Ringo took in a deep breath, his chin rising. The exhale was silent.

  Wally’s pupils were dilated, filled with a confused bewilderment, like a demon had just escaped his chest cavity and left him alone to deal with the consequences of an action that had not been his. “Ringo...I━”

  Andrés slipped behind Wally and within two seconds had him in a figure-four choke: his right bicep touching Wally’s throat, his right hand grabbing his own bicep on his left arm, his left palm on the back of Wally’s head.

  Wally struggled, tried to move, but was subdued.

  Chewy removed his earbuds one at a time and placed them into the pocket of his trench coat. He walked to the side of the couch where the picture had clattered to a stop. He picked it up. The glass was gone. All that remained of it was a small fragment still nestled into the bottom right corner. The left side of the frame was split, the picture unharmed. He walked behind Andrés, gently set the picture back on the end table, and stared out the window, stared at the pool.

  Wally tried to speak again, but Andrés increased the pressure around his neck, and he gave up.

  Ringo unlatched his watch and, taking two fingers, slid it off his wrist. He turned it over and examined it. The glass was shattered. Only the Roman numerals for the one and the five were visible through it. The links, the case, and the lug all appeared to be unharmed. He stood up, delicately holding his watch as he might handle a baby bird with a broken wing.

  He stood and walked up to Wally. Andrés pulled back on Wally’s neck so that he had to look his host in the eyes. Ringo came in close, stared hard into Wally’s eyes, and spoke slowly through clenched teeth. “Never set foot in my home again. Never call me again. And never, never think that you and I will do business together again. All routes in your direction are sealed. Forever.”

  Wally’s eyes revealed a desire to protest, but then his shoulders relaxed as he finally absorbed the gravity of his outburst.

  “The only reason you will not go to the guillotine today is because of your children. Make no mistake, if you ever reach out to me or think that enough time has elapsed for my memory of this moment to mildew, your girls won’t need to attend school because there is no need for learning when you’re six feet under.”

  Wally blinked hard. To the degree that he was able, he nodded. Ringo walked out of the room, still examining his watch. Andrés kept his grip on Wally’s head and neck and forcefully led him out of the living room and up the step into the large foyer. Chewy opened the front door. He put up a hand, and Andrés stopped. Chewy leaned in to Wally’s ear. “You are a fool of fools. Ringo is very wise. If you would have listened to what he was telling you, you would have learned that he had no intention of leaving you out to dry. Now you are on your own. Consider yourself persona non grata.” Andrés let go of the thin man. Chewy curled a lip and pulled back. “How dare you disrespect him like that.” And then, like a flash of lightning, Chewy threw his head forward and connected the crown of his forehead with Wally’s. Wally went flying backwards ten feet, landing on the inlaid brick that made up the edge of the circular driveway. He groaned.

  Andrés and Chewy walked back inside. Chewy shut the door behind them. As they walked past the circular staircase and back into the living room, Ringo walked out of his study and joined them.

  “I’m sorry, boss,” Chewy said.

  “No need for apologies. Some don’t have ears to hear.” Ringo looked at his two trusted men, men who were like two sons he never had. “Nunez is gone, as you know. That is big for us. Something to be celebrated, for sure. But that means that we must become more discerning than ever.”

  They nodded.

  “Keep an eye on Wally. He’ll begin working with our competitors. I want to know who and how. If you have even a hint that he is starting to talk about me, then you know what to do.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I have to leave. Keep things steady. I’ll see you both in a couple of weeks.”

  “Yes, of course, Jefe.” Andrés dipped his head in aquiescence and smiled to himself as he walked back down the hall. Wally was driving his bruised body away thinking that Ringo was being merciful. But that was not the trait Ringo had expressed. Ringo was not being merciful.

  He was being strategic.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ellie’s knees pressed into the soft soil near her front porch. She pushed the spade down and brought the handle around. Grabbing at a cluster of wilted geranium stems, she pulled it from the soil and tossed it to the side. She didn’t have a garden per se, but Ellie loved gardening. Maybe it was the serenity of it, or the sense that you were cultivating life and beauty - she wasn’t sure. She did know that she wasn’t very good at it. But, as with anything, one had to start somewhere, and this small, three-by-eight area before her front porch was the place to do it.

  Citrus was laid out in the shade of a heliconia, topping off an internal fuel tank that would give him enough energy to run to Bokeelia and back, should he so desire.

  Ellie reached for the plastic crate of yellow marigolds. Plucking out two plants, she set them before her and started scooping out a couple small holes to place them in.

  The front door was ajar, and she heard her work phone ringing from the kitchen counter. Citrus’s ears perked, and his head rose up like someone had called him for dinner. Ellie stood up and, since she wasn’t wearing any gardening gloves, brushed her hands together and rubbed them on her jean shorts. She went inside and grabbed up the phone.

  “Hi, Mark.”

  “Ellie. Hey. Got a second?”

  “Sure.”

  “So the lab results came back comparing the trace chemicals of the cocaine found around Adam Stark’s body and that of the plane crash and the stash house.”

  Ellie waited, nearly holding her breath.

  “The last two match, the ones from the plane and the house.”

  Ellie knew what that meant. Mark went ahead and said it out loud. “That means that there is a very good chance that all these guys we just cuffed had nothing to with that boy’s death. These samples aren’t even close to what was found near Adam, which was the purest stuff we’ve seen in a long time. The stuff on the plane and what we found at the house is decent, but not nearly as pure as the other. It’s all cocaine, but the chemical makeup is tainted with far too many additives to be from the same source. Unless Nunez was bringing two very different suppliers into the area, which is highly unlikely, it doesn’t look like we’ve got Adam’s murderer anywhere in the bunch.”

  Silence ensued. As much as Ellie wanted to clean up her community, she wanted to get Adam’s killers more. Their victory with Nunez and Deneford was to be short-lived.

  “You still there?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re going to find them, Ellie.”

  “I know.”

  “The good news is that now we know who to look for.”

  “How so?” Ellie started making her way back to the front yard.

  “Well, we know who not to look for, I guess. As far as I’m concerned, Sebastián Zamaco isn’t doing much around here. I haven’t heard his name once since I started sniffing around. But Ringo? Whoever he is he’s eating other people’s lunches. We have a lot more to work with now than when we started, and we know that whoever this Ringo guy is he’s out there. Somewhere.”

  “It has to be Ringo,” Ellie agreed, “whoever he is. His name keeps coming up, and he definitely has enough influence to execute a Manuel Saucedo on a whim.”

  Two young boys darted past her house on their bikes, pedaling furiously, racing each other, laughing. Ellie sadly watched them as they turned and disappeared down Fourth Avenue.

  “We'll get them, Ellie. We’ll get them together. I promise.”

  Ellie set her jaw. “Yeah. We certainly will.”

  * * *

  The walls were painted a thin, soft green that looked as if too much white had been added to a bright mint. The place was depressing enough, but the muted color only accentuated the sensation. The cell’s bars were a dark brown, chipped all over, showing a lighter primer underneath. The concrete floor was shiny from wear near the stainless steel raised table that acted as a bed.

  Trigg Deneford sat in his wheelchair, staring at the bars, fighting back the only thing he had left.

  Anger.

  The events of the last couple days had not shaken out as he would have intended. Two of his business partners had been taken out of commission; Nunez dead, Cardoza arrested. The network he had worked to establish had been taken down by a stunningly beautiful DEA agent. His face curled into a scowl as he thought of Shirley Dunham, as he reflected on how the agent impersonating her had pulled off the deception. He’d been blinded by the opportunity and her charm. Shirley Dunham was radiant, and that a woman of her charisma and caliber was involved in moving drugs had infected his eyes with myopia. It was the first time it had ever happened to him. It would be the last.

  He didn’t know the agent's real name, the one behind Shirley Dunham. He would find out soon enough. He felt like a fool. He placed his large hands on the bars and curled his fingers around them until the tops of his knuckles turned white. Anger radiated from his large chest, warmed his abdomen, and moved down his legs. He let go of the bars and turned his chair around. With a sharp pain in his thigh from where he had been stabbed, he put his weight on his good leg and leaned down to the floor. He placed his hands on the dirty concrete and did what he did every time he was filled with rage. Push-ups. Slowly at first, so the muscles would tighten faster and the burn began sooner. Then faster, in perfect form. He was at three hundred and sixty-two when footsteps echoed along the terrace outside his cell. They stopped in front of the bars, and the guard said nothing while he watched the prisoner exercise. Deneford stopped at four hundred and painfully maneuvered back into the wheelchair.

  “There’s a phone call for you. Please place your hands through the bars.”

  Deneford complied and, after he was cuffed, was wheeled down two long corridors and into a small room with no windows, a table, a single chair, and a payphone. The receiver was off the hook, dangling toward the painted floor.

  “Take your time,” the guard said. He stepped out and shut the door.

  Deneford wheeled himself over to the phone and set it to his ear. He said, “Took you long enough.”

  A Russian voice came over the line. “How are you?”

  “Been better. You getting me out of here or what? It’s been two days.”

  “You will hang up with me and will be escorted out to the front. A bag with fresh clothes, personal items, and further instructions was delivered twenty minutes ago. The bag has a lock. The combination is the month, day, year that we met. Good?”

  “Good.”

  “We will talk in a few days. The bag contains a phone. Keep it on and follow the instructions to the letter.” The line was silent for a few seconds. “It was you who shot Nunez?”

  Deneford sighed. “Yes. It was an accident.”

  “I thought you had better training than that.” And before Deneford could respond, he added, “No matter. Men like him are replaceable. We will regroup and get you back in action. I liked the Hawkwing angle. That is disappointing.”

  “Yeah, well.” Deneford set the phone back on its cradle and sighed again. A heavy metal door - also painted that disgusting, insipid green - opened behind him. A different guard stepped in and held the door open.

  “Follow me to the front, please.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Salty Mangrove was quiet. A cool breeze drifted off the southern waters of Pine Island Sound, stirring the late afternoon heat off the boardwalk. For now, Major had turned off the television above the bar, and the only sounds were a cluster of seagulls squabbling near the marina and the melodic lines of the Beatles, Major’s favorite band, coming from the bar’s speakers. Only Ellie, the Wangs, and Major were present. It would be another couple hours before the island’s louder and liquored nightlife kicked into gear.

  Major picked up a beer glass and started to dry it. His meaty hands ran the cloth inside and outside the glass like an expert dishwasher. “I read in the paper this morning about Norman Hardy up in Venice. Something connected to a big drug bust.” He smiled at Ellie like he was trying to butter her up for an answer. “You have anything to do with that?” With the exception of what she had disclosed to Tyler the other day, Ellie had made it a point not to discuss her work with anyone outside of the DEA. No one generally asked for details, understanding the invisible lines that were drawn due to the nature of the work.

  “Warren,” Gloria chided, “don’t go poking your nose around now. It’s none of our business.”

  Fu shook his head violently, put out his hand toward Ellie, and then nodded.

  “You want to know too, don’t you?” Gloria asked him.

  “Yes. Yes,” he said with excited eyes.

  “I swear, you two men are just a couple of waterfront gossips.”

  “It’s all right.” Ellie did all she could to stifle a laugh. “I did have something to do with it. Yesterday was a good day for our office, and I’ll leave it at that.”

  Fu slid his lowball glass forward a few inches and nodded toward Major. Major grabbed the bottle of Wild Palm golden rum, set the nozzle over the glass, and tipped it all the way up. A small amount of amber liquid splashed into the glass and quickly became a dribble. “That, my good Fu, is the last of the Wild Palm rum. I’m all out.” He set the bottle down and slid the glass back to his most faithful customer.

  Fu nodded his thanks and swirled the remaining ice around with his finger.

  “That’s some of the best rum I’ve ever had,” Gloria said.

  “I got a case of it a few weeks ago,” Major said. “Picked it up from Kyle myself. Looks like I need to swing by and grab some more.” He turned his attention back toward his niece. “Well, good job on getting Norman Hardy. I didn’t know the man, but with all the rumors about drugs running through here we common folk need to hear some good news about it every now and then. If he had anything to do with that plane hitting my pier, I might have to go see him during visiting hours.” His brows lowered, so did his voice. “You ever hear anything about Pete Wellington?”

  Ellie’s lips tightened. She shook her head.

  “Yeah. Didn’t think so. I miss that man. I still haven’t rented out his slip. Don’t know that I will either. Somehow that slip will always be his.”

  Gloria readjusted the top of her swimsuit and said, “He used to sit right where you are, Ellie, and tell me where and when you could find the best fish; snapper, redfish, ladyfish, tarpon, flounder. He knew the best spots for the exact fish.”

  “I remember.”

  “I mean, I never go fishing. Everytime I try it, my line gets tangled up like a ball of yarn, and it stresses me out. But if I ever do,” she tapped her head, “it’s all up there.”

  Major set the last of the dry glasses down and chuckled. “Gloria, fishing doesn’t cause stress. Stress is caused by not fishing enough.” He nodded toward the wooden sign hanging on the left side of the bar that said, ‘A bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work.’

  “Well, maybe one day I’ll get out there and try it again.”

  Ellie huffed. “That’s more than I can say for Tyler. I can’t even get him out on the water. Ridiculous.”

  Major tossed the dishrag on the bar and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator behind him. He popped the top and took a long swig. “Got any plans tonight, kiddo? I can get Ralphie to make us some ceviche. I know the owner here, so I can reserve any table inside or outside that you like.”

  She smiled. “I would like that, but I promised dinner with Tyler in Fort Myers. I have to leave in a second to head home and get ready. You wanna join us?”

  “Nah. Thanks. So what’s going on with you two anyway? Dating?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. If you say so. Oh, here.” Major reached underneath the lip of the bar, took out a cigar box, and handed it to her. “If you’re going off the island, I need this repaired. You know where Haskell’s is, right?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Haskell’s was literally a shop from a time long past. It was a clock shop, and Fred Haskell had been there repairing timepieces and wall clocks for the last fifty years. His hands shook now, but he still went in three days a week. It didn’t make much sense to go in more than that, even if his hands were those of a forty year old. His business was going the way of a Spanish Galleon, fading against the technological onslaughts of the ubiquitous smartphone, Apple Watch, and all things digital.

  “Drop it off with Fred if you don’t mind. I’ve already called him about it. He should still be there if you get it to him in the next hour.”

  Ellie nodded and opened the box. She frowned as she looked at the contents. “You sure? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without this.” She looked up. “Come to think of it, you look about naked without it.”

  “Well, I don’t look all that bad naked,” he grinned.

  “Annnnd that’s my cue,” she said, getting off the barstool. “See you later.”

  “Careful with it.”

  Once she was behind the wheel of the El Camino, she set the box on the passenger seat, right next to the thank you card from Gina Stark. She slipped the key into the ignition and turned it just enough to roll down the windows. She stared out the windshield and across the waters of the canal. She closed her eyes and saw what had filled her vision for weeks now. Brown hair, combed to the right. The meek smile and the obvious dimple. A boy who would never again play football, who would never get his driver's license and would never get married. His parents wouldn’t laugh with him again. His baby sister would not know him. His entire future, murdered along with him. She grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and squeezed until the blood evacuated her knuckles. A cool, shallow breeze drifted off the water and swirled inside, as if giving her a gentle warning of an approaching storm. She sucked in a long, deep breath and then let it go.