1, just before the bridge leading to the next key. It was a little after seven and I was craving breakfast. I was wearing my running shoes, a pair of chinos, a baseball cap bearing the logo of the Tampa Bay Bucs, and a golf shirt that hung over the Walther PPK/S twenty-two-caliber pistol that was tucked into my pants at the small of my back. Jock had given me the weapon, saying that it was untraceable. I parked the rental next to Paul’s unmarked cruiser and walked into the air-conditioned restaurant. A server brought us menus and coffee, and we settled into a booth overlooking the sound. “They’ve got the best waffles south of Miami,” Paul said. “And real maple syrup they get directly from Vermont.” “Sounds just right.” I nodded at the waitress. When she’d gone, I said, “Can you put up with Jock for a few days?” “Sure. What’s going on?” “I think he needs to keep out of sight. I want to see if I can find the people who’re trying to kill him.” “How’re you going to do that?
