But you think I might?

Not unless you're what happened to her, Jesse said.

It's that dead girl they found floating down by the wharf.

Don't know if it is or not, Jesse said.

But if you look at the picture on her driver's license ... Guilfoyle paused.

Jesse was shaking his head.

Oh, Guilfoyle said.

Thanks for coming in, Mr. Guilfoyle.

Yeah, well, I don't want no trouble over this. I just want to get paid for the time my boat was missing.

And I wish you well on that, Jesse said.

I'm going to talk with a lawyer.

That'll be swell, Jesse said.

Guilfoyle looked at him. Jesse looked back.

Don't lose that license, either, Guilfoyle said.

Okay, Jesse said.

Guilfoyle lingered.

Thanks for stopping by, Jesse said.

Guilfoyle hesitated another moment, then went.

Chapter 8.

It was a Florida driver's license. The photo was not flattering. But it showed that she was blond and thirtyish. Kind of cheap-looking, Jesse thought, and smiled. It was something his mother would have said. What the hell does it even mean? Mostly a matter of hair and makeup, probably. Her name was Florence E. Horvath. Her address was in Fort Lauderdale. Her date of birth was February 13, 1970. Jesse took the license and credit card to the copy machine, made a copy of each and took the copies to the front desk and gave them to Molly.

Call Fort Lauderdale, Jesse said. Tell them we have a body that might be this woman, see what they got on her, or what they can get. Dental records would be good. Then call the bank that issued this credit card and see what you can get history of purchases this month and so forth.

I know you'll explain this to me later, Molly said.

Being chief means never having to explain, Jesse said.

Might mean making your own coffee every morning, too, Molly said.

I'll explain this to you later, Jesse said.

Molly turned to the switchboard. Jesse went back to his office and looked in the phone book. There was only one Horvath listed in Paradise. He called. There was no one there named Florence, nor did they know anyone named Florence. He called the Florida Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles, waded through a long menu of options, finally got someone in enforcement and arranged to have some blowups of Florence Horvath's driver's license photograph sent to Paradise. The he got up and went into the squad room where Peter Perkins was drinking a Diet Pepsi and reading the Globe sports section.

You get through with the sports page, Jesse said, see if you can scan this license picture into the computer and send it over to Forensics. Ask them if it could be the floater.

Condition of the body, Perkins said, I don't think they can tell much.

Ask them if anything here rules Florence out.

Okay, Jess, Perkins said and folded the paper and put it on the conference table. You're the chief.

Yes I am, Jesse said.

In the hall outside the squad room he saw Suitcase Simpson come in herding three college-aged kids, all of whom were drunk.

I want a lawyah, a blond kid kept saying. I got right to a lawyah.

What's up, Jesse said. A riot in day care?

They were pissing in the watering trough in the town common, Simpson said.

Put them in a cell, Jesse said, and call their parents to come get them.

One of the kids was wearing plaid shorts and a muscle shirt he was too skinny to sustain.

What charge, he said. Can't lock us with no charge.

Inadequate potty training, Jesse said. Go on down there with Officer Simpson, and when you get sick try to puke in the hopper.

Simpson herded them ahead of him toward the cell corridor. They were saying they weren't drunk. There was no need to call their parents. They were being picked on for being kids. This was harassment. There was a mention of police brutality, then the door to the cell corridor closed and shut it off.

As Jesse walked past the desk, Molly said, Fort Lauderdale says they'll send a patrol car over to check on the address, and they'll see what they can find on her. Like who her dentist is, or was. Bank will send us a copy of her last statement, and a printout of the credit card charges for the period since the statement.

Thank you, Jesse said. You ever piss in a watering trough?

That what Suit busted them for?

Yep.

I am a mother and a wife, and an Irish Catholic, Molly said. I don't piss at all.

Chapter 9.

They were eating pepper and mushroom pizza at the little table on Jesse's balcony, with the strong salt sea smell of the harbor drifting pleasantly around them on the soft July air. Jenn had a glass of red wine. Jesse was drinking a Coke.

When we're together, Jesse said, what do you feel coming from me.

I feel strong vibes that I should undress and lie down, Jenn said.

Really?

Jenn was about to bite the point off a pizza slice. She stopped and looked at him with the pizza poised in front of her.

You're serious, aren't you, she said.

Yes.

Jenn put the pizza slice back on the plate.

Well, I ... you know I don't think much about stuff like that, she said.

I been talking with Dix about it, Jesse said. I need help with it.

Well, I mean, I know you love me.

Yes.

And I love you, Jenn said.

Perfect, Jesse said.

We've been together for a long time, Jenn said. Sort of, Jesse said.

I mean, even at our worst and most separate we were connected.

Yes, Jesse said.

And we are more than two people who fuck.

Yes, Jesse said.

Which, Jenn said, is much better than being two people who don't.

So you don't mind about the undressing and lying down. I like it, Jenn said.

And you don't feel objectified.

Ob what? Jenn said. Christ, you're getting like whatsisname, Hamlet. You think too much. We are much more than the damn missionary position and we both know it.

And there's nothing wrong with the missionary position, Jesse said.

A little unimaginative, maybe, Jenn said.

In the harbor there were lights showing on the bigger boats moored farther out. Cocktail on the deck, supper cooking in the galley, the running lights of a small tender boat creeping soundlessly across the black water like a firefly. Jesse drank some Coke. Caffeine. Any stimulus is better than none.

Dix and I talked about how sexually charged our relationship is, Jesse said.

And that's a bad thing? Jenn said.

She poured herself a half glass more of red wine.

Maybe you're supposed to sexualize our relationship. Ever think about that, Hamlet boy? Maybe it has to do with you loving me more than the spoken word can tell.

Well, Jesse said, there's that.

Chapter 10.

Healy hiked his pants up at the knee when he sat, to keep the crease. He had on a tan poplin suit and a coffee-colored snap- brim straw hat with a wide brown headband. His plain-toed cordovan shoes gleamed with polish.

On my way home, Healy said. Thought I'd stop in, see what's happening with your floater.

Jesse pointed over his shoulder at the photo.

That her? Healy said.

A blowup of Florence Horvath's driver's license was stuck on a cork board to the left of the window behind Jesse's desk.

That's her, Captain, Jesse said. Florence Horvath, thirty-four years old, address in Fort Lauderdale. She had her teeth cleaned a month ago and charged it on her credit card. We called the dentist, got the dental records, forensic people compared them.

You're lucky, Healy said. Lot of floaters are such a mess we never do figure out who they are.

Got nothing to do with luck, Jesse said.

Right, Healy said. It was crack police work that some guy walked in and handed you her driver's license and credit card.

And, Jesse said, we didn't lose them.

Got me there, Healy said. Now that you know who she is, do you know why she's up here?

Not yet.

I'm only a state police captain, Healy said, not a chief of police, like you, but since you found her in the water and since this is Race Week, could there be a connection?