Мэри Эндрюс - The Newcomer

“Take me to my daughter. Now.”

Vikki sighed heavily. “Enough already.” She pointed the Glock at Evan Wingfield’s black suede Belgian loafer and fired a single shot.

Wingfield shrieked in pain and dropped to the sand.

Oscar Jensen stood looking down at the wounded man in disbelief. His throat was red and abraded. “Holy shit. You shot the guy.”

Wingfield was rolling around in the sand, clutching his foot in both hands, his face contorted in rage. “You bitch!” he cried.

Vikki knelt down and easily subdued Wingfield with one knee to his chest. She reached into the pocket of her jeans and brought out a set of plastic zip ties, fastening them around the wounded man’s wrists, just a little tighter than was absolutely necessary.

“Evan Wingfield, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, murder for hire, racketeering, bank fraud, bribery, and income-tax evasion.”

She stood up and prodded Wingfield’s hip with the toe of her cheap sneaker. “Okay. Fun’s over. Get up. You’re going to jail.”

Evan struggled to a sitting position. His foot was bleeding profusely. “I can’t walk. You shot me in the foot and I’m losing blood, you fucking bitch.”

Joe reached down, grabbed Wingfield’s shoulder, and hauled him to a standing position. “I wouldn’t piss her off if I were you. That Glock has fourteen more rounds.”

54

LETTY STEPPED OUT OF THE shadows of the cabana, and with her left hand, pushed her sunglasses up and wiped the perspiration from her face with the edge of her poncho. Her right hand was still thrust deep into the pocket of the cover-up, clutching Ava’s pistol. Beads of sweat rolled down her back and her chest, and the breeze coming off the water gave her a chill. Or maybe it was the scene she’d just witnessed.

Ava had pulled her aside as she was about to walk down to the beach.

“Here,” she whispered, pressing the pistol into Letty’s hand. “Just in case.”

Letty had pulled the canvas door flaps open by mere inches, peeking out to watch as Vikki and Evan walked down the beach to meet Joe.

Evan had his leather messenger bag on his shoulder. Was it full of cash—the payoff for killing her and dumping her body in the Gulf for the sharks to devour? She wished she could hear what was being said, but she knew that Vikki was wired for sound, and that somewhere close, another FBI agent, Garcia, whom she hadn’t met, was standing by as backup.

She gasped out loud when she saw Oscar Jensen emerge from the water and start trotting toward Joe and Vikki. What was he doing? He’d ruin everything! Should she try and intercept him, or stay hidden in the cabana, as Joe had made her promise to do?

Letty parted the canvas flaps and was stepping outside when she saw Evan grab Oscar by the arm, and then put him in a choke hold.

After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Joe pulled his gun and pointed it at Evan, and Vikki did the same, and in that moment, time seemed to stand still. Letty’s hand clutched and unclutched the pistol Ava had given her, but she felt helpless.

People were walking down the beach. She spotted an older white-haired couple, strolling hand in hand, pointing at the shorebirds skittering along the waterline. A middle-aged man wearing wraparound aviator glasses, loud plaid shorts and a pair of oversize headphones was running a metal detector over a nearby patch of sand. College kids were setting up a blanket and chairs only a few yards away, but they seemed oblivious to the armed standoff happening just a Frisbee throw away.

Seconds later, she saw Vikki fire. The shot echoed in the quiet Sunday morning air.

One of the college guys nudged the other. “Dude! That chick just shot a guy.” The older couple stood still and gawked as Vikki fell to her knees and handcuffed the shooting victim. Only the man with the metal detector seemed to realize what was going on. He dropped his instrument in the sand and began running toward the scene.

Letty began to run, too.

“Joe, this is Special Agent Alex Garcia,” Vikki said.

Garcia removed the headphones and nodded a greeting to Joe DeCurtis. “You had me worried for a minute there,” he told Vikki.

“How was the sound?” she asked. “Did you get everything we were saying?”

“I think so,” Garcia said.

“Hey!” Evan protested. “I’m bleeding to death here. I need a doctor.”

“Relax, Wingfield,” Joe said. “Nobody ever died of being shot in the foot. There’s an ambulance on the way.”

People were beginning to gather in a ragged semicircle around them, gawking at the spectacle. Two of the college kids had pulled out phones and were shooting video.

“Hey, man! What’d that dude do? Why’d you shoot him?” A kid wearing jeans and a Nike hoodie walked toward them, holding out his phone to capture the scene.

“Whoa. Who are you guys even?” the college kid demanded.

Vikki Hill flashed her badge. “We’re FBI, assholes. And this dude is a murder suspect. Now why don’t you and your friends go film a TikTok dance or something?

“Let’s get him out of here,” she told the men. Garcia and Joe each took an arm and effortlessly dragged Wingfield back toward the road. Vikki Hill picked up the leather messenger bag.

“That’s my property,” Evan protested. “You can’t just confiscate my property.”

“Hold up for a minute,” Vikki said. “He’s got a point. Joe, let’s inventory this douchebag’s property, shall we?”

DeCurtis pulled out his phone and she unzipped the bag as he began to video. She carefully removed a folded black windbreaker and set it on the sand. A pair of matching black track pants were wrapped around something else. She unfolded the fabric and revealed stacks of currency.

Vikki looked up at the cop. “Are you getting this? Looks like the balance of the payment due for a murder contract to me. Should be forty thousand, unless he planned to stiff us.”

“That’s the down payment for a real-estate transaction,” Evan claimed. “And you can’t prove otherwise.”

“Tell it to the judge,” Joe said. “Anything else of interest in that bag?”

Vikki held up a bag of goldfish crackers, a juice box, and then, a pair of pull-up diapers and a child-size pale pink dress with matching pink leggings.

“Those are for my daughter, who was abducted by her aunt, Letty Carnahan, who also murdered my daughter’s mother, before illegally transporting her down here to Florida,” Evan said. “If you check the bottom of the bag, you’ll see I have a judge’s order, giving me custody of Maya, and a copy of my daughter’s birth certificate.”

Letty had been standing at the edge of the crowd, unsure of her next move, until she saw Vikki hold up the clothing Evan had packed for Maya.

She’d been with Tanya on what turned out to be their last shopping expedition together. They’d gone into an insanely expensive children’s boutique on Fifth Avenue, and Tanya had picked out the ensemble, from a brand called Maisonette.

She remembered the way Tanya had gushed over the organic cotton dress with the Peter Pan collar and a print of pink and white lollipops. “This’ll be perfect for Maya to wear when we fly out to LA.”

The sight of the lollipop dress made something inside her snap. In a dream state Letty pushed her way through the knot of bystanders, advancing until she was only a few feet away from where Evan Wingfield was being held by Joe and the other man, who she assumed was Garcia, the other FBI agent.

Blood rushed in her ears as she raised the pistol, her hand shaking almost uncontrollably, and pointed it at the man who’d taken her beautiful, broken sister away from Maya.