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eight months.”
    “Because she was pregnant,” Carver said, “and he wanted her out of any danger because of his business.”
    “You’re speculating.”
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “And you accuse me of being a romantic.”
    “You are. And maybe Gomez is, too.”
    “Most likely. His wife’s pregnancy’s another thing the authorities in south Florida didn’t know about Gomez.”
    “Tell me some of what they do know.”
    “He’s second-generation American, of Cuban descent. His father was a burglar in New York, shot to death by police nine years ago. Gomez got into narcotics trafficking up east. Arrested three times for dealing, convicted once. Did four years at Attica. Earned a reputation as a bad-ass up there. Tough con who ran his cellblock.”
    It was difficult for Carver to reconcile this description with the ordinary, cocky little man who’d passed himself off as a medical supply salesman. Medical supplies, all right. He’d flirted with the truth when he said he sold heroin. “Any warrants out for Gomez?” Carver asked.
    Desoto shook his head no. “He’s gotten clever since he’s moved south. Miami Narcotics and the Drug Enforcement Administration keep a watch on him, though, waiting for him to screw up. They know he’s one of Florida’s major dealers, but they need more than they got if they wanna prove it in court. He’s also one ruthless cookie, amigo. He’s got a longtime lieutenant name of Hirsh does the mean work. Gomez enjoys watching, they tell me. But he’s still capable of most anything himself. He doesn’t do drugs and he doesn’t allow any of his employees to use the stuff. Last year, in the Keys, he found out one of his men was carrying a habit. Gomez cut off the guy’s fingertips with a machete and towed him behind the boat. Got a charge outa what happened when sharks were attracted by the blood.”
    “No proof, though?” Carver asked.
    Desoto smiled faintly. “Not unless you can get sharks to testify. DEA knows who else was on the boat, but nobody’s talking.”
    Carver couldn’t blame them. Seeing sharks make a meal of one of your co-workers would stick in the mind and prompt loyalty to the employer.
    “So what we have,” Desoto said, “is Gomez wanders up to you on the beach, pretends to be someone else, and hires you to find his wife.”
    “His real wife,” Carver said.
    “So far, anyway. But he neglects to tell you she’s pregnant.”
    “She might have already had the baby,” Carver pointed out.
    “True. Nobody knows how pregnant she is—or was. Anyway, you go to the address Gomez gives you—where he actually did spend time with his wife and where she’s been more or less living much of the past year—and the wife’s sister walks in and gets shot by a sniper.” Desoto leaned back into the breeze from the window unit. His wavy dark hair didn’t budge in the flow of air. “ Amigo, tell me what it all means.”
    Carver had been sitting there wondering exactly that. He said, “Well, I don’t think I was used to set up Gomez’s sister-in-law. It doesn’t connect. She must have arrived at the apartment unexpectedly.”
    “Uh-huh. But why, do you figure?”
    “To get some clothes and personal items for her sister, who’s in hiding.”
    “Hiding from?”
    “I don’t know. Gomez?”
    “Maybe from Gomez. But I don’t think so. And the unfortunate Belinda Jackson?”
    “Shot by mistake,” Carver said. “Because the killer, firing from a distance, thought she was Elizabeth Gomez.”
    “That’s how it coulda been, all right.” Desoto sat forward again. He placed his elbows on his desk and clasped his neat, tanned hands together. “What if somebody’s trying to kill Elizabeth Gomez, and hubby Roberto wants to find her so he can protect her, eh?”
    “That the way you’re leaning?”
    “For now, amigo .”
    “She’s more likely running from Gomez, which is why he hired me to find her.”
    “Except he stashed her out of harm’s way in the Orlando