"I grew up in the area. Everybody knows the family. They're famous for outfoxing the police, the lawyers, the city, and whoever dares to stand up to them. Javier controls half the businesses in South Florida. I've managed to stay out of his way until recently," he said.

"Why poke your nose into his business now?"

"A cousin of mine, Calvin, met Martinez's daughter at a night club about six months ago. Had no idea who she was. They started dating. She fell hard for him. But then, it slowly dawned on him who her father was, and it scared the hell out of him. He didn't want to be dragged into the mob, so he pulled back. And it broke her heart. Once Daddy found out that some local kid upset his only daughter, he made it his mission to be damn sure he'd never do it again."

"You mean he had him killed?"

Bowie shrugged. "Don't know. Calvin just up and disappeared one day. That was three months ago. But there's a long list of unsolved homicides that the cops are convinced are tied to Martinez's operations. So it's a good bet."

"I guess your family is counting on you to give them some closure," I said.

Bowie nodded, but didn't say anything else.

When we arrived in South Beach, I was about to instruct Bowie to drop me off at the drab Ritz Plaza where I was staying, but he veered off to the right and headed down the congested Ocean Boulevard and finally to a dock housing several retro houseboats from the swinging sixties. He pulled the van into a reserved parking space in front of a wide, flat, white houseboat in desperate need of a paint job. There was a deck on top for sunbathing. Stenciled on the bow was QE3. If his gratifying comment about my eyes hadn't betrayed him, a houseboat named after Queen Elizabeth would have certainly clued me in that all was not completely butch in boy land.

"Come on in," he said, waving me inside. "I'll make us a drink."

I dutifully followed, and once I crossed the threshold into the unknown, I found a messy, disheveled, old-fashioned bachelor pad with an unmade pull-out couch bed, empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, and a wide-screen TV that had been left on ESPN. As he crossed to the wet bar, Bowie scooped up the remote and hit the mute button so he could check out the scores while making us cocktails.

"Scotch okay?"

"Sure," I said, looking around and spotting a weathered, creased manila folder that rested on top of the worn, stained couch bed. On the front, someone had scribbled MARTINEZ FILE in pencil that was now smudged. I picked up the folder, flipped it open. There was a small stack of surveillance photos of Martinez leaving his various properties and businesses, dining out at some of South Beach's finest eateries, meeting with a few prominent city officials. When I reached the bottom of the pile, one picture caught my eye. I froze. A man and a woman in their early twenties playfully frolicked in the Miami surf, blissfully unaware of the shutterbug in their midst. Pulling it out of the folder, I crossed to the bar and shoved it in front of Bowie as he diluted the scotch with a splash of soda and then stirred the drinks with his index fingers.

"Who is this?" I asked.

Bowie studied the picture for a second and looked up at me. "That's Calvin. My cousin."

I pointed at the young woman. "And her?"

"That's Martinez's daughter."

I stared at the picture. There was no mistaking it. Martinez's daughter was Juan Carlos's fragile, emotionally distraught ex-flame Dominique.

Chapter 19.

After three more scotches, the shock of Dominique's family tree began to wear off, and I was swimming in a sea of confusion. I may have uncovered some dirty secrets involving Juan Carlos's ill-fated love affair with the daughter of a Miami crime czar, but I still wasn't any closer to solving the murder of Austin Teboe. Charlie's friend had told him Teboe was once a chef on board Martinez's yacht, but had left his employ under a cloud of secrecy. Juan Carlos and Teboe met working at the Nexxt Cafe on Lincoln Road. Was it just a coincidence that Juan Carlos's coworker had worked for the father of his one-time girlfriend? Was it Teboe who had introduced them? The only thing I was pretty sure of at this point was the reason behind the rumored hit Martinez put out on Juan Carlos. Dominique was an emotional powder keg, and the blame for her recent breakdown rested squarely on Juan Carlos's shoulders. If I were Martinez, I'd hire an assassin to rub him out too.

Bowie folded up his mess of a sofa bed, and the two of us sat side by side on the dusty, worn, patched-up converted couch, our feet resting on the cracked and scuffed coffee table. I polished off the last of my scotch.

"So why would Juan Carlos be stupid enough to accept a movie role down here in Florida knowing Martinez and his men are just lying in wait to off his ass?" Bowie asked.

"Someone must be protecting him," I said.

" Domini que?"

"Maybe. But one minute he's made her suicidal and the next they're cooing and kissing like newlyweds. It's hard to get a good read on her. Although he's certainly got some kind of guardian angel looking after him," I said. "Actually, he's got a lot of little angels around him. The guy gets more action than the backroom of a Bangkok massage parlor."

Bowie laughed, drained the last of his own scotch, and grabbed the nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label off the coffee table. I covered the rim of my glass with my hand.

"Please," I said. "One more and I won't be responsible for my actions."

"Works for me," Bowie said as he playfully tried to fill up my glass again.

He was smart and swarthy and funny and sexy, and I knew it was time for me to get the hell out of there. I set my glass down and stood up. "Think it's safe to go retrieve my car now?"

A disappointed look flashed over Bowie's face, but he quickly replaced it with a smile. "Should be. But I'll take you there just to make sure everything's cool."

"You okay to drive?" I said.

Bowie nodded, grabbed the keys to his van off the cluttered wet bar, and we headed out.

I felt a pang of guilt as we drove north back to Fort Lauderdale. Bowie and I had hit it off, and I could tell there was some simmering chemistry between us. He was definitely interested. So why didn't I mention I was already involved with a terrific guy back in Los Angeles? Charlie and I had been enjoying a wonderful, fulfilling monogamous relationship for the past three years, and I never once had the urge to jeopardize it in any way. But it gnawed at me that I didn't bring him up. Not once. What did that mean? Fortunately I was sober enough not to do something stupid that I would live to regret despite the not-so-subtle hints from my handsome, musclebound host.

I was paralyzed by my attraction to Bowie and how bad it made me feel, so he did most of the talking on the twenty-minute drive back to my car. I learned that he'd been born into a large Cuban family in the heavily Latino-populated city of Coral Gables. He figured out he was gay when he was fifteen and on the football team and wasn't too anxious to let go after tackling an opponent. When he got out of high school, he dabbled in a couple of careers before joining the Navy to ease some of the burden his parents had in supporting such a big brood. He wound up joining the Seals and partook in a number of top-secret missions worldwide before he fell victim to the military's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy. He got involved with an officer and felt no obligation to hide it from anybody. The officer, though, turned out to be married with four children, a fact he kept hidden from Bowie. To save himself from a discharge, the officer reported Bowie as a homo, and he was promptly drummed out despite a stellar record. So much for a wobbly, ineffective policy to protect our gay military personnel. Most critics claim it's even worse now than before "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." Bowie moved back home, got his private detective's license, sank his life savings into buying the QE3, and opened up his own shop. His gumshoe work had been paying the bills for five years. Except when he took on cases for free like finding his cousin Calvin, who may or may not have fallen victim to Martinez's dirty doings.

When we reached Fort Lauderdale's oceanfront, Bowie shut off the headlights as we rolled to a stop half a block from my rented Taurus. It was dark and windy with just one lone street lamp illuminating the quiet and deserted construction site. Bowie and I sat quietly scanning the area for any sign of Laurel and Hardy. They had obviously long given up on me returning to my car. It seemed pretty safe now.

"Thanks for everything, Bowie," I said and reached for the door handle.

"You know where to reach me if you need anything," he said, and then patted my knee with his hand. "I mean it. Anything."

He let his hand linger a moment on my knee. I froze, having no idea what to say. So I giggled. Like a damn schoolgirl. God, I hated when I did that. It was a nervous response and I did it all the time. Some casting directors used to call me "Dr. Giggles" after an obscure horror flick starring the actor who played the retarded office boy on L.A. Law in the eighties. It was a humiliating name, and I learned fast to control my annoying little giggle fits during auditions. But during moments like this, when a hot-looking exNavy Seal had his hand on my knee, well, there was just no holding back. It was like a bad case of the hiccups.

"Good night," I said, practically diving out of the car. He watched as I unlocked the Taurus and got behind the wheel. Before I turned the key, I imagined a stack of dynamite strapped to the bottom ready to blow me up at the turn of the ignition, but decided Martinez wouldn't try something like that before he found out my connection to Juan Carlos. I took a chance. The car roared to life before settling into a steady hum. I waved to Bowie, who sat in his van watching me, and hastily peeled away, heading straight for the Ritz Plaza in South Beach.

When I arrived back in the Ritz's "desperate to be as hip as its neighboring hotels" lobby, I took the elevator to my own floor, the same floor Juan Carlos was on. I marched down to his suite and rapped on the door. It was just after midnight. After a moment, I heard a familiar voice answer from inside.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Juan Carlos, Jarrod. I'd like to talk to you."

"It's late. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"No. I'd really like to say this now."

I heard him unhook the safety latch and open the door halfway. He was naked except for a white cotton towel draped around his waist. He had a half-eaten green apple in his hand and a sharp pocketknife to slice it with.

"What?" he said huffily.

"I know who she is."

"Who?"

"Dominique. I know she's Javier Martinez's daughter."

I turned to go.

"Wait. Who's Javier Martinez?" His face feigned innocence.

"Don't," I said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't pretend you don't have a clue what I'm talking about. I know you have a history with Austin Teboe at the Nexxt Cafe. I know you had an affair with Dominique and broke her heart and pissed off her father, who unfortunately for you is a violence-prone mob boss. And I know you're cheating on Laurette with both men and women."

His face darkened. I was becoming more of a problem than he had anticipated. He took a big bite out of his apple and let the juice run down the corners of his mouth. Then he casually waved the pocketknife in front of me as he spoke.

"You think you know everything, don't you?"

"No. I still don't know why you killed Austin Teboe."

"How many times do I have to tell you? I didn't kill anyone!" he said, gripping the handle of his knife so hard, I thought his knuckles would pop out of his skin.

"Well, then who did?"

"I don't know. I'm as much in the dark as you."

I nodded, not saying a word, wanting to let the deafening silence hang in the air. Juan Carlos, ever the actor, couldn't let the silence go for too long. It might force him to reflect on his actions.

"I don't know who is gossiping about who I may or may not be sleeping with, but it's bullshit, you hear me? Bullshit!"

"I saw you at the Sand Drift Motel. He was a cutie."

His face went pale.

"And I wasn't the only one," I said. "A couple of guys on Martinez's payroll were there for the show too."

I thought he was going to faint. He fell against the door, and grabbed the knob to steady himself.

"They . . . they saw me with ... him?"

"Yeah, they did," I said with a twinge of insincere sympathy. "Bummer."

Juan Carlos dropped the apple, and his hand shot out and grabbed my arm, pulling me closer to the door. In the other hand, the sharp tip of the pocketknife was a quarter of an inch from my belly.

"Don't mention any of this to anybody, do you hear me?" Juan Carlos said, his voice full of desperation. "Promise me, Jarrod."

"Laurette is my best friend," I said as I kept my eyes focused on the knife's blade. I now felt it straining against my skin just to the right of my belly button. It was about to puncture through and draw blood.

I looked up into his eyes. They were wild with fear. He was on the edge. And for a minute I was afraid I had overplayed my hand. As the knife pressed into my gut, I suddenly had the sick feeling I was about to befall the same fate as Austin Teboe.

Suddenly a woman's voice came drifting out from the bathroom inside Juan Carlos's room. "Darling, is it room service? Did you order more wine?"

It was Viveca. I caught just a glimpse of her as she strolled toward the door in a Victoria's Secret red lace bra and panties. For a woman in her late forties, she still looked like she could easily grace the cover of their summer catalog. I was impressed.

Panicked, Juan Carlos withdrew the knife and seethed, "Good night, Jarrod." He slammed the door in my face.

I just stood there. The more I baited Juan Carlos, the more nervous he got. And with Juan Carlos ready to snap under the pressure, there was no telling whom he would take down with him. As I lifted my Hairspray T-shirt to see a trickle of blood slide down my belly and stain the elastic band of my Calvin Klein briefs, I was pretty sure I would be the first one on his list.

Chapter 20.

After sticking a Band-Aid on my slight flesh wound in my room, I checked my messages on the cell. I only had one, from my parents. My mother cooed about how nice it was to see me if only briefly, and my father offered a few more well-thought-out theories in the Austin Teboe murder. I picked up the TV remote and started channel flipping. I was restless and couldn't sleep, and finally after shelling out twelve bucks for a pay-per-view showing of the Martin Lawrence stinker Big Momma's House, with Martin in drag, I was able to catch a couple of hours of sleep before the phone startled me awake. I reached out from under the covers, snatched the receiver from its cradle, and grunted.

"Good morning, Jarrod! Rise and shine!" a cheery voice chirped. It was Amy Joe, the perky production assistant.

I rubbed my eyes, shook my head, and tried focusing on the clock: 5:32 A.M.

"Amy Jo, it's really early," I said, trying to maintain my cool, even though I wanted to rip into her for waking me up after I had finally gotten to sleep.

"I know. We're running late. I'm waiting for you downstairs in the van."

"But I don't shoot today."

"Yes, you do. Today's your big death scene."

"No. I'm pretty sure that's tomorrow," I said.

"I think you better check your production schedule, Jarrod," she said.

"Hold on." I put the phone down, crawled out of bed, and crossed to the cheaply made acrylic desk near the window. I had laid out the week's production schedule sheets. I picked up the first one and examined it. Just as I had thought. Today was a few simple exterior scenes with the extra they had hired to play the homicidal maniac. Underneath it was tomorrow's schedule, which listed my last scene in the movie. A particularly bloody affair involving a meat cleaver and my skull.

I walked back over and picked up the phone off the night table. "I'm looking right at today's call sheet, Amy Jo, and I'm not scheduled to work."

"Check the date."

"March fifteenth."

"That's tomorrow's date, Jarrod. Look at the other page. The one where you are scheduled to work."

"March fourteenth."

"Bingo!"

My heart stopped. I had somehow inverted the pages when Amy Jo had slipped them under my door. Today was my most important day on the entire shoot, and I was operating on two hours' sleep. Not to mention the fact I hadn't even memorized any dialogue. I was screwed.

"Well, what do you know? You're right. Um, I'm going to need a little time up here," I said with a nervous giggle.