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proceed.
    “Last time I was here, he had a different one.”
    “Yeah,” Lockridge said. “He got that one on account of the graphics. He was getting into digital photography and stuff.”
    Without my bidding or approval Lockridge reached over and depressed a white button on the computer. It started to hum and then the black screen filled with light.
    “What kind of photography?” I asked.
    “Oh, you know, amateur stuff mostly. His kids and sunsets and shit. It started with the clients. We started taking their pictures with their trophy fish, you know? And Terry could just come down here and print out eight-by-ten glossies on the spot. There’s a box of cheap-ass frames in here someplace. The client catches a fish, he gets a framed photo. Part of the deal. It worked pretty good. Our gratuities went way up with that.”
    The computer finished booting up. The screen was a sky of light blue that made me think of McCaleb’s daughter. Several icons were spread across the field. Right away I noticed one that was a miniature file folder. Underneath it the word PROFILES was printed. I knew that was a folder I wanted to open. Scanning across the bottom of the screen I saw an icon that looked like a camera set in front of a photo of a palm tree. Since the subject had just been photography I pointed to it.
    “Is that where the photos are?”
    “Yup,” Lockridge said.
    Again he moved without my request. He moved his finger on a small square in front of the keyboard, which in turn moved the arrow on the screen to the camera icon. He used his thumb to depress a button below the square and the screen quickly took on a new image. Lockridge seemed at ease with the computer and it begged the questions why and how. Did Terry McCaleb allow him access to the computer—after all, they were in business together—or was this something Lockridge became efficient at without his partner’s knowledge?
    On the screen a frame opened under the heading iPhoto. There were several folders listed. Most were listed by dates, usually a few weeks or a month. There was one folder simply titled MAIL CALL.
    “Here we go,” Lockridge said. “You want to see some of this stuff? It’s clients and fish.”
    “Yeah, show me the most recent photos.”
    Lockridge clicked on a folder that was labeled with dates ending just a week before McCaleb’s death. The folder opened and there were several dozen photos listed by individual date. Lockridge clicked on the most recent date. A few seconds went by and a photo opened on the screen. It showed a man and woman, both badly sunburned and smiling as they held up a horribly ugly brown fish.
    “Santa Monica Bay halibut,” Buddy said. “That was a good one.”
    “Who are they?”
    “Um, they were from . . . Minnesota, I think. Yeah, St. Paul. And I don’t think they were married. I mean, they were married but just not to each other. They were staying on the island. Shacking up. They were the last charter before the trip down to Baja. Pictures from that trip are probably still on the camera.”
    “Where is the camera?”
    “It should be here. If not, then Graciela probably has it.”
    He clicked on a left arrow above the photo. Soon another photo appeared, the same couple and same fish. Lockridge kept clicking and eventually he came to a new customer and his trophy fish, a pinkish white creature about fourteen inches long.
    “White sea bass,” Lockridge said. “Nice fish.”
    He kept clicking, showing me a procession of fishermen and their catches. Everybody seemed happy, some even had the obvious glaze of alcohol in their eyes. Lockridge named all the fish but not all the clients. He didn’t remember them all by name. Some of them he simply classified as good or bad tippers and that was it.
    Eventually, he came to a man with a delighted smile on his face as he held up a small white sea bass. Lockridge cursed.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “He’s the prick who walked off with my goddamn fish