Dexter didn't speak. He moved like the rain—silent, everywhere at once. A scalpel from his kit. A nylon cord from the evidence shelf.

Masuka shrugged. "Suit yourself. Don't talk to the corpses. They're terrible conversationalists."

But something else caught his eye. A partial footprint. Miami PD had missed it. And in that footprint, a faint trace of blue grease—marine-grade. Only one marina in the Keys rented boats with that specific engine type.