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four modes of transportation available to him to carry out his job. He had a white police truck to patrol residential neighborhoods and answer traffic calls. A bicycle to pedal through thevillage and make sure all was well in the blocks of colorful T-shirt stores, informal restaurants, and gift shops. A Jet Ski to get around in the water that surrounded and reached into the key. And his olive green ATV, his all-terrain vehicle with the oversize rubber tires that gripped the sand as Danny cruised the beach at will.
    He had no set schedule. No one looked over his shoulder to make sure he was at a certain spot at a certain time doing a certain thing. Danny had been chosen for the Siesta Key beat because his bosses in the sheriff’s department had observed the young deputy to be a self-starter, conscientious and dependable. They didn’t want a guy who was lazy by nature and looking for ways to goof off.
    Danny put the paper coffee cup down on the desk and adjusted the leather holster on his belt. He even liked his uniform of forest green shorts and white golf shirt with SARASOTA COUNTY SHERIFF DEPARTMENT, DEPUTY D. GREGG , embroidered in the same dark green over the right breast. How many sworn officers of the court got to dress like they were going out to shoot eighteen holes?
    He was slathering on some sunscreen over his tanned forearms when the dispatch call came in. “Proceed to Old Pier. Human hand found at the seawall.”
    “Say again?”
    “Caller says a male youth found a severed hand.”
    As Danny climbed onto his ATV, his wife, safe at home with Robbie, their eight-month-old son, flashed through his mind. He’d really have something to tell her tonight.
    The ATV sped up the relatively empty beach, leaving its distinctive tire print in the damp sand. Scattered early morning walkers and joggers, a few shell collectors, and lots of seabirds occupied themselves on the shoreline. But as the deputy got closer to the northern tip of the beach, he could see a cluster of people gathered at the seawall. The small crowd parted as Danny dismounted the sand cruiser.
    A sandy-haired kid, whom Danny judged to be about nine or ten years old, stood proprietarily next to the clump of seaweed. There was something familiar about the boy, but Danny couldn’t quite place him.
    “I found it, mister, but I put the seaweed back on top of it, so the sun wouldn’t bake it,” the boy said with pride, bending down to pull away the thick grass. The officer stopped him.
    “That’s okay, kid. I’ll take over now. Okay, everybody. Stand back,” Danny ordered. The onlookers inched away, wanting to stay close enough to get a good view. The deputy slipped on a rubber glove and swallowed before he lifted the greenish vegetation.
    It was a hand all right. The stench was awful.
    The hand had been through only the good Lord knew what. The crowd was growing now as every curious resident or vacationer who had ventured out on the beach that morning was eager to see what was going on.
    Danny rose from his crouching position. “Come on, folks, move along now. Please, move along.”
    As far as the deputy could tell, no one moved. So much for obeying authority. He needed to get some help. This was no one-man job. He pulled out his radioand called the supervisor. “We need some detectives and somebody from the crime scene forensics unit out here.”
    While he waited for backup, Danny started the paperwork. He took the initial offense report form from the aluminum strongbox fastened to the back of the ATV, filling in the date and time. Then he asked the boy his name.
    “Vincent. Vincent Bayler.”
    “How old are you, Vincent?”
    “Eleven.”
    On the small side for eleven, the deputy thought. This kid looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors. The tips of his eyelashes were bleached white. So were the hairs on his bronzed arms and legs. Danny stared at Vincent, still not able to put his finger on where he had seen the boy before.