CHAPTER 1: FLOATING PROBLEMS

Listen, I ain't exactly what you'd call a detective, but thirty-seven years operating the Fisher Island ferry gives a guy certain insights into human nature, particularly the twisted variety that comes with too much money and not enough morals. The name's Tommy Pescatore—everybody calls me "The Fish"—and I'm about to tell you about the strangest murder case Miami's ever seen, even though nobody believed it was murder until I proved it.

Which, let me tell you, was not easy for a guy whose biggest investigative credential is knowing every shortcut between Miami Beach and the most exclusive private island in America.

It started Tuesday morning when I was loading Mrs. Henderson's groceries onto my ferry—the good old *Paradise Lost*, a thirty-foot beauty that's been shuttling rich folks to their private paradise for longer than most of them have been rich. Mrs. Henderson runs the housekeeping service for Fisher Island's penthouse crowd, and she's got the kind of sharp eyes that come from cleaning up after people who think money makes them invisible.

"Tommy," she said to me, loading boxes of organic everything onto the boat, "something's wrong with that Cross woman in the Imperial Building penthouse."

"Which Cross woman?" I asked, because frankly, keeping track of Fisher Island's residents requires a better memory than God gave me. "The hedge fund lady or her sister?"

"That's just it—I think they might be the same person."

Now, Mrs. Henderson ain't exactly what you'd call fanciful. She's been cleaning penthouses for fifteen years and has seen enough weird rich people behavior to fill a psychology textbook. So when she says something's fishy, I listen.

"What do you mean, same person?"

"Isabella Cross, the hedge fund manager, died yesterday morning. Heart attack in her private elevator. But this morning, I saw her in the penthouse, alive as you or me, packing suitcases and making phone calls."

I nearly dropped my coffee. "Mrs. Henderson, people don't come back from heart attacks that kill them."

"Exactly. Which means either Isabella Cross ain't dead, or her dead sister Sophia ain't as dead as everyone thinks."

See, here's where it gets complicated, and I'll try to explain it without getting too tangled up in details that would confuse a guy like me. Isabella Cross was a big shot hedge fund manager—made millions of dollars by moving other people's money around in ways that nobody, including me, really understood. She lived alone in Fisher Island's fanciest penthouse, drove cars that cost more than houses, and generally acted like someone who thought the rules didn't apply to her.

Her twin sister Sophia supposedly died in a car accident five years ago. Big tragic story—brilliant financial minds, both of them, but Sophia was the nice one who wanted to use their money to help people, while Isabella was the type who'd foreclose on orphanages if it improved her profit margins.

"Mrs. Henderson," I said, starting up the ferry engine, "maybe you just saw someone who looked like Isabella. Rich people all start looking the same after a while—too much plastic surgery and not enough personality."

"Tommy, I've been cleaning that penthouse for three years. I know Isabella Cross's coffee preferences, her exercise schedule, her terrible taste in reality TV shows. This morning, the woman in that penthouse didn't know any of those things."

That got my attention. Mrs. Henderson knows details about Fisher Island residents that their own families don't know. If she says someone's acting out of character, it's worth investigating.

"So what are you thinking? That Sophia faked her death five years ago and has been hiding somewhere, waiting for the right moment to... what, exactly?"

"Maybe waiting for Isabella to die so she could take over her life."

"But Isabella died of natural causes, right? Heart attack?"

Mrs. Henderson gave me the kind of look that makes you realize you're missing something obvious. "Tommy, Isabella Cross was thirty-five years old, in perfect health, and had just passed her annual physical examination with flying colors. What are the chances she'd drop dead from a heart attack the day after her supposedly dead twin sister was spotted in Miami?"

Okay, when she put it like that, the whole situation started sounding less like coincidence and more like the kind of thing that gets investigated by people who know what they're doing. Unfortunately, those people weren't immediately available, and Mrs. Henderson was looking at me like I was supposed to do something about it.

"Mrs. Henderson, I operate a ferry. I don't investigate mysterious deaths and possible twin sister identity swaps."

"Tommy, you're the only person on this island who pays attention to details without getting paid to ignore them."

That was probably true. Most Fisher Island employees learn real quick that the best way to keep their jobs is to see nothing, hear nothing, and definitely say nothing about the weird stuff rich people do. But I've always been too curious for my own good, and besides, Mrs. Henderson was right about one thing—something was definitely wrong with the whole Isabella Cross situation.

"All right," I said, making what was probably the dumbest decision of my life, "let's say you're right and Sophia's been pretending to be dead for five years. Why now? What changed?"

"Isabella's hedge fund was about to be investigated by federal authorities for financial fraud. Maybe Sophia decided this was the perfect time to eliminate her sister and start fresh with a clean identity."

"You think Sophia murdered Isabella?"

"I think one twin is dead and the other one is about to inherit a fortune while escaping federal prosecution. The question is which twin is really dead and which one is pretending to be someone else."

As we docked at Fisher Island's pristine marina, surrounded by yachts that cost more than small countries' annual budgets, I realized I was about to get involved in something way above my pay grade. But Mrs. Henderson was counting on me, and besides, I've always been a sucker for mysteries that don't make sense.

"Mrs. Henderson," I said, helping her unload the groceries, "if you're right about this twin sister theory, we're dealing with someone who's been planning murder for years and is smart enough to make it look like natural causes."

"Which is why we need to be very careful about how we investigate."

"We? Mrs. Henderson, I said I'd look into it, not that we'd become some kind of bargain basement detective agency."

But she was already walking toward the Imperial Building with that determined look women get when they've decided to fix something that's broken. And I, being the kind of guy who can't leave well enough alone, was already following her toward what would either be the solution to a perfect murder or the stupidest mistake of my life.

Probably both, knowing my luck.

As I watched Mrs. Henderson disappear into the Imperial Building's marble lobby, I reflected on the fact that my quiet ferry operation was about to become the investigation headquarters for a case involving identical twins, hedge fund fraud, and what might be the most sophisticated identity theft in Miami history.

Either that, or I was about to make a complete fool of myself by accusing a grieving woman of being an imposter.

But hey, that's what makes life interesting, right?