He ordered a taco from the street vendor as he texted. He had asked Mr. Rehman to let Jafar finish his homework with Brian so the little boy wouldn't get too lonely. With the taco in one hand and pushing his phone back into his jeans pocket with the other, he made his way to the beach.

He was still surprised by how the evening had turned out. From the shock of seeing her again at the stage, to her remarkable tete-a-tete with Caleb, to his own running after her and offering her his motel room to stay.

In a couple seconds, the phone was back in his hands and a big smile curving his mouth. In the hectic and emotional day he had, the idea of approaching the one person who could be most helpful when it came to The Dismantler had slipped his mind.

The call connected after three rings.

"Brewster! Howya doing, kiddo?" A voice bubbling with excitement, remarkably free of the night's yawn, woofed at him.

"A thing has come up," Harry spoke quietly even though he didn't need to.

"Again? So soon?"

"Hush! Careful..." Harry glanced around just to make sure. "I don't want anyone listening in."

He was greeted by a throaty chuckle from the other side. "Sure, I can be careful." There was the sound of a body shoving off a leather chair followed by a shuffle of sandal soles on a slippery wooden floor and a low, careful click. The shuffle moved back and the leather gave off its whoopy blare. "Carry on," said the benevolent voice, the chuckle still caught in the timbre.

"A deal is about to take place," Harry began in a hushed tone. "I'm talking big bucks. It's like a trade. Likely, info for money, though it could--"

"Cars, gold nuggets, coke, bonds, I get it." Kingfisher always got it quick, literally finishing sentences over the phone.

Harry continued: "I just wanna be in the know. Any news, any rumor, any predictions, somebody saying anything, planning anything. It will be all very se--"

"Of course, it will be secretive! It always is! But you needn't have called me." There was a mysterious inflection to the last statement that Harry was sure had been uttered with mischief playing on the lips.

"I'm sorry, what now?"

"You like the epithet The Puzzler, you told me once. Well, this riddle should be within the grasp of The Puzzler."

There must have been a wink in the speaker's eye, but before Harry could respond Kingfisher clicked the call off with a throwaway comment: "Here's hoping no ghost appears at my place tonight."

With a sigh, Harry put the phone away and cleared the last street of Gull’s Nest. He came in view of the watery sprawl of the Pacific. The beach was deserted at this hour, especially this corner.

He had come here on a strong hunch.

This could be the only spot the girl had meant as a rendezvous point. Her assurance and assumption, that he would be familiar with this spot and would instantly make the connection, still surprised him. Her own familiarity with the area - she was clearly a new face in town - was also surprising.

He walked faster in toward the beach.

The shoreline abruptly gave way to a rock formation to the north. Up ahead the rocks were too jagged to be frequented by the beach loiterers. A thick outgrowth of mangroves occupied the beach after that. It was a wild, dense, almost unnavigable jungle of trunks and leaves that forming a natural border with Laundry Town - Estero Village's own mini mafia colony.

Several feet this side from the starting point of the bluffs there was a lone rock. It had a quirky bean-bag shape perfect for sitting on. The top part of it tapered into a long shaft jutting upwards. He remembered how the pointy spire used to resemble a witch's hat. But over the years somebody had carved it. The wider, lower half of the rock was now roughly a tutu shape. The pointy peak looked like an arm raised high with wand and all, while the shape of a haired head had been chiseled below it. The upper half of the spire too had been shaped into a female bust.

The only things missing were a fairy's wings.

He went and rested carefully against the broad end of the rock, taking off his shoes and socks, and proceeded to munch on his taco.

Ping!

The WonderGurl, never too late on her word.

He easily read the text he had received in the flourescent light of the screen:

Alone or with? Time? Remember the protocol.

He wondered if he should relay his errand to WonderGurl; she might be able to do it for him. But to make progress on the Dismantler meant going by himself, ready to reason with and question his source.

He typed alone, 9 am and hit send. She must have visited her twin today and furthered his cause a day early. Good for him.

The problem in The Dismantler assignment suddenly began to take a clearer shape in his mind. The third party in the special Bureau assignment were obviously shady guys. Someone - a former employer or a go-between - seemed to have double-crossed them; fled with something of huge value that they must secure at all cost. The good guys - whatever party were calling the shots on The Dismantler assignment - somehow got on the scent and wanted to have a looksee at what the renegade possessed. Maybe that is why Timothy Ross had chosen the word ‘dismantler’. Something so crucial, so big, it could bring down those third party people? Made sense.

He wondered what the official name of the operation would be, if it indeed was an official operation, something he didn't believe. More likely, the good guys were happy for now with a bunch of dispensable anglers by the lakeside, see if they could catch a fish or two to advance the cause. But then it gave him a headache trying to reason exactly who the good guys were so he refocused on finishing the taco.

He bunched up the empty piece of butter paper in his hand. The serene atmosphere was calling to him, telling him to let everything go and just breathe. The subtle, frothy essence of the beach mixed with the air in his lungs. Sand flowed between his toes and gently tickled his skin. He looked down; the winks of the quartz particles brought a smile to his lips.

He relaxed against the back of his rocky seat and let his eyes follow the mist swirling over the ocean. The patterns looked like clouds in motion, eager and restless. Their slow dance had shifted closer to the wide swath of sand. The more he looked the more they seemed to coalesce into decidedly perceptible shapes … cultists moving in a frenzy of devotion towards an occult object. Then the forms began to converge into large ethereal monsters. Their silhouettes rose up from the waves and walked on them, wading onto the beach ...

A weaker heart would have cried 'ghost!' and ran away. He didn't believe in ghosts.

A piercing scream tore through the mist. He shot to his feet. His heart skipped several beats. The wrapper fell off his hand, rolling away on the sand to safety.

He quickly swung around in a circle. The beach was vacant. There was no sign of life at all except for himself. Another heart-rending scream cut through. A bead of sweat traced a pattern down his back as he tried to locate the source of the scream. It was like a wail, almost squeaky, almost like the cackle of ...

A seagull! He could see it above. A distinct but blurry smudge under the clouds swooping in an arc.

In the distance, the bird shot down like a thunderbolt and dived into the mangroves. Not seagull behavior at all ...

It couldn't be an eagle at this hour.

Was it a fresh corpse the mafioso residents of the Laundry Town had recently thrown among the mangroves attracting a vulture? Some poor hobo who had failed in dispensing away with his inventory too many months, or weeks, or days in a row (who knew what the mafia's patience cut-off point was?)

He looked with new eyes at the mangroves.

It must be a regular graveyard. An ideal place for hiding bodies, not to mention the possibility that it could have been deliberately overgrown with matted shrubbery so no outsiders could access. To keep the most rotten crimes hidden.

He slowly circled back to the hard-rock bean bag and settled down, resisting a shudder.

This riddle should be within the grasp of the Puzzler.

As the echo of Kingfisher's words returned, he walked a few steps in the direction of the sinister town in excitement.

Laundry Town indeed. A hub of lowlife mafia members helping to spread the exhilaration of a 'high' life in the region. All the latest, 3D candy, the pituitaries, the prostaglandins, the synthetic extracts emanated from this bottomless pit; spreading an invisible fire through the aimless crowds of the squalls. A well-known, unprovable fact.

He had heard a rumor once. The name of this neighborhood had been changed from ‘Launderer's Town’ by the urchins' twisty tongues. The place had grown from a street where several number-crunchers looking for freelance work had opened shop.

Around the same time, a few low-tier workers for the mafia took a liking to a housing project that was about to go on sale two streets down. Once they moved in, they naturally attracted more of their kin. This auspicious presence had the effect of a sieve on the commoners of the neighborhood. The plain, bland grains of wheat soon whittled away from all that chaff.

Today, only a handful of local factory owners ventured in search of the street where they said the original number-crunchers still worked freelance. Mostly, it were only (dis)reputable businessmen, dabbling in construction projects, overseas trade deals, and south-of-border export, who went into the southeast block of the neighborhood where that street could be found.

Yes. He had caught the drift of the phone conversation now.

Tonnes of money could change hands beyond the earshot of law, if his understanding of The Dismantler problem was correct. Two-faced freelance accountants working in symbiotic harmony in a mafia community were well-positioned to flush the money around. Right in his backyard.

In a few days, he would be one of those crazy derring-dos who stepped into the Laundry Town for a secret selfie and bragging rights, except his would be the long game.

He could only hope his anatomy would still be in working order when he was done there.

"This must be my favorite place on earth."

He jumped out of his spot and stumbled with the force of surprise.

"Did I scare you?" There was amusement in the girl's voice, this maddeningly mystifying girl who had materialized out of nowhere.

He didn't like the look on her face, a smug grin full of ridicule!

"Are you ready to go? You look rattled!" She said, still enjoying his reactions.

He met her eyes at last. Those liquid eyes, they had only a spot of glimmer in the dark night that enveloped them.

"Yeah, sure. Let's go."

He started walking in a hurry away from the Fairy Rock Corner.

Who came up with such a fairy tale name for such a mind-bending setting?

"In a hurry, much?"

The girl was clearly aware he was creeped out at some level and was using her knowledge to full effect.

"Brother is waiting. Too late already." That's what he wanted to say but it came out mumbled.

"Sorry?" The Roxie girl leaned in to his side with mock concentration.

He finally decided to own it.

"It's just that it's a rather creepy place ... Almost gave me the shivers."

"I know! That's why it's my favorite spot now. I can tell nobody ever comes here".