A confused, subterranean anger, deep down and hidden, was starting to glow hot down within her.

  Ryan Wilcox had given her the picture and assured her that she would have questions. He was right. But this wasn’t something where she could just call him up and expect to get the answers she wanted. No, this was a matter that was fully in Ryan’s hands. He would tell her what she needed to know when he was ready for her to know. As it was, he was probably overstepping protocol just providing her with the picture. So why had he? And what about her father? How in the world did Ryan know anything about him? What was Frank O’Conner doing and whose side was he on?

  A thought had occurred to her last night as she lay on top of her bedspread staring at the ceiling. A thought that had never occurred to her before, that her own father might be working for the CIA. That maybe he always had been working for the CIA. All she and Katie had ever known was that their father worked for the Department of Justice. They even knew where his office was in Fort Myers. He had officed there for nearly thirty years. Many employees of the Agency used the DOJ as a career cover.

  But then he might not work for Langley at all. The picture showed him in what looked like a subway car, wearing a heavy trench coat and a fur papakhas on his head. Where he was, it was cold in July. He looked tired, a distant look in his unusually dark eyes. He could be on the wrong side, whatever side that was.

  The silent testimony of the picture meant that the run-in with the gas tanker was staged. It meant that Frank O’Conner had faked his own death and let his daughters and Major, his best friend, grieve it for two years now.

  She sighed. The whole scenario was quickly becoming a tragedy of curiosity and truth.

  Chapter Three

  Ellie had rested that morning, closed her eyes, but sleep would not come. Finally giving up, she took a hot shower and let the water refresh her tired muscles. She got dressed, fed Citrus, and then made the trek off island to the Fort Myers DEA office. Garrett Cage, the Special Agent in Charge, had returned this morning from meetings at headquarters in Virginia. She and Mark were finally able to meet with him to review the results of their recent investigation into the movements of local drug networks.

  And to discuss the plane crash.

  Garrett was leaning back in his swivel chair, his hands steepled, his black hair, like usual, perfectly combed. Mark and Ellie sat in the two designer armchairs in front of Garrett’s desk. Mark’s long legs stuck out of them, and he shifted uncomfortably.

  “Let’s get to it,” Garrett said. “I have a conference call in twenty minutes. Recap what you have so far.”

  “Well, it’s pretty straightforward,” Mark started. “So far we have two things going on at Mondongo. The old boat on the tiny key is intermittently laden with gas. Crews drop it off, and a separate bunch gets it quickly thereafter to fuel their boats across the Gulf and back to Mexico. Or Cuba.” He flicked his finger across his iPad, kept reading his notes. “Next, we have one Eric Cardoza working at the private island as a low level security guard, apparently running the cameras from behind the desk. As we mentioned to you before you left for Virginia, Ellie and I saw him at a known stash house at Ridgeside subdivision, and that implicates him enough to keep an eye on him and see where his trail leads. For starters, we both think it’s a safe bet to look at the company that has him on their payroll: Hawkwing Global Security.”

  Garrett scribbled a couple notes on a yellow pad sitting on his desk.

  “Should we get eyes on the gas stations along the coast?” Ellie asked. “If these guys are filling fifteen to twenty cans of gas all at once, we can review CCTV.”

  Garrett tapped his pencil eraser on pad. “That’s not a bad suggestion. I would, but this office doesn’t have the bandwidth to do that. I’d have to partner up with the FBI for something like that, and to be honest I’d rather work this ourselves right now. Let’s get eyes on the little key where the boat is and see if we can grab these guys when they do another gas run.”

  “Fair enough.”

  A tap came on the glass door to Garrett’s office, and a middle-aged, dark-skinned lady poked her head through. “Sorry to interrupt. Jet just called. They’ve picked up another sixty-eight kilos since this morning. Locals out on a pontoon found twelve of them. And I emailed some info on Hawkwing Global to all three of you.”

  “Thank you, Sandra,” Garrett said.

  “So that leaves us with another possible one to two hundred kilos still out there,” Mark said. “Given, some was probably burned up in the crash.”

  Garrett opened his laptop. “I still have three boats out there looking,” he said. “The Coast Guard has another, the Sheriff a couple more. I’m not worried about finding it all. We’ll get it.” He opened an email and scanned its contents. “So, this security guard - Eric Cardoza - works for Hawkwing Security and is contracted out to their client who owns Mondongo Key Island. And the job and location allows for monitoring the gas drop on the small key? Do I have that right?”

  Ellie nodded. “We’re still working out the details. It fits though.”

  “What’s your next play?”

  “Hawkwing’s regional office is in Tampa. I’m going up there to act the part of a potential client.” Ellie said. “If Eric Cardoza is in fact involved with the local drug trade - and everything seems to point to that - then there is no way someone higher up in Hawkwing isn’t in on it too.”

  “How so?”

  Mark spoke up. “Ellie makes a good point. Hawkwing is a huge corporation. Traded on the stock market. They vet their employees up to their hairlines. There’s no way this Cardoza guy would just slip through the cracks and be a cog in an illegal drug network without someone above him knowing about it.”

  Garrett was silent for a while. “And you’re going up there, Ellie?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “When?”

  “We’re still getting my cover prepped. Hopefully, we can get my client interest request to them this week. After that it’s up to them.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’m game. But be careful. I want a full briefing on what you’re doing before you do it.”

  Mark and Ellie said in unison, “Of course.”

  Chapter Four

  Kyle Armstrong pulled his burgundy Mercedes E Class into his reserved parking space at the Wild Palm Distillery and stepped into the late afternoon heat. He pushed the button on his keyless remote as he walked away, and the car bleated back a response. A wall of cool and desired air conditioning hit him as he opened the front glass door and walked down the linoleum-tiled hallway to his office at the end.

  Wild Palm was the only distillery in Lee County, and its creation had been Kyle’s dream since he graduated from the University of Southern Florida seven years ago with a business degree. He had started with a small loan from a local bank and worked long hours to bring the company into the strong growth it was enjoying today. The liquor market had gathered steam all around the country since he purchased his first commercial still, and business was finally beginning to grow outside the state to regional areas of Georgia, South Carolina, and even a few parishes in Louisiana. Wild Palm was now running three four-hundred gallon stills and had a warehouse stocked with oak barrels full of aging rum. If things kept on like they were, he would move the operation fifteen miles east out of Cape Coral and onto Bokeelia at the north end of Pine Island and then start producing vodka too. He was ready to have a nicer place and already had his eye on a patch of land up there. With their recent growth the offices were now too humble for the brand, nestled in an unassuming one-story building on Surfside Boulevard that needed a paint job and smelled like old dirt and musty pine.

  He stepped into his small office and shut the door behind him. His glass table top could barely be seen underneath the stacks of paper and unwashed coffee mugs. Filing cabinets lined the wall on the right, and a blue couch was sagging on the wall opposite, tiring under a heavy burden of more paperwork and random bottles of Wild Palm product. Kyle stepped around the desk and sat into his ergonomically-designed leather chair. His three-year-old son Chase had told him on more than one occasion that it looked like more like an alien than a chair. His wife Carlene had said he overpaid, but he thought it made him look more distinguished, even if his immediate surroundings refused to complement the feeling.

  He sat down behind the desk and ran his finger across the trackpad of his laptop. The glow from the screen reflected off his face as he scanned his emails. Five minutes in, a knock came from the other side of his door, and his eyes lifted toward it. Other than the two security guards covering the small warehouse behind him, no one ever came into the offices on Sunday. He was the only one who would sneak away from the family for a couple hours to keep from falling behind. “Come in,” he called. The door opened, and a stocky man wearing a white fedora came through the door. Kyle’s shoulders tensed. He had never grown comfortable with the man’s presence or his smile. They were both large and generally unwanted.

  “Ringo,” he said, and forced a thread of pleasure to run through his tone. “What brings you here?”

  His unannounced guest shut the door and stepped slowly toward his desk. He sported khaki shorts and a short sleeve button down shirt featuring blue palm trees against an ivory background. His eyes were small and hidden underneath a strong forehead. Kyle used to like the man, but over the last few months there hadn’t been a time he had been in the man’s presence and not felt some degree of revulsion and underlying fear.

  “Ky-le,” the man said slowly, as if playing with the syllables. “Are you going to offer me a seat?”

  He looked around the small office and back at Ringo. “Sorry. I haven’t gotten any other chairs in here yet. I think Laurie has some on order.”

  “Yet you are sitting in one.”

  Kyle started to protest but held his tongue when he looked in the other man’s eyes. They were calm, always calm, but Kyle suspected they were a meek front for a hidden violence within. He nodded reluctantly, got up from the chair, and walked around to the front of his desk.

  Ringo stared at the seat before wedging his larger frame in between the brown leather armrests. He wrinkled his face momentarily. “What in the hell is this contraption? You call this a chair?” He shook his head. “I tell you. People like you will buy anything if it looks fancy enough.”

  Kyle’s smooth-shaven face was drawn tight. “Is there something specific I can help you with? I’ve got things I’ve got to get done before I leave.”

  Ringo took his hat off and tossed it on the desk. He looked around the room, observing its untidy nature. “You’re a messy individual, Kyle. Had I known that I may not have gone into business with you. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’ Maybe I’ll get you the mug or the t-shirt.” His large teeth were exposed as he smiled, but Kyle was not amused. “But yes,” Ringo continued. “Of course there’s something you can help me with.” He looked down and fidgeted with one of the chair’s levers before giving up and looking back over the desk. “Kyle, six months ago I gave you five hundred thousand dollars at two points a month for an expansion project. You’ve done exactly as you said and have taken the operation of this fine distillery to another level of production. I want to commend you on that.”

  Kyle offered no reply.

  “Now, I’m charging you two points a month, and if my math is right you owe me sixty thousand on top of the original balance.”

  “I’m aware of what I owe you. We agreed that I would begin making payments at month eight. Are you wanting it to start now?”

  Ringo leaned back in the chair and tossed a thick ankle over the opposite knee. “No. No, I’m not.”

  “Then please tell me why you are sitting in my chair in my office.”

  Ringo shook his head. “You’re impatient, Kyle. One day you will learn that impatience is dangerous in business. Hustle and hunger is good. Impatience...well, anyway.” He threw his hands out. “It’s Christmas in July, Kyle. Merry Christmas. I’m clearing your debt. You no longer owe me the five hundred thousand nor the sixty thousand accumulated on said loan.”

  Kyle’s green eyes widened, and his head moved forward. “What? You’re clearing my loan?” He blinked hard a couple times and looked back to the man behind his desk. “Why?” he asked, not fully convinced.

  “And there is the five hundred and sixty thousand dollar question, ladies and gentlemen. Of course you need to ask me why. Well Kyle, it is because I am full of grace and mercy, just like the fruit of Mary’s womb.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the table.

  Kyle’s eyes narrowed, and he swallowed hard around a new rock in his throat. “Why are you clearing my debt, Ringo?”

  “You’re going to want to sit for this.” Ringo motioned outward with his hand.

  Kyle looked sheepishly around the room and turned back to his unwanted guest.

  “Oh, right. Well.” Ringo pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and casually slid it between his teeth. He didn’t light it. “From now on I will be running some of my product through here. On the outbound trucks.”

  “What?”

  “Son, are you deaf?”

  “There’s no way. No. I’m running a perfectly legitimate business here. Whatever else you might be involved in besides loaning money, I’m out. I should have just gotten another loan from the bank. I can’t believe Father Garcia recommend that I come to you. On his nod I thought you were a good man.”

  “You were overleveraged, Kyle. No bank would have given you another loan, and that’s why you came to me. Let’s be very clear on that because as much as you would like to think that you borrowed from me as one of many options, I was the only one interested. You have a good business going, and in two years when your books have more margin I’m sure the banks will be happy to lend you more. But it was you who wanted to expand faster. You came to me, not the other way around.”

  “I’ve worked hard to build this company,” Kyle snapped. “I’ll pay you your money, and we’re done. After that I don’t ever want to see you again.” He breathed out deeply, like he was relieved and the topic was closed.

  “Kyle, from now on I will be running some of my product through here. On the outbound trucks,” he repeated.

  “Like hell you are. Try it and see how fast I get in touch with the cops.”

  Ringo pulled his cigar from his lips, looked at the tip as if he were bored, and blew a long puff of air from his cheeks. “I could do something banal like pull a picture of your daughter out of my pocket or tell you exactly what time and at what location your son plays baseball or when your wife starts her period every month or...well, you get the idea.”

  A large vein, much like a worm, grew across Kyle’s forehead. “You can’t do this! Whatever your ‘product’ is, I don’t want it.”

  “Cocaine,” Ringo said slowly. “My product is top grade, Colombian-picked, Mexican-processed cocaine.”

  Kyle’s face shifted from red to white.

  “Kyle, did you know Roger Peretti?”

  “No.”

  “Did you read about him in the paper?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Roger played nice with me for a couple years. The funeral business is a wonderful way to move what I have to offer the rest of the fine citizens of this country. But Roger decided he was too smart for me, and, well, he had decided he would be going to such-and-such authorities. You see where I’m going with this?”

  “You killed Roger?”

  Ringo leveled his eyes on Kyle’s.

  “Oh, dear God.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Ringo pressed his hands into the armrests and stood up. “We’ve gotten a lot accomplished here today. I wish every business meeting were so productive. You’re a smart man, Kyle. I like doing business with smart people. As your distribution routes expand, so now will mine.”

  He stepped over to the corner where, next to the couch, five white boxes labeled with the Wild Palm logo were stacked. “I love your rum, Kyle.” He reached for the box on top and shoved his fingers in the slits on the side. He lifted. “Get the door for me?”

  Kyle dazedly opened his office door, and Ringo began to walk through before pausing and looking back toward the scared, sweating man standing in the middle of the thin carpet.

  “Please know that if at any time I am under the suspicion that you have reached out to the authorities in any way, then your daughter and your wife will die like Roger. I will leave you and your son alive to mourn them.”

  “You wouldn’t da━’

  “I left something on your desk that might be interesting to you. You’ll be hearing from someone.” He turned and made his way down the hall. “Happy Lord’s Day,” he said over his shoulder.

  Kyle slammed the door and ran a shaking hand through his short brown hair as he walked back to his desk. A white, square piece of paper sat in the middle of his computer keyboard. He picked it up and turned it over. It was a picture of his five-year-old daughter Sophia. She was dressed in the purple ballet costume she had worn to her recital last month. Her blonde hair sat in a bun on the back of her head, and she was smiling like the world was hers. Her father had bought her a bouquet of flowers that night, and the family had gotten ice cream at The Rocky Road afterward. She had chosen cotton candy flavor with sprinkles. On a waffle cone.

  Kyle’s eyes widened in horror, and he rubbed his lips with nervous fingers. The picture had been in a small silver frame on top of the dresser in Sophia’s second floor bedroom.