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Koch had grown fond of the Ford. He liked the design, especially its nose—the tall, sleek chrome grille that was raked backward with bullet headlamps mounted on either side, just above the twin horns, and then crowned with the stylized V-8 emblem that was repeated inside on the dash.

It wasn’t Cadillac fancy, but in Koch’s mind it was very nice just the same.

And it has a backseat full of fucking cash.

Koch went around to the back of 117 First Street, to the flight of rusted steel steps that led to the roof and the apartment there. He started up the steps, his shoes making an enormous racket on the steel as he ascended.

If J. Whit Stevens wasn’t awake before, he is now.

The sun-faded black, stamped-tin address numbers nailed to the left of the doorframe read 117-A, although nails at the top and bottom of the A had rusted off and the letter was now nearly upside down, hanging by the remaining nail in its left foot.

No surprise. Looks like he takes the same care of his apartment as he does his rentals.

Koch knocked, and the A rocked on its nail.

He heard movement inside the apartment, then footsteps approaching the door.

“Yes?” an unseen Stevens said from behind the closed door.

“Jay, it’s me, Richard Koch. Look, I apologize for bothering you at this hour on a Sunday. Can we talk?”

After a long moment, there was the sound of the deadbolt lock turning, then the doorknob. The door opened about halfway, and there stood J. Whit Stevens in pajamas and holding a steaming cup of coffee.

“Richard Koch?” he repeated, as he studied him.

“I worked for the Bud distributor,” Koch said. “Remember? And I left my Ford with you.”

Stevens did not seem to register that for a moment, but then his eyes suddenly went wide.

“Oh, that Richard Koch,” he said.

“I’m actually here about the car,” Koch said. He smiled, glad to be remembered finally.

“Come in, come in,” Stevens said in a now-friendly tone while opening the door wide.

As Koch stepped inside, Stevens patted him on the back. “Nice to see you, Richard.”

Koch had never been in Stevens’s apartment. He was surprised.

It was the exact opposite of the bar and the cottages. Clean—spotless, even—and nicely furnished with a big couch, two reclining armchairs, and assorted tables and lamps and nicely framed art. There was an expensive-looking India rug, easily ten by twelve, woven with an intricate patterned design in red, gold, and black. Against the near wall, a cabinet with beveled, cut-glass doors held expensive china and glassware. Next to it, by the kitchen area, was a beautifully finished wooden table. And on the table were a radio softly playing classical music—Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, Koch recognized—and a

coffeepot next to the morning Florida Times-Union paper, which Stevens obviously had been reading when Koch had knocked. He noticed that one headline read: U-BOAT ATTACKS DROP BUT STILL HIGH—300,000 TONS SUNK IN LAST 30 DAYS.

Stevens walked over to the curtain that covered the eastern wall and pulled on the cord system that opened it, revealing a breathtaking view of the ocean and beach, the sun rising low on the horizon, its golden rays fingering through the gaps of the clouds beginning to break up.

Stevens took in the view a moment, then turned and asked, “Can I get you some coffee?”

“I don’t want to impose. This shouldn’t take long.”

“Very well,” Stevens said, nodding. “Have a seat, please.”

“Did you get my letter?” Koch said. He remained standing.

Stevens looked as if he were trying to pick his words with care.

“The one with that interesting twenty-dollar bill?” he said conversationally. “Yes, I did.” He paused. “But—”

“But?”