“We’re good,” Mark said. “Thanks.” He and Garrett took a seat at a corner table that gave them a view over the railing toward the south end of the shattered pier.

  Major had just received clearance from the Sheriff's Office to begin rebuilding the pier. The yellow crime scene tape had been replaced with orange construction fencing and a sign that kindly asked people to keep back until repairs were made. Major and a dock hand would do most of work themselves, and he was hopeful that they would have it completed by the end of next week.

  Ellie walked through the doorway into the small kitchen and out to the bar. She set the broom in a corner and hung the dustpan back on its nail and then stepped over to the tub sink and washed her hands. After filling a glass with ice and sweet tea, Ellie went back into the indoor seating area. The Wangs would be at the bar in a half hour, signaling that the bar was open for the day. In the meantime the place was empty and provided a private place to talk. Ellie sat down at the table across from Mark. Garrett was perched on a chair at the table’s side. He had turned the chair around and was resting his forearms against the back.

  Ellie took a sip of her tea and set it on the table. “So where do you want to start?” she asked.

  Mark looked at Garrett who nodded at him as if giving permission.

  “What?” Ellie said cautiously. “What’s wrong?”

  “The pilot who died in the crash,” Mark said. “We identified him. His name is Javier Duarte. The medical examiner found him through a random dental record. A root canal performed over five years ago in Gainesville.”

  “He’s from the U.S.?”

  Garrett shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like it. Like Mark said, the dental record was random. The clinic was a cash-only setup for illegals, the underprivileged, and homeless. They were shut down three years ago because of malpractice complaints. Apparently, some underworked or over-diligent government employee thought it a good idea to take all their records and scan them into the system. That’s how we made the connection to Duarte. Odds are that he was in country illegally and had to get his pain resolved in a hurry. We couldn’t find anything on him having a U.S. visa or ever having visited the land of the free legally.”

  “Does he lead us anywhere?” Ellie asked.

  Mark smiled. “That’s why we’re here. He does. As best we can tell Duarte was born in Mexico and then sometime over the last ten or so years moved to Cuba. He has a second cousin whose parents came to the U.S. when he was younger. His cousin is a U.S. citizen. Born in Iowa, got his bachelor's degree at Michigan State, and then did a short stint with the Air Force before getting out and moving to Fort Myers.”

  “You’re joking? He’s related to Eric Cardoza?”

  Mark nodded. Garrett said, “So you both need to find out Cardoza's true role. Is he just a piece on the board or is he a hand moving some of them? He’s low-level at Hawkwing, keeping an eye on a transition point for the runners. You both saw him at the stash house at Ridgeside, and he seemed angry at whoever Ringo is. Obviously they aren’t playing for the same team. So did Cardoza bring his cousin into the business or did it happen the other way around? Is Cardoza a pawn or a player?”

  “We’ll get on it,” Ellie said. “We still don’t have any proper connections to Mateo Nunez.”

  “I know,” Garrett said. “All known associations thus far are connected to Nunez, but we still don’t have anything directly. He seems to have descended into some pretty deep shadows while leaving his goons at the surface. He’s as elusive as he’s ever been.”

  Mark looked at Garrett. “I don’t know about you, but this investigation is becoming more than I bargained for. I can’t keep digging and searching like this and maintain my standard obligations.” He looked at his boss as if waiting for a solution. When Ellie came on with the DEA two months ago, Garrett had limited resources to give her and had only been able to assign Mark to her on a part-time basis.

  “I know,” Garrett replied. “Tell you what. Get on this full time. I’ll get heat from the Miami office once they notice. That might take a few weeks, so work fast. No pressure, but I’ve got a lot riding on the two of you.”

  “Not two,” Mark grinned. “Three. You forget the lovely Shirley Dunham.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ellie idled her boat over to the lift and cut the engine. She navigated it onto the bunk boards and activated the button for the lift. Its hinges and gears groaned as it took the full weight of the boat and slowly brought it out of the canal’s salty water. She released the button, and it stopped its upward ascent. Citrus barked at her, waiting for permission to disembark. She nodded at him. He barked again, jumped out of the boat, and took off around the front of the house. Ellie gathered her few personal items and stepped onto the top of the retaining wall and then onto the grass of her backyard. Turning back to the boat lift, she set her finger against the button again and brought the Bayliner the rest of the way out of the water. She had gone out for just under two hours, and her skin was already carrying a fresh tan endowed by the Florida sunshine. Being out on the water was the best place in the world to think, to relax and forget, even for a while, that the world was full of shadows and unrest. She hadn’t fished, but Citrus jumped out a few times and paddled around in the water before going back to the boat and letting his owner help him back inside. She had started out slowly navigating her way to the north side of Sanibel and into Tarpon Bay before leaving there and heading east around Sanibel Lighthouse and moving out into more open water. After a half hour she navigated back into the Sound and chugged slowly around Chino and York Islands before coming back to Pine Island and making her way back up the sleepy canal.

  Her time on the water helped her think, process, and plan, and these days there seemed to be an increased need for all three. The investigation had her primary focus, but there wasn’t a minute that went by when Ellie wasn’t aching to find out the truth about her father. If that was him in the photo, and she was convinced that it was, then that meant she might see him again. It could mean that whatever he was doing, when he was done, he might come back to her.

  But there was a sour side to it all that she couldn’t fully keep at bay. Ryan Wilcox had left her no interpretation of the photo at all, good or bad. Her father could be working undercover and had to fake his own death until his mission had concluded. Or on the darker end, he might actually be working for the other side. Ryan may have stumbled on his presence in something sinister. Her gut told her that wasn’t right. Her father was a good man, the best, in fact. But her gut had also betrayed her these last two years. Not once had her Spidey-Senses tingled and made her question the authenticity of her father’s death.

  And then there was the investigation itself; the progress they had made but how much they still didn’t know. There was a quiet, but persistent voice in the back of her mind. A little voice telling her that Adam Stark’s killer was long gone, that she would never find anyone remotely connected to it.

  She silenced the voice and moved on, wondering about Katie - her sister - and whether or not they would ever have a relationship again. She missed her. They used to be so close. Katie and little Chloe should be here. They should be enjoying life together. There was, after all, so very much to enjoy.

  Citrus burst back into the small backyard and flopped down. He gyrated on his back, all fours in the air, like he was nigh to a seizure. Ellie picked up the hose, and the spigot squealed as she turned it. Citrus’s ears perked up. “Here you go, little man.” She turned the hose toward him and pulled back on the sprayer handle. The flow of water shot toward him. He yapped at the water and bounced around as if the water had come straight down out of heaven. Ellie sprayed him, getting most of the water in the grass because of the dog’s movements, but finally she was convinced that the salty water was rinsed away. She turned off the water and recoiled the hose. Citrus licked the water droplets off his muzzle and shook.

  Ellie pushed open the glass door and stepped into the house. “Let me know when you’re dry,” she told the dog, “and I’ll let you in.” He barked his agreement, laid on his back, and slithered around in the sun. She shut the door behind her and set her keys, water bottle, and sunglasses on the table.

  That’s when the phone chirped. These days Ellie had three cell phones to manage. One was her personal Android; the second was her work phone, an iPhone provided by the DEA for all official business. The third she had gotten just this week, another iPhone also given to her by the DEA, the personal phone number for Miss Shirley Dunham. Up to now, she had never heard it ring - no one had a reason to call it - and it had a distinct chime. Harpsichord, maybe. It was sitting on the kitchen counter. She took a few steps toward it and picked it up. There were no contacts programmed in, so a name didn’t appear, only a number with an area code that she was unfamiliar with. This would either be a call for her new persona or it would be a misplaced call, a telemarketer possibly wanting to sell her on a timeshare or new credit card. Either way, the DEA had scrubbed the number and had provided it to Hawkwing. By all accounts Paul Greenberg had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in bringing the North Georgian aristocrat into their services. Still, it could be them. She closed her eyes for two full seconds and let out a breath. When she opened them, she was Shirley Dunham. She answered the phone, inflecting Shirley’s accent.

  “Hello, this is Shirley.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was deep and did not belong to Paul Greenberg. “Miss Dunham. Hello, this is Trigg Deneford. We met at the Hawkwing offices earlier this week?”

  “Why, yes. Hello, Mr. Deneford. What can I do for you?” She padded down the short hallway to the small room used as an office in an effort to distance herself from Citrus, who, as soon as he was dry, if not before, would bark persistently through the glass to let her know he was to be let in. She quietly shut the door behind her.

  “I would like to know if we could meet to continue our discussion. I am sorry that Mr. Greenberg cut it short. He was trying to squeeze you in before another meeting and, in my opinion, was impolite in the process. I hope we didn’t leave you with the impression that we are not interested in working with you.”

  She paused and waited a couple breaths before answering. “Well, in fact, that is most certainly what you left me with. It should not come as a surprise to you that I am now in discussions with a couple of your competitors. I believe you are familiar with Alegias?”

  “Please let me apologize for the impression, Miss Dunham. I can assure you that Hawkwing is certainly interested in serving your needs, and I am deeply sorry for any offense toward you.”

  Again, she paused. “Thank you for the apology. To be direct, I am no longer interested in pursuing a relationship with your company. As I indicated, I believe another company will fit my needs properly.”

  “Yes. Of course. However, would it be too much for me to ask you for another chance to speak with you in person? I am happy to come to you. You are a business woman. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Ellie smiled. Shirley sighed for emphasis. “I...suppose that would be all right. Where do you have in mind?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  After discussing Miss Dunham's general location with her, Trigg Deneford had recommended Cougar Paw Country Club in Bonita Bay. That was three days ago, and Ellie had worked with her office to prepare for the meeting.

  She purchased another outfit, borrowed coordinating jewelry from a wealthy family friend up the island who had a virtual treasure of diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds, and rented an unlabeled Audi A8 for the day. Garrett had expressed a concern about the costs involved with her new identity. As it was, he reminded her, he didn’t have a line item in the budget for Nordstrom, and he had already exercised a measure of creativity just to get her on his part-time payroll, and these extra expenses were going to stick out on a spreadsheet like a shark’s fin in shallow water. Ellie had convinced him that working the Shirley Dunham angle was essential. Once again the toxic bureaucracy of the agency reared its decrepit head. Here she and Mark were, in a very short time, making real inroads into the source of the drug supply coming into their area, and it made her boss nervous, wondering how he could legitimately hide the funding or would draw it from the accounting margins. Jobs like this were the ones that should be getting the resources. It made Ellie think of a deep-sea fisherman sent out without any poles. Only those fishing the shallows got the poles, not those going for the bigger fish.

  Ellie turned off West Terry Street and brought the Audi to a stop at the guard station that stood at the entrance to the Cougar Paw Country Club and golf course. The guard checked her reservation then motioned her on: “Have a good day, ma’am.” The asphalt ended just before the gate house when it became perfectly laid cobblestone. The road up was lined with queen and royal palms, hibiscus, and bromeliads.

  Ellie pulled up underneath the porte cochère, and before she got the vehicle in park a valet was standing just off her door. He waited for her to disengage the transmission and to put her hand on the door handle before he opened it from the outside. “Hello, Miss Dunham,” he said. Apparently, the guard at the front had called ahead. She set her heels on the small square stones and stepped from the car, taking her navy Senreve handbag with her. She looked at the young man’s name tag and pressed a twenty dollar bill into his hand. “Thank you, Joseph.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Your lunch guest is Mr. Deneford?”

  “Yes. Is he here yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. Thank you again.” Joseph dipped into the car and shut the door. Ellie walked toward the carved oak doors of the clubhouse, and, after they opened to her automatically, she crossed the blue and gold patterned carpet to the dining room. She gave the head waiter her name, and he led her across the room toward a table looking out over the practice green.

  Trigg Deneford had not come up in any of the initial reports Ellie’s office had provided on Hawkwing’s regional leadership. In the last two days they had discovered what Ellie’s gut had informed her of during her visit to Tampa. Trigg was ex-Special Forces. There had been the subtle shift of a single shoulder, the slide of his neck, the pinching at the end of a sleeve - all motions that Ellie picked up on. Motions that belied him not being at home in a suit. He had a strong neck, a thick, but perfectly trimmed beard, and his muscles filled out the suit. He was probably more comfortable in a t-shirt and a pair of cargo pants. Trigg had spent thirteen years in the Navy, the last seven with the SEALS, finally exiting the military three years ago. For all they could see, Trigg had no previous corporate experience. He had left the military and disappeared from any and all radar for fourteen months before resurfacing at Hawkwing just two years ago. It was intriguing to say the least.

  He wore smoky blue slacks and a custom fitted white dress shirt that had the top two buttons undone. His beard was as perfectly groomed as it was during their first meeting. He was handsome and defined. Trigg stood as she approached the table and offered her his hand. She took it, they exchanged greetings, and she sat down across the table from him. A waiter appeared and took their drink order.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. I do hope you’ll make this worth my time, Mr. Deneford. Like my father, I am not one to be frivolous with hours or minutes.”

  “Please, call me Trigg. And yes, I’ll make sure this is worth your time.”

  Before he could continue, Shirley said, “So, tell me about yourself, Trigg. I’m sure you know that your clients like to know who they are doing business with. I seemed to have a clear enough picture of Mr. Greenberg’s resume but honestly have not been able to find much on you.” She smiled politely, but slightly forced, ensuring that she gave Deneford the impression that she was not fully convinced that hiring his firm was in her best interest.

  “Fair enough. Well,” he began. “I was in the Navy for some time and got out a few years ago.”

  “You retired?”

  “No. Just got out. It was time for a change.”

  “And how did you end up working with Hawkwing?”

  “I led a private detail with the Navy for several years, and that gave me a knowledge of security.”

  Shirley nodded and looked at her menu. Trigg thought he was having lunch with a southern aristocrat, not one of the U.S. government’s most highly trained assets. In her early days, when she was in the middle of an eighteen-month training program intended to break her down and remold her into something the government could use, Ellie had been sent to the Naval Special Warfare Training Center in Coronado, California, to enter and complete BUD/S, the SEAL’s six-month training course that included three phases: Basic Conditioning, Diving, and Land Warfare. Outside of this, two of her former teammates on Team 99 had been SEALs, so she was fully aware of what Trigg could mean by ‘private detail.’ It meant one of two things: either Trigg had commanded of a team of Navy SEALS, or he’d led a group of elite soldiers that provided bodyguard services for high-level politicians or foreign emissaries. Teams like that were virtually unknown to the wider world, but they existed to provide safety for high-stakes players when meetings and deals were done under the table and out of earshot of the press. Situations where the U.S. government was seeking to influence a specific region and was willing to negotiate with the local leadership for it. Such meetings would utilize private details. Ellie didn’t press him for clarification on his terms. She had other questions.

  “So how did you end up at Hawkwing?”

  The waiter set their drinks down, soda water with lime for Ellie, unsweet tea for Trigg. He took their order and left them alone again. “A friend of mine knew I was getting ready to get out, so he made a recommendation. They are a good company to work for.” Then he said, like he felt he needed to, “Paul Greenberg, he doesn’t always have the most graceful bedside manner. He’s excellent at client management, however.”