The engine was dead, but the prop was still twirling when Mick Stranahan got there. Barefoot, he monkeyed through the slick rubbery branches until he could see over the side of the battered boat. In his right hand he held Luis Córdova’s .38. He didn’t need it. Detective John Murdock wasn’t dead, but he would be soon. He lay motionless on the deck, his knees drawn up in pain. Blackish blood oozed from his nose. Only one eye was open, rhythmically illuminated by the strobing blue police light. Cracked but still flashing, the light dangled from a nest of loose wires on the console. It looked like a fancy electric Christmas ornament. Stranahan felt his stomach shrink to a knot. He put the pistol in his jeans and swung his legs over the gunwale. “John?” Murdock’s eye blinked, and he grunted weakly. Stranahan said, “Try to take it easy.” Like the guy had a choice. “One quick question, I’ve got to ask. You fellows were going to kill me, weren’t you?” “Damn right,”
