He paused and looked at the building across the street. He sighed. There was no coming back from this. It was the right thing, he knew. It was the thing that would get little Luciana into a new school in a clean and safe neighborhood. They would start over somewhere far, far away.

  Manuel stepped off the curb and approached the building. He opened the glass door, stepped in, and opened the next one. He walked across the tiled foyer and stepped up to a scratched formica counter.

  A pretty African-American woman in a blue officer’s uniform looked up. “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes. My name is Manuel Saucedo. I would like to speak with Detective Mendez.”

  The officer picked up the phone receiver. She paused. “And what is this regarding?”

  “I have information.”

  She eyed him suspiciously and looked as if she were about to ask a follow-up question. She didn’t. Her fingers hit four buttons on the phone, and she set the receiver to her ear.

  Manuel would call his abuelita when they let him use the phone. That would be after he gave them the information they wanted.

  And the information they wanted was good.

  It was very good.

  Chapter Seven

  “Miss Dunham? Come with me, please.” The receptionist led Ellie from the private waiting room and pushed open a frosted glass door that led into an expansive office whose decor was all black, white, and an ample amount of light greys. She could detect no color of any kind and was intrigued to find that she felt a sense of warmth in the room in spite of the coldness of the palette. The design was modern with chairs, light fixtures, and the desk featuring hard corners and straight lines. A man that Ellie pegged for just older than fifty, dressed in a tailored navy suit, stood from the desk. He stepped around and extended his hand toward her. “Miss Dunham. Paul Greenberg. Thank you for coming in. Please. Have a seat.” He motioned to a square, white leather chair before his desk while his receptionist quietly left the room. His brown hair was fringed with grey at the temples and combed over like a news anchor. His face was handsome and had a slight tan that accentuated the appeal of the smooth skin along his jaw. His desk was empty save for a silver pen and a picture frame that was turned away from his guests. He folded his hands into the center of his desk. His posture was perfect, that of a man who was both disciplined and refined. “So. You are interested in our company providing security for you? I’m not sure that we were provided the specifics on what exactly you had in mind.”

  “Yes,” she began. “I do not like putting my intentions on an impersonal sheet of paper. Face-to-face meetings are always to be preferred, are they not?” Her accent was in full swing.

  He smiled, but said nothing.

  Ellie crossed one leg over another, the fabric of her skirt stretching tightly against her thighs. “I have a rather large estate in North Georgia, outside a small town called Jasper, where my father raised show horses and domesticated llamas. Since the death of my parents, I have branched out into other avenues. Land acquisition, raw materials, things of that sort.”

  “And treasure expeditions,” he added.

  She smiled curtly.

  “We do our research on potential clients, Miss Dunham. We like to think of meetings like this as a two-way interview.”

  “Of course.”

  Ellie heard the office door click open and shut behind her, and Paul motioned with his hand. “Let me introduce Trigg Deneford, our Executive Director of Private Security for the Southern U.S.” A man came around and stood at the corner of Greenberg’s desk, next to their guest. He was tall, and his muscles were apparent even under his gray suit jacket. His shoulders were broad, his hands rough and calloused. His red hair was short, trimmed perfectly, making his full, thick beard seem out of place. Ellie thought he had the air of ex-military. “Ma’am.” Trigg stuck out his hand, and they shook.

  Neither Trigg’s name nor face had come up in Ellie’s investigative work on the company.

  “Have a seat, Trigg,” Greenberg offered. Trigg nodded and sat into the leather chair beside Ellie. His rectangular torso stretched high above the top of the back rest, his shoulders spilling over the sides. He placed his hands on his knees.

  Greenberg said, “Trigg and I have reviewed your client paperwork. Hawkwing is not a household name. How is it that you came to hear about us?”

  “Certainly. I believe you know Dean Stratford?” Stratford was a former Mississippi congressman from the Reagan era with a net worth of over one hundred million, a card-carrying Republican, and fiercely loyal member of the NRA. He was also a staunch supporter of the work of the Drug Enforcement Administration. Ellie had reached out to him two days ago and asked him to back up her new identity in the event that Hawkwing called to confirm her references. Stratford was happy to help the DEA in any way he could and, before ending the call, expressed a hope that his security firm was involved in nothing illegal.

  The light in Greenberg’s eyes revealed that he knew Stratford before his mouth did. “Yes. Mr. Stratford is a long-time client of ours.”

  “He’s an old family friend, Mr. Greenberg,” Shirley said. “I put in a call to him and asked him who he might recommend.” She threw up a hand for effect. “What do I know about these things?”

  “And you were going to tell me what services you’re looking for?” Greenberg prompted.

  “I am looking to purchase a small island off Key West. Also, with the success I had searching the bottom of the sea floor, I now require security on my hunting vessels. Well, vessel,” she corrected. “I have only one but do plan on purchasing another in the near future.”

  “Would you only want security while the boats are at sea?”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  “And how many days a year do you expect that to be?”

  “If they are sitting at a dock, they aren’t finding treasure, so I would say other than holidays and servicing they would be out continually. It would, of course, depend largely on who I hire to lead the search and what his or her preferences are.”

  “What of the island in the Keys?” Trigg asked.

  “General security.” She said it in a way that sounded like she was surprised he hadn’t deducted that on his own. “You do provide security for isolated properties like that, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Greenberg said. “We have many clients, all with unique situations and settings.”

  She said, “The island is seven acres and has a small vacation home on it currently. I’ll be making upgrades of course, but I’ll want cameras and surveillance along the perimeter as well as a small security detail on site at all times. Would you do that from here or...how exactly does that work?”

  Greenberg sat back into his chair, still maintained his perfect posture. “Typically, we station a team on site, but there are many options we can present that might meet your needs.” He motioned toward his associate. “Trigg can work with you personally to determine the right fit for you.”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll let you know if the purchase in the Keys comes through.” She turned toward Trigg. “In the meantime, I would like to schedule a time to speak about options for security on my watercraft.”

  He nodded. “That would be fine. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Excellent,” she smiled, then paused. “I…” she stalled and then laughed. “I am a little embarrassed to ask you…”

  “What’s on your mind, Miss Dunham?” Greenberg asked, his tone clipped, clearly ready to wrap up the meeting.

  “Well...I…” she smiled again. “You see, I have many income-producing interests. The estate, of course, and I did get rather lucky on that exploration last year. But, those, you see...those are not what I like to focus on.” She dipped her chin, looked at Greenberg, then smiled quickly, like she was nervous. Greenberg flicked his eyes toward his associate before bringing them back to Shirley Dunham.

  “And?” he pressed, not rudely, but bordering on impatience.

  She continued. “There are certain spheres that I work within that some might say are...gray areas.” She held Greenberg's gaze, maintaining her posture of confidence. “What I’m asking is if Hawkwing is only a security firm or if it tends to meddle in the affairs of its clients. There are certain interests I have that are purely private and would need to remain such.”

  Greenberg narrowed his eyes on her. “Miss Dunham. I like to be direct, so if you don’t mind…”

  She extended a hand. “Please.”

  “Are you asking if we turn our heads when our employees see suspicious or illegal activity occurring on our clients’ properties? Is that what you mean by ‘gray areas’?”

  She purposefully waited a few extra moments to answer, staring at him with her chin raised a bit higher. “Well. When you put it like that...no. No, I suppose that is not what I’m asking you.”

  “Then just what are you inferring?”

  She slid to the edge of her seat and grabbed the clutch she had set near her hip. “Forgive me. Perhaps I was mistaken about Hawkwing. I am a very private person, you see, and I would want anyone employed in the security of myself and my property to be those of a...singular focus...not concerning themselves with any activity beyond the safety and security of my property.”

  Greenberg came to his feet. She stood also, as did Trigg. “I’m not sure what information Mr. Stratford may have given you about us. I think that Hawkwing may not be the best fit for you. Thank you for coming in, Miss Dunham.”

  She tucked her bag under an elbow and nodded politely at both men. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

  Trigg followed her to the office door and pulled it open for her. “Miss Dunham,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Deneford.” Her accent remained thick, perfect, not overdone. “Again, I am sorry if I wasted your time this afternoon.”

  “Not at all.” He extended a hand down the hall. “Amy will see you out.” The receptionist walked toward her and offered to escort their visitor back to the elevator.

  Ellie had sunk the hook. Now she just had to wait and see if she placed it in the right waters.

  Chapter Eight

  Andrés slipped his phone into the pocket of his indigo jeans and walked across a spacious floor and into a room that resembled more of a cathedral than the living room that it was. He reached the back door and stepped outside, down the flagstone path to where Ringo was sitting under an arbor, sipping a neat bourbon and reading a book whose author Andrés couldn’t pronounce properly. By Ringo’s prodding, Andrés had taken up a reading of it, but couldn’t slog through even the first couple chapters. Reading, especially in English, did not come easily. The author was Machiavelli. The book, The Prince. Ringo sat on a white wicker chair, his sandaled feet resting on a matching ottoman.

  Andrés stepped under the trellis and politely leaned forward. “Hey, Jefe.”

  Ringo looked up from his book and smiled at his trusted associate. “Andrés,” he said, letting it come easily off his mouth, sounding like An-drays and allowing the ‘s’ to slither off. What’s the word, my friend?”

  Andrés’s face was tight with the nature of the news. “We have a problem down in Miami.”

  Ringo slowly picked up the bookmark lying on his knee and wedged it in the book. He closed it and set it on his wide thigh.

  Andrés continued. “Aldrich just called. He said a hose is about to burst within Cripta. The spigot is about to come off.” Andrés’s jaw was set hard. He was angry.

  Ringo leaned his head back and looked up at the Japanese honeysuckle intertwined in the open slats of the terrace covering. The sweet perfume of the vine’s pale, tubular flowers reached its zenith each day after the sunlight peaked and rolled down toward the horizon. He loved honeysuckle, if for nothing else than for the subtle and sinister reason that the vine tended to escape cultivation, run off into the wild, and strangle every bush and tree it climbed. Its sweet scent led children and adults alike to think only of its myrrh, nothing of its intent.

  It appeared that it was time to strangle someone in Miami. Ringo thought he had made a friend down in Cripta Santo. He almost frowned, but didn’t. Perhaps it was time for another lesson in respect. Time for a lesson for the youth of his world to show respect to their elders to keep them fed. Millennials. They just didn’t have the wits or the drive or the commitments of their forefathers. Ringo set his hands on the arms of the chair, closed his eyes. “Tell him to get it taken care of. And tell him to make it public. If they won’t respect me for my love and care for them, then they will respect me because they fear me.” He picked up Machiavelli with his hammy fingers and turned to a page in the front. “Listen, Andrés. Listen carefully, my friend.” He began to read. “‘Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved.’”

  Andrés nodded. “Wise words, Ringo.” Andrés stood under the trellis, intrigued by his boss. Anyone else, on hearing the report he just delivered, would have at least shown a hint of anxiety, a whiff of discomfort, even anger. But not Ringo. A loose strand in Miami could be flapping in the breeze right now, giving them all away. Ringo’s eyes and cheeks remained as calm as if Andrés had just told him that his bath was ready.

  “Machiavelli,” Ringo said, “understood the necessity of subjects being motivated. This is what even my associate César does not understand. César Solorzano thinks that you start with fear. Fear is his only weapon. But the enlightened will put a value on love, even if it’s not absolute, even if it’s only a means to an end. They’ll love, because love garnishes respect, and what man ever lived long and saw goods days without having respect?”

  He looked back at Andrés, his face set hard, his disposition still relaxed. “Tell Aldrich the time for fear has come.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ellie stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby of the Tampa skyrise. Her pumps clicked along the marble as she made her way to the revolving door. She stopped when she heard her phone ring and flipped open her - or rather, Shirley’s - clutch, pulled out the phone, and answered.

  “Hey, Garrett.”

  “Ellie. Are you done up there?”

  “Yes. I’m walking out now.”

  “How did it go?” Garrett asked.

  “We’ll see. I made Shirley's intention clear enough. As long as Glitch has done his job making me look credible online, then hopefully we’re good.” Glitch was the office’s IT director. “Ball is in their court. It could be that neither of the men I met with are tied into any knowledge of the drug trade down our way. If not, we’ll try another angle.”

  “Great. Hey, listen. We just had a lead come in from Miami. Some young guy just walked into a police station down there and offered up information on his drug network. A network that he said originates in our neck of the woods.”

  Ellie stopped and stared at a potted palm. “You’re kidding me. Who’s he connected with?”

  “You ready for this? Ringo.”

  Ellie blinked. She and Mark had only heard his name mentioned once, but the context made them think that Ringo had strong hands in the local drug trade. “Are they sure?”

  “We’re not sure of anything at this point. He said the guy who came in wants to be transferred out of the county before he talks. The lieutenant who called me said the guy is skittish and is worried about being in Miami. I’m heading down there now. I told them not to transfer him until I get there.”

  “What did the lieutenant tell you about him?” Ellie pressed.

  “Not a lot. He’s been in the clink a couple times for running coke down there. Suspected of a couple murders but not enough to pin him for them. Said he’s connected with Cripta Santo, a tough gang down there.”

  Ellie started walking again. “It’s going to take me a good four hours to get down there. You think I should come?” She pulled her phone away from her ear and looked at the time as she walked out the revolving door. “It’s almost five.”

  “Yes. Start heading that way. I want to get a conversation in tonight before the kid changes his mind. You should be there.”

  Ellie quickened her pace and walked along the sidewalk toward the parking garage. “What do you think his angle is?” she asked.

  “Who knows? They all want something. Whoever this Ringo guy is I’m prepared to give this kid just about whatever the hell he wants if it all checks out.”

  “I’m leaving downtown in rush hour,” she said. “I’ll get down there as fast as I can.”

  * * *

  Garrett depressed the accelerator, and the Ford Expedition lurched above eighty-five miles an hour. He would take Interstate 75 south to Naples and keep on it when it turned east to Miami. At this pace he could be there in under two hours.

  Manuel Saucedo was at the Grapeland Heights substation in Flagami, a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood in central-east Miami. Garrett had called the DEA in Miami and requested that they send a local agent to make sure they didn’t transfer Saucedo before he arrived. Fortunately, the kid said he would only speak with the DEA if Detective Mendez was present. Garrett didn’t know who the detective was or why Manuel had requested to speak with him. Maybe they had some kind of history together.

  Garrett had received a call from the Flagami station three minutes ago informing him that discussions were being had to transfer Manuel to the South Station in Little Havana. The thought was that he would be safer, out of reach of anyone on the street who happened to get wind that Saucedo was about to talk.

  Garrett switched to the far left lane and sighed nervously. This Saucedo kid was a big deal.

  Chapter Ten

  It was almost dark.

  In ten minutes the sky would be as dark as the clothing he wore. The ski mask, like the rest of his clothing, was a navy blue, almost black from a distance. The figure swung the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder and scrambled three stories up the building’s side ladder to the roof of the warehouse. He walked around the air conditioning units and plumbing vents to the other side. The building was an old fiberglass factory now used to store unclaimed freight out of Miami harbor. It was one of several, and this one, being so far from the water, was the resting place of containers, boxes, and bins that had been orphaned and not claimed for over eighteen months.