Мэри Эндрюс - The Newcomer

“In other words, a sucker.” She smiled ruefully.

He kissed the tip of her nose and replaced the sunglasses. “Not at all. Me, on the other hand? I’m a professional cynic. Ask my mother, she’ll tell you. I’m convinced everybody’s a suspect, until proven otherwise.”

“And yet, when you figured out I was running from the law and wanted in New York, you didn’t turn me in.”

“I figured you were too cute to be a wanted criminal.”

“I’m being serious.”

He sighed. “I saw how you treated our guests. Even when they were cranky and hostile, you put up with their crap. Like Harry Bronson. You could have walked away when he yelled at you, but instead you stayed and helped. A murderer wouldn’t have done that. And then, there was Maya.”

“Maya,” she repeated. “Which is why we’re doing this. For Maya.”

“Yup.” He glanced at his watch. “Feeling any braver now?”

“Not even a little,” she admitted.

53

VIKKI HILL PULLED INTO THE Murmuring Surf parking lot. The vacancy sign was flashing, which surprised her a little. Which of the regulars was checking out?

“This place?” Wingfield sneered. “Jesus! This is where Letty was keeping my daughter all this time? What a dump.”

She gave him the stink eye. “What do you care? She’s been sleeping in a bed and eating decent food. She likes to swim in the pool. She doesn’t care that it’s not the Hamptons. She’s four.”

“Forget it.” He got out of the car. “Now what? Where’s this Joe guy?”

“This way,” Vikki said, gesturing toward the sparkling expanse of white sand visible in the gap between the office and the motel’s north wing.

He slung the leather bag over his shoulder and followed behind her, crossing the parking lot and cutting through the grassy strip dividing the grounds from the beach. He paused at the dune line, looking down at his expensive loafers.

“Christ! You don’t expect me to walk out on the beach. Right? These are Belgian loafers. I’ll wait right here. Just bring Maya to me.”

“Nope.” Vikki kept walking, stepping into the sand in her cheap generic running shoes with a malicious sense of satisfaction.

It was not yet noon, and Sunday, and the beach was relatively uncrowded. People were either still in bed or in church, or lining up for the all-you-can-eat brunch buffets at the resort hotels down the road. But there were a few family encampments scattered across the sand, with umbrellas, tents, coolers, and lounge chairs. Half a dozen blue-and-white-striped canvas beach cabanas had sprouted up in the sand along the waterline.

There were even a few hardy souls splashing around in the water. Canadians, Vikki thought dismissively. Normal people, even including New Yorkers, did not swim in the ocean when the rest of the world was still bundled up in parkas and mukluks.

She didn’t turn around, just kept walking toward Joe DeCurtis, who was standing on the beach, holding a can of beer that she was reasonably sure was empty.

For a moment, Vikki Hill felt a flash of regret. She’d been wrong about Joe DeCurtis. He was no inept local yokel. He was an excellent cop, with great instincts. If circumstances had been different, maybe they’d have had a thing. Too late now, which was probably just as well. Her relationships, even the briefest, always ended up messy.

Vikki turned to check on Wingfield’s progress. He was picking his way slowly through the sugar-fine sand, clutching the leather bag to his side.

When he was fifty yards away, he stopped and looked around. “Hey!” he called. “Enough of this charade. Where’s Maya?”

“We’ll get to that,” Vikki said. “But first, meet Joe. He’s the guy I told you about.”

Wingfield approached warily.

“Joe, this is Evan.”

DeCurtis looked the other man up and down in a stare designed to make Wingfield feel uncomfortable.

Evan shifted the bag on his shoulder and looked around. “Where’s Maya?”

“She’s around,” DeCurtis said. “First, let’s finish the cash transaction.”

Wingfield laughed. “Yeah. No. The deal was, you hand over my daughter, and then you get the cash.”

“How about you show me the money?” Joe said.

Vikki was watching the two men stare each other down, each assessing the size of the other’s balls. At any moment she expected one to sniff the other’s butt.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw someone approaching. It was a scrawny elderly man, who’d just emerged, dripping wet, from the Gulf. With growing horror she recognized the pale, hairless chest, the rubber swim goggles perched atop his bald head. He was fastening a towel around his waist as he walk-trotted toward them.

“Hey Joe,” he hailed, waving his arm in greeting. Water was still streaming from his body as he approached the trio standing only a few yards away.

“Hey Joe!” he repeated.

DeCurtis turned at the sound of the old guy’s voice.

“Wow, that was some excitement this morning, huh? Did Letty tell you, it was the same guy I spotted creeping around last night? And then he come back here, and he tried to grab Maya. You think that’s what he was after? Letty and Maya?” He nodded at Vikki. “I heard that guy broke into your room and stole your gun, too. Did the cops get it back to you yet?”

Oscar Jensen was oblivious to the drama unfolding before him. He greeted Wingfield with a broad smile and extended his hand. “How ya doing? I’m Oscar. So, are you checking into the motel today? Which unit?”

“Hiya,” Evan said to Oscar. “So, you know Letty?”

“Oh sure. Everybody knows her,” Oscar said. He gave Joe a broad wink. “Especially this guy right here. You think we don’t know you’re sweet on our Letty?”

Wingfield’s eyes narrowed as he looked from the old man to DeCurtis to Vikki. “What the fuck?”

“Huh?” Oscar looked from Joe to Vikki. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Oscar,” Joe said, his voice quiet and deadly calm. “You need to go away. Right now.”

“Oh. Okay. Never mind.” The old man started to scuttle back toward the water, but Evan reached out and grabbed him by the elbow.

“Oww,” Oscar complained. “That hurts. Hey Joe, who is this guy? Don’t he know you’re a cop?”

Evan grasped Oscar by his right shoulder, twisted his arm behind his back, and shoved him in front of himself, like a frail, shivering human shield.

“Where’s my kid?” he demanded.

Joe had worked his gun out of his waistband and was pointing it directly at Wingfield.

“Let him go, Wingfield. And I’ll take you to Maya.”

“You’ll take me to her anyway, or I’ll break his fucking neck.” He glanced over at Vikki Hill, who’d taken two steps closer and had now drawn her Glock.

Wingfield shook his head as a warning and twisted Oscar’s arm so viciously he cried out in pain.

“Back away, Vikki. I just want my kid. That’s all. Take me to her. Now.”

Joe locked eyes with the FBI agent. She raised one shoulder in a helpless gesture and pointed at one of the blue-and-white-striped tents two hundred yards away.

“She’s over there, in that cabana.”

“By herself?”

“No.” Vikki hesitated. “Letty’s with her.”

“Give me your gun,” Wingfield ordered. He wrapped one arm tightly around Oscar’s neck. “Do it now, or I’ll snap this old bastard in half.”

“How do you think this is going to end?” Vikki countered. She nodded at DeCurtis. “Just to be very clear, this is Detective Joe DeCurtis. Not a real contract killer.”

“But the gun’s real,” Joe said. “Let go of Oscar, or I’ll use it.”

“Don’t think so,” Wingfield said. He drove his elbow up and into Oscar’s throat and the old man gurgled, his eyes rolling up in his head in terror.