Letty couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the ocean. More than ten years ago at least. The sea was blue-green and the sky straight blue and scattered with clouds that resembled puffs of popped corn. It was early afternoon. Short-sleeve weather. Winter felt like a word that had no meaning here.
They rode through Islamorada and Layton.
Quaint island villages.
Past Marathon, they crossed Seven Mile Bridge into the lower Keys.
The views into the Gulf of Mexico and the Straits of Florida went on forever.
# # #
They reached Key West in the late afternoon and Javier checked Letty into the La Concha Hotel. She tried to lie down but her mind wouldn’t stop. She poured herself a merlot from the mini-bar and went to the table by the window. The breeze coming through the screen smelled like cigar smoke and sour beer. And the sea.
She sat drinking and watching the evening come.
Her room on the fifth floor overlooked Duval Street. It was crowded with cars and bicycles. Tourists jammed the sidewalks. She heard a ukulele playing in the distance. On many rooftops, people had gathered to watch the sunset. She wondered what it would feel like to be here on vacation. To have no plans beyond finding a place for dinner. To be in paradise with someone you loved.
# # #
She didn’t have to see Javier until lunch tomorrow when they would make their final preparations. So Letty slipped into a new skirt and tank top and headed out into the evening.
There was an atmosphere of celebration.
Everyone happy and loaded. Nobody alone.
At the first intersection, she left the chaos of Duval Street. Two blocks brought her into a residential quarter. It was an old neighborhood. She passed restored bungalows and Caribbean-style mansions.
On every block, there was at least one house party going.
Ten minutes from the hotel, she found a Cuban restaurant tucked away in a cul-de-sac.
The hostess told her it would be a ninety-minute wait.
There was a patio out back with a tiki bar and Letty installed herself on the last available stool.
The noise was considerable.
She didn’t like being here alone.
She opened her phone and tapped out texts to no one.
It took five minutes for the barkeep to come around. He was an old salt—tall and thin. So grizzled he looked like he’d been here back when Ponce de Leon first showed up. Letty ordered a vodka martini. While he shook it, she eavesdropped on a conversation between an older couple seated beside her. They sounded Midwestern. The man was talking about someone named John, and how much he wished John had been with them today. They had gone snorkeling in the Dry Tortugas. The woman chastised her husband for getting roasted in the sun, but he expertly steered the conversation away from himself. They talked about other places they’d been together. Their top three bottles of wine. Their top three sunsets. How much they were looking forward to a return trip to Italy. How much they were looking forward to Christmas next week with their children and grandchildren. These people had seen the world. They had loved and laughed and lived.
Letty felt a whitehot hate welling up in the pit of her stomach.
She didn’t even bother to persuade herself it wasn’t jealousy.
The barkeep set her martini down. A big, sturdy glass the size of a bowl. The drink had been beautifully made with flakes of ice across the surface.
“Wanna start a tab?”
“No.”
“Twelve dollars.”
Letty dug a twenty out of her purse.
The barkeep went for change.
The gentleman beside her had worn a sports coat for the evening. In the light of the surrounding torches, Letty could see by the cut it was designer. Gucci or Hugo Boss. She could also see the bulge of a wallet in the side pocket. So easy to lift. Two moves. Tip over her martini glass in the man’s direction and slip her hand into his blazer pocket as he reached for a napkin to help clean up. She’d done it a dozen times and only once did the mark ignore the spill.
And that’ll really make you feel better? To drop a bomb on their holiday.
When she stole, it was out of necessity. Only ever about the money. She’d never made it personal. Survival had been her sole motivation, even at her lowest points. Never the intentional infliction of hurt to boost her own morale.
While the old barkeep was still at the register, Letty slipped off the chair, leaving her drink untouched.
She threaded her way between tables, out of the restaurant, and onto the street.
By the time she reached Duval, she had managed to stop crying.
Her life seemed to be defined by moments like these.
Moments of pure self-hatred.
And this was just one more in a long, long line.
5
“You slept okay?” Javier asked.
“Yes.”
“How are you feeling?”
“All right. Nervous.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Nerves keep you sharp.”
Wind rustled the fronds of the palm tree that overhung their table. They were sitting outside at a cafe two blocks from the ocean. A cruise liner had just unloaded gobs of people onto the island. They were streaming past on the sidewalk. Herds of Hawaiian shirts and Panama hats propelled by pasty-white legs.
“You should eat something,” Javier said.
Their waiter had brought their lunches five minutes ago, but Letty hadn’t touched her ham and brie panini or her salad.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat.”
She started picking at her salad.
Between bites, she pointed the tines of her fork at the chair between them, where Javier had placed a cardboard box.
“Is that my dress?”
“Among other things.”
“Is it pretty?” she asked in a mock-girlish voice.
He ignored this. “In the box, you’ll find a mini spray bottle. The label says mouthwash. It’s an opiate tincture. Oxycodone. Fitch is a wine snob. Five squirts in his wineglass during dinner. Not four. Not six. Exactly five.”
“Got it.”
“Get him to his room before he starts to fade. His people will hang back if they think you’ve gone in there to sleep with him.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Once he’s unconscious, head up to the office. Now listen to me very carefully. My contact says there will be five men on the island. Three outside. Two in the residence. Considering his notoriety, Fitch has had countless death threats and one actual attempt. These men are private security contractors. Ex-Blackwater types. They’ve all seen combat. They’ll be armed. You won’t be.”
“Where will you be during all this?”
“I’m getting there. Part of your outfit is a Movado watch.”
“Ooohhh, Christmas.”
“Don’t get attached. It’s on loan. We rendezvous at eight on the eastern tip of the island. You won’t be allowed to bring your cell phone. Keep an eye on your watch.” He patted the box. “There’s also a map of the island and blueprints of the house. I would’ve given them to you earlier, but I just got my hands on them.”
“What if I get held up?”
“Don’t get held up.”
“Eight. All right. How are we getting off the island?”
“A Donzi Twenty-Two Classic Shelby. I’m picking it up after we’re done here.”
“Is that a boat or a plane?”
“It’s a boat.”
“Fast?”
“Faster than any of Fitch’s watercraft. Miami Vice fast.”
“Assuming this works, what’ll stop them from just radioing for help? Having the Coast Guard track us down on the way back to Key West?”
“You are taking on some risk here, which is why I will tolerate these questions that seem to suggest I haven’t thought everything through. That I haven’t foreseen every possible glitch and planned accordingly.” Javier took a sip from his glass of ice water. “We won’t be going back to Key West. We’ll be heading five miles further south to a deserted key in international waters.”