“Very good,” she said, apparently satisfied.

  Trigg took a sip of his drink. “So, how about yourself, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “By all means. What else would you like to know?”

  “To be forthright, we were not able to find much on you, either.

  “Well, I should hope not. I should like a refund if you had.”

  Trigg’s brows lowered. “How do you mean?”

  “My father, you see, he was a prodigy of sorts. He started with nothing. My grandfather was a poor farmer from Alabama, and my father grew up working the cotton fields his entire childhood. He would be dog-tired by the end of every day - school, working in the fields - but would stay up reading stacks of books and sketching out in a notebook whatever came to his mind: ideas and their connections and implications. Anyway, his teachers began to notice that he was different - and he was. My father, he had photographic memory. He could read a full-length book in under two hours and could recite over eight percent of it. After much persuading by teachers and tutors, my grandparents allowed him to go to college when he was twelve. He graduated from Auburn at fourteen, and a year later invented an advanced microchip for use in early computers. He was a savant, my father, and from the time he was a young boy had quite garnished the attention of the local media. I’ll deprive you of all the details. Suffice it to say that my father grew wary of the scrutiny and spent a great deal of care ensuring that the privacy of both he and his family were secured. After he died I hired a data firm out of Atlanta to expunge any news related to the distribution of his estate and myself as the heir. Let’s just say that we Dunhams like being out of the spotlight. It must stem from the small country farming life residing in our blood,” she laughed.

  “I see,” he said, eyeing her as if he were deciding whether or not to believe her. “How about you then? Tell me about Shirley Dunham.”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t too much to know about me. I went to elementary school in Marietta, high school there at Oak Ridge, and received my degree in communications from Auburn. Sadly, I didn’t inherit my father’s brilliance,” she smiled. “And I did not inherit my mother’s wits.” Mark had spent yesterday researching Ellie’s cover name and found schools in North Georgia with a record of a real life Shirley Dunham around Ellie’s age. He had gone online and pulled the archived yearbook from Oak Ridge and discovered that the real Shirley Dunham showed an uncanny resemblance to a teenage Ellie O’Conner. In the event Trigg checked her out, there wouldn’t be a problem. He wouldn’t, she knew. Speaking in specifics as she was now instead in generalities went a long way to garnish trust. Besides, Ellie knew Trigg most likely invited her to lunch to discuss something beyond her being a client of his security firm.

  She didn’t have to wait much longer.

  The waiter brought their food; Shirley’s baked quail with steamed vegetables, Trigg’s fried mahi over a bed of rice, glazed with basil butter. He took a bite, swallowed, then said, “I think I can say that we would like to represent you as your partner in security for both your island and your exploratory watercraft.”

  “And you’re sure this is all right with Paul Greenberg? I must say, I’m still not so sure about him.”

  Trigg waved an assuring hand. “Think nothing of it. I’ll be your direct contact with Hawkwing. You can be assured I will take good care of you.”

  Shirley swallowed and took a drink. She patted her lips with her napkin. “I would like you to email me your initial suggestions as well as a breakdown of your fees. I will review them and let you know what I’ve decided on.”

  “Of course.” They both spent the next minute eating in silence before Trigg spoke up. “Is there anything else we might be able to help you with?” He was treading lightly, but with enough intent for her to read between the lines. “You had mentioned the other day that my team staying out of your affairs might be important. I can assure you that will not be a problem. In fact, if needed, we might be able to help streamline your process.”

  She met his gaze and held it. “How do you mean?” Her expression was perfectly gauged: interested, but not defensive; curious, not judgmental. It was a nonverbal cue letting him know she liked the direction the conversation was heading.

  “As I’m sure you can deduce, we not only have a vast network but are also the eyes and ears of everything that happens around our clients’ properties. Should you ever need to bring something in or would like it brought in somewhere else we...well, we might be able to arrange that.”

  She took a final bite of her quail and took her time chewing it. She swallowed. “I assume you would also be my contact on such an arrangement?”

  “Of course.”

  “I appreciate your offer, Trigg, but how is communication and information handled on something such as this? I have done well enough in this particular arena and bringing in another party gives me another layer of exposure. One slip up on your end and I have much to clean up to keep my image and name clear.” Again, she held his gaze, more serious this time. No trace of a smile.

  He set his plate to the side and tossed his napkin on it. Then he folded his hands on the table. “I’ll be upfront with you, Miss Dunham. Mr. Greenberg...he does not see the same...opportunities as I do. I am willing to extend certain services that he will not entertain.

  “So are you talking with me now as a representative of Hawkwing or as someone who is detached from them?”

  He smiled curtly. “I am representing Hawkwing, to be clear. But,” he continued, “on the other front, it would be without their backing. If you understand.”

  “Yes, of course.” Shirley smiled. “I must say that I am glad you called me, Trigg, and I am glad that we met together for lunch today.” She took a sip of her water, set her glass down, and her elbow caught her sunglasses, bumping them off the table. “Oh my,” she said. Trigg bent down and picked them up, handed them to her.

  “Thank you. Some days it’s a wonder I can even walk by myself,” she laughed. Shirley stood up and offered her hand to Deneford. “I look forward to getting that email from you and discussing alternate ways of working together as we move forward.”

  He stood. His handshake was engulfing and firm. “As do I. Thank you for meeting with me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Minutes later Ellie was back in the Audi. She drove toward Evening Palm Estates, a gated community of mansions and perfectly manicured lawns. When she arrived she gave the guard at the entrance her name and drove through. Two and three acre lots boasting eight and ten thousand square foot homes slowly passed by as Ellie snaked her way through the subdivision. A friend of Garrett had a home here. The homeowner was a snowbird and came down to Florida from October to April each year. That meant the place was currently vacant, and it would serve as a final precautionary measure. In the event that Trigg Deneford bit down harder on Shirley Dunham’s hook, Ellie’s team wanted to ensure that she could make a clean getaway with her cover in tact. There was a small but real possibility that Trigg could have her followed. He was, after all, willing to work some shady businesses with her, and it wouldn’t be surprising if he kept a closer eye on her until they had a few deals underneath their belts and trust between them began to congeal.

  Ellie pulled into the driveway and clicked the garage door opener Garrett had provided her. The wide wooden door rose, and she pulled in. She clicked the remote again, and the door came down behind her. Other than a burgundy Lexus RX sitting at the far end of the garage and a couple golf bags leaning on the wall, Ellie was alone. She grabbed Shirley’s handbag and a small backpack and stepped out, walked inside. The alarm keypad heralded her presence. She typed in a few digits, and it went silent. All the shades were half-drawn, and Ellie made her way through the mud room, into the kitchen, and slid into a large guest bathroom. Reaching into the backpack, she quickly changed out of Shirley’s clothing and donned a pair of jean shorts, a sleeveless top, and a pair of sandals. She tucked Shirley’s jewelry, wig, and clothing into the handbag and then, looking in the mirror, fluffed out her hair and ran her fingers through it. She turned off the bathroom light and walked to the back door. Punching a new code into the keypad, she twisted the deadbolt and opened it. Then she turned the lock on the handle so it couldn't be opened from the outside. She shut the door. The backyard boasted a pool, a putting green, gardens, and a hedge at the rear. Ellie walked to an opening in the hedge that led to a tiny dock on a canal. A boat was waiting there for her. Mark was at the wheel. She stepped on board and set her things down next to a bench seat.

  “So, how did it go?” Mark asked. He pulled away from the dock and slowly turned out and headed back toward the open channel.

  “He’s in,” she said. “He’ll play ball.”

  “No kidding. Just like that?”

  “Just like that. I don’t think he’ll tell Greenberg that Shirley is coming on as a legitimate client. We found our man at Hawkwing.”

  Mark sighed the way a man might after holding his breath for too long. “Awesome.”

  “Oh, and I got his fingerprints. They’re on my sunglasses.”

  “Well done.” He smiled. “I knew we kept you around for something.”

  They chugged down the canal, and, as they made their way toward the Caloosahatchee River, Ellie felt, for the first time since coming on with the DEA, a sense of satisfaction that they were finally making inroads. A picture was coming into focus, a picture showing real faces of those dealing drugs into the area. They still didn’t know exactly how Trigg was involved, but the lunch today confirmed a connection. A connection that Ellie would follow to kingdom come.

  They exited the canal, crept past a channel marker, and as Mark brought the throttle up the boat charged forward and the wind whipped at Ellie’s hair, bringing up a fine mist from the churning outboards. She breathed in the salty air, and it invigorated her senses. She smiled. They were making progress.

  * * *

  Trigg Deneford drove to the River District and entered the City of Palms parking garage. He spun up three levels and parked his gray Tesla S into a space next to a black Yukon Denali. He unlocked his doors and waited. Thirty seconds later his passenger door opened and a man sank into the seat and shut the door. The man was no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, had a large round face with long black hair slicked back into a ponytail. His chin was square and his small, beady eyes were piercing. The top of his right hand had recently been tattooed and revealed large scrolling letters that spelled ‘Camila.’ He breathed in the smell of the interior. “I love the smell of new car,” he said. “You traded in your Corvette?” His Spanish accent was thick, almost expunging the English syllables.

  “Yes, a couple weeks ago.”

  Mateo Nunez inspected the interior. “Very nice,” he nodded. “I’ve never been inside a Tesla.” He rubbed a hand down the length of the door, feeling the texture of the leather. “So, tell me you have good news.”

  “I do.” Deneford reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. “Let me have your other one,” he said. Nunez complied and pressed his Nokia 8210 into Deneford’s large hand. Deneford gave him another of the same model. It was a twenty-year-old phone that had no Bluetooth, no WiFi, no WLAN, which meant that, unlike newer Androids and iPhones, tracking a caller beyond the nearest cell tower was virtually impossible. “There’s an address already programmed in the contacts. It’s a slip off the back of a fishery in Sarasota. First and third Thursday of every month.”

  “Sarasota? That’s almost fifty miles further up the coast. We aren’t staying closer in?”

  “I’m not sending you somewhere like Louisiana. It’s only fifty miles. You of all people should know that you have to spread out. You’ve been doing this out here longer than I have. I’m not going to consolidate all our activity around one small area. Quit being lazy.”

  Nunez rubbed the top of his hand.

  “New tattoo?”

  “Yeah. My daughter. Hey, we need to talk about this problem. It’s getting bigger.”

  “I know. We’re working on it.”

  “Well, work on it faster. I could be doing this anywhere. If this Ringo person keeps getting his fingers in my dough, you and me are going to have to make other arrangements. I’ll go back to Fort Lauderdale or up to Tampa.”

  “What have your guys found out about him?” Deneford asked.

  Nunez laughed. “Found out? Nothing, man. We can’t find anything. This guy is a ghost. All we ever get is a name.” His tone shifted into a mocking tone. “‘I can’t go through with the deal...Ringo threatened my family if I do...We decided not to bring in your product...Ringo has made us a better deal.’ That’s what we’re hearing. All the time now. We’ve lost a few tons of sales to him already.” He pointed at Deneford. “You need to fix this. You came to me. I already had a good thing going. If you don’t make this go away, I will be. Are we clear?”

  Trigg looked bored, unconcerned. “You need to remember something. We have an agreement. If you remember, you were losing your suppliers because of poor choices you made. I have brought you the suppliers and even some of the areas to bring it in. But bringing it in falls squarely on your shoulders, my friend. So it sounds to me like you’re not keeping your end of the deal. I don’t give a manatee’s ass who this Ringo guy is. He is not my concern. Figure out a way to deal with him and keep your end of the bargain, or you and I are going to have a bigger problems then he’s presenting right now. Got it?”

  Nunez sighed.

  “Also, that little stunt you pulled a few weeks ago trying to bust out Victor Calderón on his way back to prison. You do something like that again and I’ll find out who this Ringo guy is and start working with him myself. You got that too?”

  Nunez’s nostrils flared. He wasn't used to being spoken to this way. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

  “Now get out of my car, and the next time you talk with me it had better be good news.”

  Trigg waited for Nunez to leave before he started looping back down the parking garage. Ringo was becoming a problem. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard of the man. Whoever he was, Nunez was going to have to deal with him, and fast.

  Trigg’s thoughts turned to his lunch with Shirley Dunham. A fine lady, to be sure. Smart, sexy, and had her head in the same game he did. He would watch her for a while, get a deeper background check done on her. And once she cleared and he knew he could trust her, they would get to work.

  Things were looking up.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ellie sat on her living room couch with her feet tucked up underneath her. Citrus, for the moment, was quiet and calm, his body next to hers, his head lying on her lap. She held a copy of Mark Dawson’s newest novel, and a glass of cheap Merlot sat on the end table next to her. It was hardly eight o’clock, but she had settled in for the night, enjoying the relaxed quiet away from tracking down drug dealers and impersonating wealthy Georgians. Neil Young was playing softly on her vintage vinyl turntable, singing about a heart of gold and getting old.

  She scratched the top of her dog’s head and reached for her wine. After taking a sip she set it back down and turned the page. Citrus’s ears perked, and a moment later a knock came at the front door. He jumped off the couch and ran to the door, alternating his barks between a protective growl and an excited yip. He was bipolar if he was anything at all. Ellie slid a torn piece of paper that she used as a bookmark in between the pages and laid the book on the couch. She stood, walked over to the door, and opened it. It was Tyler.

  “Hey, what are you doing down here?” she asked. Citrus set his paws on Tyler’s knees, looking for a good scratch on the shoulders that came quickly. Tyler tried keeping his eyes on Ellie while hunched down toward the dog.

  “What are you doing?” He scanned her briefly. Cotton pajama shorts with a white Salty Mangrove t-shirt that draped down past her waist. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. “Were you sleeping?”

  “No, just reading.”

  He stood back up. “Reading?”

  “Yes, you know, a book. We smart people like to do that sometimes.”

  “Well, get dressed. I’m taking you somewhere.”

  She scrunched her face. “Where? I wasn’t planning on going anywhere tonight.”

  “Well, plans change. You’ll find out where when we get there. So go change. Hurry up.”

  “I can’t just wear this?”

  “Let me think...no. Definitely not. As cute as those shorts are, you need to put on pants.”

  “I was kind of wanting a quiet night in tonight. You want to just come in? I’ve got wine.” He stared blankly at her, unflinching.

  “You’re really not going to tell me, are you?”

  He clicked his tongue. “Time’s a wastin’. Better hurry.”

  She sighed and said reluctantly, “Okay. Citrus, go pee on his truck tire.”

  Citrus barked as he jumped up off all fours and ran laps around his favorite guest.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later they were off Pine Island, Matlacha behind them, heading north on Burnt Store Road. The bright orb of the sun had already dipped below the ocean, and its light was fading quickly. Tyler flicked on the truck lights. “We’re going to the range?” she asked.

  “Nope,” was all he offered. He turned the radio up, and George Strait joined them in the truck.

  “So...when are we going to be there?” Ellie probed.

  “You sound like my brother’s kids on the way to Six Flags,” Tyler said. “We’ll get there when we get there...maybe ten minutes or so.”

  They passed the turnoff to Reticle on the right and kept going. Tyler bobbed his head in rhythm to the music and said, “I’m thinking about adding another six stations to the covered firing line. That would give me eighteen total. Most afternoons this time of year they stay at capacity. That’s lost money in my eyes.”