Three years earlier, when Mercer returned to Camino Island for the first time in many years, she did so under the pretense of taking a sabbatical to finish a novel. She settled into the cottage built by her grandmother, Tessa, which was still owned by the family. She hung around the bookstore, met Leigh and Myra, Bob Cobb, Andy Adam, and the rest of the gang, and quickly ingratiated herself with the island’s literary mafia, of which Bruce was the unquestioned leader.
She made little progress with the novel, though she claimed otherwise. The writing was part of the act, the ruse, the smokescreen to divert attention away from her real motive: she was being paid a handsome sum by a mysterious security firm hired by an insurance company that was desperately searching for some stolen manuscripts. A lot of money was on the line, especially for the insurance company, and the security firm had come to believe that one Bruce Cable had the manuscripts hidden somewhere on the island.
And they were correct. What the firm didn’t know was that Bruce was suspicious of Mercer from day one, and as she got closer and closer, and indeed all the way to his bedroom, he became even more convinced that she was working for the enemy. Her presence prompted him to ship the manuscripts overseas and eventually sell them for a fortune in ransom.
Though the elaborate ruse had failed, in the end all parties were happy, especially Bruce. The owner, Princeton’s library, got the priceless manuscripts back. The insurance company took a hit but the damage could have been far worse. Of the actual thieves, little need be said. Three were in prison. One was dead.
Since then, Bruce had marveled at the security firm’s elaborate scheme. It was nothing short of brilliant and had almost worked. He became convinced that he needed to know more about the people who had almost ruined him. He leaned on Mercer, who reluctantly made the phone call and established the contact. Her handler had been a shrewd operator named Elaine Shelby, and Bruce was determined to meet her.
The building was one of half a dozen tall, new, gleaming structures near Dulles Airport, twenty-four miles west of the U.S. capital and in the sprawl of northern Virginia. From the moment Bruce parked his rental car underground, he felt as though he was being monitored. At the front desk, he was photographed, body-scanned, and asked to stare into a camera to record forever his facial features. As he was led to an elevator he searched in vain for a directory on a wall, but didn’t see one. Evidently the folks who leased these offices did not favor publicity. A security guard was waiting when he stepped off on the fourth floor. No smile, no pleasant greeting, no meaningful word. Just a grunt and a motion. There were no work pods with multiple desks, no pools of secretaries. From the time Bruce stepped off the elevator until he walked into the office of Elaine Shelby, he saw no one else except the guard.
Elaine was coming around her desk with a smile and handshake as the guard closed the door.
“I feel as though you should frisk me,” Bruce said.
“Bend over,” she snapped and Bruce burst out laughing. She waved to a sofa and said, “Might as well laugh, Cable, you beat us fair and square.”
They took seats around a low table and she began pouring coffee.
“You got the manuscripts back,” he said. “Everybody’s happy.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It was a brilliant idea, Ms. Shelby.”
“Drop the formal stuff. I’ll be Elaine and you’ll be Bruce, okay?”
“Fine with me.”
“You call it brilliant, in our business we call it a failure, which, I hate to say, is not that unusual. We are dealt the toughest cases and we don’t always win.”
“But you always get paid.”
“Damned right we do. Don’t you just love Mercer?”
“I tried my best. Great girl, wonderful writer.”
“Did you guys make it all the way to bed?”
“Oh, I never kiss and tell, Elaine. That’s very unprofessional.”
“You have a horrible reputation for chasing the young female writers.”
“Why is that horrible? I assure you it’s all consensual. These liberated women are on the road and looking for fun. I just try to accommodate them.”
“We know, we know. That was our plan.”
“Almost brilliant. Was it your idea?”
“We have teams, no one works solo around here. It was a joint effort.”
“Okay. What can you tell me about this outfit?”
“I understand you want to hire us.”
“I’m interested, but I need to know more.”
She took a sip of coffee and recrossed her legs. Bruce refused to notice. “Well, for lack of a better description, we are a security firm.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Not really.”
“So, if I eventually write out a check for payment, it will be ‘pay to the order of…’ ”
“Alpha North Solutions.”
“How wonderfully bland.”
“And you came up with ‘Bay Books’?”
“I did. Much sexier.”
“Is it really that important for you to like our name?”
“I guess not.”
“May I proceed? You did inquire.”
“I did. Please. Sorry.”
“Anyway, we provide security for companies and individuals, we investigate crimes for insurance companies and other clients, we subcontract with the federal government to consult on security matters. We operate around the world, with headquarters here.”
“Why here?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t, I guess. It’s just that you’re stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but eight-lane roads running in all directions.”
“It’s convenient. Dulles is right there and we travel a lot. Virtually every employee here is former FBI or CIA, and this area is home.”
“And you?”
“FBI for fifteen years, worked primarily in recovering stolen art.”
“And manuscripts.”
“Among other items. I’ve looked through the materials you sent, interesting reading, and you’re smart to avoid email. I assume the locals down there have not made much progress.”
“Not much at all, I’m afraid.”
“And you realize this will be expensive?”
“Yep. I wouldn’t be here if I were looking for a bargain.”
“Okay, so I suggest that we walk down the hall to visit my colleague Lindsey Wheat, one of our homicide investigators and, until five years ago, one of the FBI’s finest. She was also one of the first female African American agents in the field.”
“Why would she, or you, leave the Bureau?”
“Money and politics. The pay here is about four times that of the Bureau, and most of us are women who got sick of the internal politics and sexism.” She stood and motioned toward the door.
Bruce followed her down the empty hall. Ms. Wheat was at her desk and rose with a big smile when they walked in. Last names were discarded as first names were assumed. She was about fifty and as slender and stylish as Elaine. She walked them over to a similar sitting area and inquired about coffee. All declined.
Bruce had already gone through one round of preliminary chitchat and wished to avoid another. He said, “So, you specialize in old murders?”
Lindsey smiled and said, “Or recent ones. It doesn’t matter. I began on the streets as a homicide detective. Houston, Seattle, five years in Tampa. It’s a thick résumé, if you’d like to take a look.”
“Maybe later.” Bruce had already accepted the fact that these people were eminently qualified. For a second it made him even prouder that he had outfoxed them three years earlier.
Lindsey asked, “Have you talked to the FBI down there? If it’s a contract for hire then it’s likely to be federal.”
“That’s what I’ve been told. But no, I have not talked to the FBI. Not sure how one does that, really. I’m just a simple bookseller who knows little about the law.” He smiled at Elaine, who rolled her eyes.
“So you’ve read the materials too?” he asked Lindsey.
“Yes.”
“Look, before we wade in too deep, I’d like to clear the air about your fees. I know this won’t be cheap and we—Nelson’s sister, who is his executrix, and me—are willing to step up, but we have limits. Nelson was my friend and he deserves justice, but I’m only willing to pay for so much of it. His sister feels the same way.”
“What’s in the estate?” Elaine asked.
“It’s complicated. About two million, cash and assets, no debts. But he buried some money offshore years ago and kept it away from his ex-wife. It’s in the common stock of a company and worth around eight million, for a total of ten. The state and federal exemptions this year are eleven million and change, so the estate is free and clear. The ex-wife has lawyered up and is deeply wounded because she got the shaft several marriages ago, but Nelson’s sister thinks her feelings can be soothed with a couple of million. Bottom line, the estate is in good shape and is willing to write a check. The obvious question is: How much will this cost before it’s all over?”
“We don’t guarantee a win in this business,” Elaine said.
“I understand. It’s a long shot.”
“Three hundred thousand,” Lindsey said. “From soup to nuts. All up front. No hourly billing, no monthly statements, expenses included.”
Bruce nodded and stared at her pretty eyes without blinking. Polly had predicted half a million, but then she was in California. Bruce was hoping for two hundred or so and refused to flinch at three hundred. He would pay half, as would the estate. He could afford it, and Ms. Shelby sitting across from him with a smirk damned well knew it. What she didn’t know was where his ransom was buried.
He shrugged as if it grew on trees and said, “Deal. Now what do we get for the money?”
“Hopefully, the killer,” Lindsey said with a smile.
Elaine shook Bruce’s hand goodbye and left them to their business. Bruce followed Lindsey down the hall to a larger room with screens on all four walls and a long table filled with laptops and other devices. They sat across the table from each other and she opened a file of some sort. “Let’s start with the woman,” she said as she pushed a button on something and Ingrid’s computer-generated face appeared on two of the wide screens.
Lindsey said, “Of course, we don’t know this woman, nor anyone who might be her, but we’ll begin the search.”
“The search for what?”
“A contract killer. We know of several, but it’s a fairly nebulous group. They don’t convene annually for parties and they don’t have a registry.”
“You know the names of contract killers?”
“Of course. The FBI has monitored them for years. Back in the old days most were Mafia boys who killed each other in turf battles, but today there are a few who are known.”
“How? How do you know about them?”
“Mainly through informants, snitches, rats. Almost all contract killings are done by dumb criminals who need a few bucks to knock off a spouse or hubby’s secret girlfriend. Family stuff, usually. Bad business deals are not uncommon. Most of the hit men are caught and convicted by forensics.”
“Where might one find a good hit man?”
“Well, you can actually start online, believe it or not, but those guys cannot be trusted.”
“Imagine that. A dishonest hit man.”
“Right. If you wanted to knock off, say, a business partner, you’d probably start with a local private investigator, someone you might know and trust. He’ll know someone who’s done hard time and lives around the fringes. He might also know an ex-cop or maybe a former Army Ranger, someone accomplished with weapons. Guns are used nine times out of ten. About sixty percent of the time word leaks out, the police get a tip, and everybody gets arrested before there’s a killing.”
“But we’re not dealing with a dumb criminal here,” Bruce said, enjoying the discussion.
“No, we are not. There are a few contract killers who are referred to in the trade as ‘masters.’ They rarely get caught, and they are well paid.”
“How much?”
She pressed a button and Ingrid disappeared. Six names were listed in one column. Beside each was the year of death, and to the far right was an amount of money. The largest sum was $2.5 million; the lowest, $500,000. Lindsey said, “None of these figures can be trusted, but ten years ago a retired hit man wrote a long tell-all piece for an online crime magazine, anonymous of course. He claimed responsibility for the first three murders. His command of the details convinced the FBI he was there. The last two are from other sources.”
“Why did he retire?” Bruce asked.
“He turned sixty-five, Social Security kicked in, or so he said. Had a real sense of humor. He wrote that he almost got caught during his last job when things got messy. A young teenage boy got in the way and took a bullet. The hit man found a conscience and hung up his Glock.”
“And none of these five killings were ever solved?”
“No. The cases are still open.”
“So, our little venture is indeed a long shot?”
“Absolutely. I thought we were clear. No?”
“Yes, quite clear.” Bruce kept staring at the numbers. “The pay’s not bad,” he said.
“The average job is about ten thousand bucks, but, as I said, the average hit man is not that bright. Most get caught because somebody talks too much. And most of the people handing over the cash aren’t that smart either. You’re going through a nasty divorce and your spouse is suddenly murdered. Don’t you think the police might have some questions?”
“I don’t recognize any of the victims.”
“None are from Florida, and none involved divorces. Most were bad business deals. The last one was an inheritance issue.”
“Do you have photos or composite sketches of other contract killers?”
She punched some keys and another computerized face flashed on the screen. Male, age forty, Caucasian, flat nose, beady eyes, bushy hair, and so on. It was only a sketch. She said, “Four years ago, this guy was seen leaving a marina in Galveston just seconds before a yacht burst into flames. Three people died, not from burns but from bullets to the head. Probably a bad business deal.”
“And a bad sketch. This guy could be one of a million.”
“Yes, but it’s not one of our cases. Luckily.”
“May I ask how you got the sketch?”
“We have a lot of contacts, some within law enforcement, some on the outside.”
“Nice to know. So our girl is a master killer.”
Lindsey hit a key and Ingrid returned to the screens. “Not so sure about that. She allowed herself to be seen by a number of people. She slept with your friend several times. They had lunch and dinner out, and so on. That’s highly unusual for a killer at the master level. Normally, these guys are never seen. But, on the other hand, hiding in plain view is often a smart move.”
“Maybe she had no choice. Sleeping with Bob led her to her target.”
“Any chance she slept with Nelson?”
“Who knows? He was single and close by. A nice-looking gal, great body, ready to hop in the sack for other reasons but eager nonetheless. Surely you’ve seen this before.”
“Not really. It’s not unusual in the world of espionage but we’ve never seen it. The elite spy services have always recruited beautiful women who know how to seduce. As you know, men can be quite weak at times.”
“So I’ve heard. But this is not exactly the Mossad, right?”
“Highly unlikely. A trained spy would not run the risk of being caught on video around the hotel.”
“How many contract killers are female?”
“Zero, in my experience. Ingrid would be the first.”
“So how’d she do it?”
“I’ve read your summary and I think you’re pretty close. She arrived on the island with a colleague, probably a man. Posing as a couple, they leased a condo near Nelson’s. I assume there are plenty available.”
“Only about a million. It is Florida.”
“She hooked up with your friend Bob and that’s how she met Nelson. She got lucky when the storm appeared, and that virtually eliminated her chances of being caught. She’s gone.”
“No chance of finding her?”
“Always a slight chance. I’ll meet with my pals at the FBI and have a chat. They’ll be excited to see Ingrid here, to add her to their rather short list of professional killers. Who knows? This is a murky world and there’s often a potential informant looking for money. It’s a long shot but there might be someone out there who knows a thing or two and needs a buck. Doubtful, though.”
“What’s your theory on his computer?”
“After she killed him, she would not have left without his hard drive. However, if she simply stole it, then she would have left behind a massive clue for the police.”
“She replaced it?”
“That’s my guess. Replaced it with a hard drive that contains nothing useful but is heavily encrypted. The police can’t scratch its surface.”