line of work is trouble. And remember our conversation cuts both ways, amigo ; keep me informed about whatever you learn.”
    Carver promised that he would and limped to the door.
    “As soon as you learn it, Carver,” Desoto said behind him in a firmer, cautioning tone. “The Fort Lauderdale police, they won’t be enthused about your participation in this.”
    Carver turned at the door and leaned heavily with both hands on his cane, his back stiff and his shoulders slightly shrugged, like a song-and-dance man about to do a number. “Anything else?”
    “Yes. Where might I send flowers?”

Chapter 5
    C ARVER SPENT THE NEXT two days doing as Desoto had predicted, making the rounds of charterboat docks and shops that specialized in diving equipment, asking about a dark-blue-and-white late-model Ford. He felt like the Ancient Mariner, stopping one in three. Only he didn’t want to tell a story; he wanted to hear one.
    Many of the people who hung around the marinas and boat owners’ haunts had heard about the burnings and sympathized with Carver, but no one knew anything that might help. It was as if salt water eroded memory.
    At Scuba Dan’s, on Route A1A just south of Fort Lauderdale, Dan Mason, who ran the shop, told Carver that he did recall a young guy who drove a blue-and-white Ford—at least Mason thought it was a Ford—and bought diving and snorkeling equipment now and then. And sure, the car might have had a dented right front fender. It had been awhile since the guy had been in, though, so it was difficult to be hardrock sure of anything.
    Scuba Dan’s, a mock-driftwood building that was larger and more modern than it appeared from outside, had the facilities in back to recharge diving tanks, and Mason said that the man with the Ford had had a twin tank setup refilled there several times. Bought some flippers once, too. But he hadn’t charged them, and Mason had