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notebook and pen into the back pocket of his rumpled khaki pants, possibly to indicate that his questions were personal, rather than professional. Molly knew better than to trust him or any journalist on the trail of inside information.
    “Was this some sort of film stunt?” he asked.
    Though it was a natural enough question given her profession as an assistant in the Metro-Dade film office, Molly felt like laughing hysterically. If only that was all it had been, a crazy, dangerous movie stunt in which everyone lived except the fictional bad guy.
    “No,” she said finally, shivering at the memory of Tío Miguel’s boat splintering into a million burning pieces with Michael most likely still aboard. “This was the real thing.”
    Ted nodded as if he’d already guessed as much. “I heard a cop was on that boat right before it blew. Since you’re here and it wasn’t a movie stunt, I’m guessing the cop was O’Hara,” he said, his voice surprisingly subdued. His gaze strayed to the water as if he couldn’t quite bear to meet her eyes.
    Molly saw no point in denying it. “Yes,” she whispered.
    To her surprise, Ted’s expression registered genuine dismay. He squeezed her hand sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I know he and I are usually at odds, but I liked him. He was a great cop.”
    The past tense infuriated her. “Is a great cop, dammit! He is not dead.”
    Ted looked miserable. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse. Look, is there anything I can do for you?”
    “Not unless you can get out there and find him for me.”
    “I’ll go see if there’s any word yet,” he said, then scurried off as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her and the deeply personal pain she didn’t even try to hide. At least he hadn’t plagued her with questions about the explosion or what had led up to it. She supposed she should be grateful for that much consideration. And she knew that Ted would do nothing to betray her role in this story to his rivals. He was too much of a fierce competitor for that. So for the moment she could sit where she was, alone and anonymous, waiting for word.
    It seemed like hours, though it was probably no more than a half hour or sixty minutes, before she finally heard a triumphant shout echo across the water. She stood on unsteady legs and made her way down the dock. Pushing her way through the crowd, she finally spotted a Coast Guard boat speeding toward shore. Paramedics, hauling a stretcher and carrying other critical equipment, rushed through the crowd. When they tried to get Molly to move aside, she stubbornly refused.
    “It’s okay,” Felipe Domínguez told the paramedics, edging in beside her. He put a bracing arm around her waist and pulled her forward. “She was here with O’Hara.”
    She looked into his troubled eyes. “They’ve found him, haven’t they?”
    “Sí,”
he said quietly. He moved his hand to her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “They say he’s alive, but they have said no more than that, not to me, anyway.”
    She glanced at the paramedics. “Did they radio in anything about his condition?”
    At a nod from Felipe, the dark-haired, tanned paramedic who seemed to be in charge told her, “He’s got a nasty bump on the side of his head. He was unconscious when they found him, bobbing along in his life vest.”
    With Felipe’s hand continuing to rest gently on her shoulder, Molly finally faced the most agonizing question of all. Trying to contain a shudder, she asked, “Was he burned?”
    “No, ma’am. The explosion threw him in the opposite direction from the worst of the fire. Sounds to me like he might have been about to dive off the bow, when that sucker blew. He’s one lucky son of a bitch.” At a scowl from his partner, he winced. “Sorry, ma’am.”
    Molly was too intent on the activity at the end of the pier to worry about the paramedic’s language. As the Coast Guard cutter docked, she choked back the sobs that