“You should eat something,” Javier said.

Their waiter had brought their lunches five minutes ago, but Letty hadn’t touched her ham-and-brie panini or her salad.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Eat.”

She started picking at her salad.

Between bites, she pointed the tines of her fork at the chair between them, where Javier had placed a cardboard box.

“Is that my dress?”

“Among other things.”

“Is it pretty?” she asked in a mock-girlish voice.

He ignored this. “In the box, you’ll find a mini spray bottle. The label says mouthwash. It’s an opiate tincture. Oxycodone. Fitch is a wine snob. Five squirts in his wineglass during dinner. Not four. Not six. Exactly five.”

“Got it.”

“Get him to his room before he starts to fade. His people will hang back if they think you’ve gone in there to sleep with him.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Once he’s unconscious, head up to the office. Now listen to me very carefully. My contact says there will be five men on the island. Three outside. Two in the residence. Considering his notoriety, Fitch has had countless death threats and one actual attempt. These men are private security contractors. Ex-Blackwater types. They’ve all seen combat. They’ll be armed. You won’t be.”

“Where will you be during all this?”

“I’m getting there. Part of your outfit is a Movado watch.”

“Ooohhh, Christmas.”

“Don’t get attached. It’s on loan. We rendezvous at eight on the eastern tip of the island. You won’t be allowed to bring your cell phone. Keep an eye on your watch.” He patted the box. “There’s also a map of the island and blueprints of the house. I would’ve given them to you earlier, but I just got my hands on them.”

“What if I get held up?”

“Don’t get held up.”

“Eight. All right. How are we getting off the island?”

“A Donzi Twenty-Two Classic Shelby. I’m picking it up after we’re done here.”

“Is that a boat or a plane?”

“It’s a boat.”

“Fast?”

“Faster than any of Fitch’s watercraft. Miami Vice fast.”

“Assuming this works, what’ll stop them from just radioing for help? Having the coast guard track us down on the way back to Key West?”

“You are taking on some risk here, which is why I will tolerate these questions that seem to suggest I haven’t thought everything through. That I haven’t foreseen every possible glitch and planned accordingly.” Javier took a sip from his glass of ice water. “We won’t be going back to Key West. We’ll be heading five miles farther south to a deserted key in international waters.”

Letty forced herself to take a bite of the sandwich.

Javier said, “Now, we haven’t even discussed the most important part of this. The reason we’re all here.”

“Skull with Burning Cigarette.”

“The painting is hanging in Fitch’s office on the wall behind his desk. My intel is that there’s no theft-security system. You just have to cut it out of the frame.”

“Cut it?”

“Careful. Like shooting heroin into your femoral artery careful. There’s a razor blade hidden on the bottom of your handbag, under a piece of black electrical tape.”

“I’m not comfortable with that,” Letty said.

“Why?”

“Because they’ll probably search the handbag, don’t you think?”

“Where do you want to hide it?”

“I’ll think of something. What kind of bag is it?”

“Try to control yourself. Louis Vuitton.”

“Up to this point, the accessories are far and away the best part of this job. Them, I keep.”

“We’ll see.”

“And once I get the canvas out of the frame?”

“Roll it up. You’ll find a plastic tube taped to the underside of Fitch’s desk. Stick the rolled-up canvas inside and get yourself to the eastern edge of the island.”

“What about cameras?”

“None.”

“What about the people who actually see me up close? Who can identify me and describe me to law enforcement?”

“You’ll be a redhead tonight.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want, a latex mask? This isn’t Mission Impossible. This is the price you pay for a shot at four million dollars.”

Letty felt something go cold at the base of her spine.

Without exception, this was the most dangerous job she’d ever signed on for.

Javier said, “You wondering why I don’t just slip in there while you’re distracting Fitch?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“Because that would turn this into a very different kind of job. People would die. I assume you don’t want that.”

“No.”

Javier tossed his napkin onto the table. He stood and looked at his watch.

“It’s almost two thirty. They’re picking you up outside the hotel at four.” He pulled out his money clip and dropped two twenties on the table. “Go back to your hotel. Study your maps. Get your head right for this.”

Letty had barely touched her food.

Javier stared down at her through a pair of aviator sunglasses.

“You forgot something,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“My name. Who will they be expecting?”

“Selena Kitt. S-E-L-E-N-A-K-I-T-T. But you won’t be carrying any identification.”

“And my back story? Should he be so inquisitive?”

“Thought I’d leave that to you. Bullshit seems to flow so freely from your lips. Moments like this don’t come along very often,” he said.

“I know.”

“Ship sails at four. Make me proud, Letisha.”

CHAPTER SIX

Riding down to the lobby, Letty watched herself in the reflection of the elevator doors. So did the twenty-year-old boy with an obvious hangover standing beside her. She didn’t blame him. She looked stunning. The little black dress was Chanel. The fuck-me pumps were Jimmy Choo. They made her legs look like stilts. She’d worn wigs before, but nothing as finely made as this one—wavy red hair that fell just past her shoulders. Javier certainly had a well-developed sense of style, but she couldn’t imagine he’d put this ensemble together all by himself.

The elevator doors spread apart. Letty tried to steady her breathing as she walked out into the lobby past a grouping of palm trees in planters.

She glanced at her watch. Three fifty-eight.

As she approached the revolving door at the entrance, a man stood up from a leather chair. He wore a black suit and carried the beefy build of a bouncer. Bald, graying goatee and a sharp skepticism in his eyes. She figured the extra padding under his jacket for a shoulder holster.

“Ms. Kitt?”

“The one and only.”

The man extended his hand, and she shook it. “I’m James. I’ll be taking you to Mr. Fitch. Right this way.”

He led her outside to a silver Yukon Denali idling on the curb and opened the rear passenger door. Letty climbed in. The driver didn’t bother to introduce himself. He wore sunglasses and a black suit almost identical to James’s. He was younger, with a buzz cut and a strong, chiseled jaw that Letty associated with soldiers.

The radio was tuned to npr and turned down so low that Letty could barely hear it.

James sat beside her.

As they pulled out into traffic, he reached behind them into the cargo area and retrieved a black leather pad. He opened it and handed Letty a sheet of legal-size paper. At the bottom, she noticed a line for the signature of Selena Kitt.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“A non-disclosure agreement.”

“For what?”

“For anything that happens from the moment you climbed into this vehicle until you’re returned to Key West.”

She studied the document.

“Looks like a bunch of legalese.”

“Pretty much.”

“You wanna give me the CliffsNotes, since I didn’t go to law school?”

“It says that you agree not to disclose any details regarding your time with Mr. Fitch. Not in writing. Not in conversation with anyone. And if you do, you can be sued for breach of contract in accordance with the laws of the State of Florida.”