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holding Pammi's shorts, Stanley went into the kitchen. He looked into the bag of groceries on the sideboard by the sink. There was a quart of milk and a dozen eggs in the bag, as well as some canned things. He put the eggs and the milk into the refrigerator. He wondered where Maya had gone; she had, apparently, taken her handbag when she'd gone back out the front door. Maya's car keys were still on the counter beside the bag of groceries.
     
    It did not occur to Stanley that he was in an awkward position. Instead, he was irritated because Maya had left the house without telling him where she was going. He was also a little concerned about Pammi. A girl that young shouldn't be French-kissing a man old enough to be her grandfather--or great-grandfather, for that matter--and showing off her dimpled private parts for pennies. He wondered who had taught her those games, but he couldn't think of any of the old men in the park who would do any such thing. Later on that evening, he decided, he would go down tO Mr. Sneider's house and talk to him about it.
     
    Stanley picked up the leather bag of coins and looked inside. He dumped the pennies on the kitchen table and counted them. There were ninety-four. He guessed that Pammi had needed six more pennies to make a hundred, so that was why she had kissed him and showed him her private parts. If she had a hundred pennies, she could change them for a dollar bill.
     
    Stanley put the rest of the groceries away and sat in the living room waiting for Maya to come back. Twenty minutes later, Maya came briskly up the walk, accompanied by Mr. Sneider. Stanley, still holding Pammi's red shorts in his lap, got out of his chair as Maya unlatched the front door. When it swung open and he saw the expression on Mr. Sneider's face, Stanley started to run out toward the back porch. Sneider, rushing past Maya, moved uncommonly fast for a man his size and he hit Stanley in the mouth before Stanley could say anything to either of them.
     
    An hour later, Stanley was in the Palm Beach County Jail.
     
    CHAPTER 3
     
    Hoke Moseley spent the next three days in the back guest bedroom in his father's house. Hoke's father, Frank Moseley, had been upset when Ellita Sanchez arrived at his Singer Island home with his son, even though Bill Henderson had telephoned and explained things before Ellita drove the seventy miles up from Miami. Frank, a spry seventy-five-year-old, had rarely been sick in his life and had never missed a day of work in his hardware store and chandlery in Riviera Beach. He had been a widower for many years after Hoke's mother had died of cancer, and had then married a wealthy widow in her early forties named Helen Canlas.
     
    Frank had called his doctor, as Bill Henderson had suggested, a physician he had known for thirty some odd years in West Palm Beach, and Dr. Ray Fairbairn, who had a dwindling practice, had driven over immediately. Dr. Fairbairn, whose breath always smelled like oil of cloves, examined Hoke privately in the guest bedroom. He then told Frank and Ellita that Hoke was all right but needed rest. Lots of rest.
     
    "I've given him a tranquilizer, and I've written out a prescription for Equavil," Dr. Fairbairn said, handing the slip of paper to Frank. "I think he'll be okay in a few days."
     
    "What did he say?" Frank asked.
     
    "He didn't say anything." Dr. Fairbairn shrugged. "He's in good shape physically, but the fact that he won't talk to me indicates that he's probably decided to avoid everyday life for a while."
     
    "I don't understand," Frank said, running his fingers through his thick white hair. "How in the hell can a man avoid everyday life? Hoke's a homicide detective in Miami, and every time I've talked to him on the phone--about once a month--he tells me how busy he is."
     
    Ellita, who had been listening, cleared her throat. "Hoke's on a thirty-day leave without pay, Dr. Fairbairn. Will that be enough time for him to rest? I mean, if he needs additional