In a tailored suit, crisp white shirt, and square-knotted tie, there was nothing slack about FBI Supervisor Sancere.
“Dan Gallagher, you son of a gun.” He reached his hand straight out to Dan and gave it one snap of a shake. “Great to see you again.”
Dan returned the shake and immediately turned to
Maggie to make the introductions, even though he’d already told her exactly what to expect. “This is Joel Sancere, currently the supervisor of—which squad are you running now?”
“Major thefts and violent crime,” he said. “But I’ve worked my way through most every division we have. Mrs. Smith, I understand you are helping us once again with an open investigation. Thank you.”
Like she’d helped on purpose last time.
“Supervisor Sancere,” she said, shaking his hand and looking him in the eye. He had to know how Dan got inside information all those years ago, but she refused to feel ashamed.
His attention was back on Dan. “So you did it, huh?” he asked, a look somewhere between admiration and chastisement in his eyes. “Why am I not surprised? You were always a rule-bender.”
“Getting into the evidence room?” Dan shrugged. “I know people. But I’m afraid they won’t let Maggie in there.”
“That pushover SAC? He might.” Joel shook his head with distaste. “The guy’s a mess.”
“I admit I was surprised when you didn’t get the job.”
Joel waved a hand as if he didn’t care, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Like you’ve known for years, Dan, it’s who you know, not how well you do the job. And this one?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “He knows everybody.”
“Who knows everybody?” Another man came around the corner to the lobby, smaller in stature and breadth, slightly balding, with sharp brown eyes behind rimless glasses. “Are you Dan Gallagher?”
Maggie had to agree with Sancere; the “boss” was a mess. He hadn’t even ironed his shirt and clearly thought shaving was optional.
“I’m the special agent in charge, Thomas Vincenze.” He shook Dan’s hand and then nodded to Maggie. “You ready to go Gallagher? I’ve had the ev clerk pull the 1As and bulkies for you.”
Dan hesitated, looking at Maggie. “You want to wait here in the lobby?”
“I’ll take care of her,” Joel assured him. “We’ll be in my office.”
If Dan noticed the blood fade from her face, he didn’t react. He just nodded his thanks to Joel and disappeared out the lobby doors with Vincenze.
“This way,” Joel said to Maggie. “My hole is in the back.”
She started down the hall, wondering how to make small talk without going to the past, the place she wanted to avoid.
“So,” he started, “have you met the infamous and incomparable Lucy Sharpe?”
The question surprised—and relieved—her. “I spoke with her on the phone before we came.”
“No sparks?”
She gave him a confused look.
“Between her and Dan. Rumor has it they’re an item, didn’t you know?”
Another surprise, but this one at her reaction to that news. What did she expect? That he’d never been attracted to another woman? A man like that? “He didn’t mention that.”
“It’s just a rumor, mind you. Lots of those where that operation is concerned. They’re sort of shrouded in mystique.” He laughed as they reached the door to his office, and gestured for her to go in first. “And money.”
“I’m really not that familiar with the company,” she said, crossing her arms and not taking a seat. How long would it take Dan to find that fortune?
“Bet you were surprised when he showed up after all these years, huh?”
Even five minutes with someone who had this much on her past was too long.
He ambled around his desk and sat in a creaky chair. “Sit down, Maggie. Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want something? Coke, coffee?”
“No thanks.” She sat and glanced around, looking for something to change the subject. But there wasn’t even a family picture or diploma or anything she could use to make a comment.
“Did you recognize him?”
“No, I didn’t.” She looked directly at him. “But I really wouldn’t have recognized you.”
He smiled, obviously taking that as a compliment. “I don’t do much UC anymore, but I was pretty good at it back in the day.”
He leaned forward, and there was a subtle shift in his features from amiable to something rougher. “You don’ remember your old pal, Juan?” The thick Spanish accent had a hint of something mean, and she sat back a little to get away from it.
“I do now.”
Instantly, he was himself again. “Sorry. I’m sure this is awkward for you.”
“A little.” She gave him a tight smile. “I appreciate that you understand that.”
“Let’s just proceed as friends, Maggie. I think what you’re doing to help is a noble thing, and we’re grateful.”
“I’m happy to help,” she said, keeping it as vague as possible.
“What do you have? One of the ‘missing fortunes’?” He air-quoted the words and added plenty of sarcasm.
“I take it you don’t believe they are the key to… anything?”
“Never have. That was Dan’s theory, and some others. Me? I was there that night with El Viejo. He made no effort to hide or conceal the fortune he had. It’s nice folklore—a hundred million in missing cash—but I doubt it ever existed. And if it did, Esteban went to the grave knowing where it is.”
“Not even Ramon?”
“The minute those agents busted in, El Viejo knew exactly where the leak came from. Ramon is persona non gratis with him, I suspect.”
“I really don’t know that much about it,” she said coolly. “I’m just trying to help Dan.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Do you have one of the fortunes? Because if you do, even a rogue investigator like Gallagher wouldn’t be foolish enough to keep that from the FBI, would he?” When she didn’t answer, he leaned forward. “Do you have one, Mrs. Smith?”
“Not anymore.” It wasn’t technically a lie. She’d hidden the fortune in the one place she thought was completely safe—Quinn’s backpack. If he was in a safe house, then so was his backpack.
“It’s okay, Maggie,” he said, reclining his chair casually. “Dan will eventually tell me; we’re good friends. You don’t have to worry about what’s safe to say or not.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And please, don’t feel like
you have to babysit me. If you have a meeting or something . . .” Please go to it. Now.
He flicked a hand. “It’ll wait. Tell me what you’ve been doing all these years? Living in Florida, still?”
“In the Keys.”
“Husband? Kids?”
“My husband passed away about four years ago, but I have a son, Quinn.” Before he could take a breath or ask how old, she pointed to his bare walls. “I don’t see any pictures of a family, Supervisor Sancere. How about you?”
“No time, I’m afraid.” He added a sheepish smile. “I’m here more than I’m home, and when I’m not, I’m traveling on a case. How old’s your son?”
“Old enough to drive me crazy half the time,” she said quickly. “Have you completely given up undercover work? I would imagine it’s quite exciting.”
“Not as exciting as it was for Dan.”
Could he mean what she thought he meant?
“A guy who stomps all over the regs like he does tends to do quite well UC,” he continued. “So he’s a teenager then, your Quinn?”
It was a direct volley and she knew exactly what he was trying to figure out—the math. Was the baby Dan’s . . . or Ramon’s?
Blessedly, she heard footsteps and Dan’s voice in the hall. Thank you, Baba.
Dan’s face was dark as he entered. “All right, Maggie. We can go.”
She stood, grateful for the reprieve, but trying to read his expressio
n. She couldn’t. She glanced at Joel. “It was nice talking to you.”
“Wait a second. Dan?” Joel stood, also frowning at the other man. “What’s the matter? Something wrong with the evidence?”
Dan dropped his hands into his pockets and nodded slowly. “It’s gone.”
“The fortune?” Dan didn’t seem surprised that Joel made that assumption. “Are you kidding me? What did the clerk say?”
“She has no explanation.”
“But did you check the notes for a copy of what was on the fortune?” Joel asked. “Anything in those files had to have been recorded in the notes.”
“I got it,” he said. “But that’s not quite as reliable.”
Joel blew out a breath and looked over Dan’s shoulder as if he expected the SAC to charge in any second. “What did I tell you about that guy? He can’t even run an evidence room.”
“There has to be an explanation,” Dan said.
“There might be,” Joel said. “A whole lot of files from the midnineties were taken up to storage in D.C. I know you’d think that something that small would be in a 1A file, but it could have gotten transferred. I’ll look into it for you.”
Thomas Vincenze tapped on the door, snapping a cell phone shut with his other hand. “C’mere, Dan.”
He stepped out, and Maggie hesitated for a second as Joel gave her a very hard and suddenly accusing look.
“Pretty big coincidence that this disappears right after Ramon gets out of prison and you show up again. Don’t you think?”
She bristled at the comment and the tone. “Excuse me?”
“This is still my case, Ms. Smith. Not . . .” He notched his head to the door. “His.” He took one step closer. “And I know you didn’t ask, but allow me to give you some unsolicited advice.”
“No, thank you.”
He leaned closer to whisper it anyway. “If you think you can trust that man, then you obviously don’t have a very good memory.”
“So what happened with him?” Dan asked when they got into his car. “You don’t seem happy.”
“Neither do you.”
“I’m not. A key piece of evidence is missing.” He started the car but didn’t pull out. “What did he say to you to upset you?”
Did she seem upset? She thought she was holding it totally together. “He said exactly what I expected, mostly in subtext. Tell me about the notes you got.”
“Don’t want to talk about it, huh?”
“Actually, no. Drive.”
Instead, he pulled out his phone and hit a few buttons to bring up a text. “Here’s what was in the evidence notes, which aren’t as reliable as the physical fortune. It said ‘Success is failure when turned inside out.’ And on the back, four numbers again. Five-nine-two-five.”
“What can we do with that?”
“Run the words and numbers through some cryptography software, brainstorm possibilities with addresses and GPS, parse the words for clues. With two fortunes we have twice as much as we did first time around, if my theory is correct.”
“We don’t know that my fortune wasn’t just a regular old cookie. The clue could have been on the one Lourdes had.”
“Or anyone in the house that afternoon, but everyone else was arrested that night and searched.” He turned the ignition on and headed out of the parking lot.
“Not Lourdes.”
He nodded. “We should visit her. But first, there’s somewhere else I’d like to stop by.” He pulled out and headed toward the expressway entrance. “The search was thorough, so I don’t expect to find anything, but I do think it’s interesting that the house is still owned by the Jimenez family.”
Great. Just where she never wanted to go again.
He flicked the blinker and pulled onto the highway. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.”
“Will you tell me what Joel said that upset you?”
“He implied that I might have something to do with the missing fortune, and he doesn’t like that you’re nosing in on his turf.”
“He’s never liked me. He’s a stand-up guy, an agency man to the core, but very competitive and jealous. Don’t let him bother you.”
She nodded, trying to take the advice to heart, looking at the traffic out her window. “He also said you and your boss were an item.”
“Then really don’t take anything he says to heart.”
He whipped the car into the next lane and accelerated, weaving through traffic as if it were the Indy 500. They skirted a truck, and threaded between a van and an SUV. She filed his silent but powerful response and stayed quiet all the way to Coral Gables.
Each mile, the landscape grew more and more familiar, and as he maneuvered through the lush hallways of banyan trees that shaded the pricey neighborhood, she broke the silence. “I remember the first time I came here.”
“You were, what? Seventeen?”
“Eighteen.” Scrawny, scared, and scarred by Baba’s death and the harsh reality that her mother, wherever she was, didn’t want anything to do with her. “In fact, I met Ramon on my eighteenth birthday and, of course, I took that as a sign that he was meant for me.”
“You were here a few months before I was,” he said.
“I remember,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. “I remember the day I met you.”
“You do?” He seemed surprised.
Of course it wouldn’t have left an impression on him. “I was so happy there was another gringo around. Someone who would speak English to me other than Ramon and Lourdes.” She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I had an instant crush.”
“Me, too.”
“You did not,” she shot back. “You had an instant insider.”
He turned onto Granada, then cut his gaze her way again. “Maybe crush is the wrong word. But there was instant . . .”
“Lust.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “That, too.”
Funny thing, lust. She’d felt the same chemical response when he’d walked into her bar that she felt when he’d walked into the dining room at Viejo’s house. Like wings were fluttering in her stomach and her whole body wanted to just . . . attach to his.
“Here we are,” he said. “Just like old times.”
They were on Alfonso Street, which looked even more rich and elegant than she remembered. Until they reached the gate, where signs of abandonment flourished.
“It doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” Maggie said as they drove the length of the two adjacent lots Viejo owned. The house was blocked by live oak trees and thickets of palmetto palms, except for one little corner of the second floor that rose above the highest branches.
They exchanged a look, and he slid the Porsche up to the curb about a block away. “Let’s check it out.”
Dan shook the wrought iron gate set into the chipped and faded stucco privacy wall. The entire place felt forgotten and neglected, except for one addition to the entrance: a state-of-the-art security access keypad on the other side of the gate. That, oddly enough, looked sparkling new.
“I remember the old key code,” Maggie said. “Oneone-two-nine.” She used to wonder if November 29 would be a lucky day for her.
Dan tried it, but, predictably, nothing happened. “Let’s go around to the side entrances,” he suggested.
They started down the eastern perimeter of the property, moving along a narrow pathway between the stucco wall and a wild, ten-foot-high jungle of shrubbery, so thick that Dan had to hold branches back for them to pass. When they reached the side gate, that whole section was buried by oleander and hibiscus trees.
“If only we had a machete,” Maggie said, pulling back thick palm fronds to get closer. “See that row of bricks along the foundation of the wall? One of them, the third from the left, I think, wasn’t grouted in and Ramon hid a key there so he could get in after El Viejo locked up for the night. But I doubt it’s still there, or still works this gate.”
Dan tore at some of the branc
hes and ivy covering the large iron gate, testing it. “No keypad access here. Maybe all this shrubbery is enough to keep someone out.”
“Can you hold these branches back while I dig down there to look?” she asked.
He made an opening so that Maggie could get on her knees and work the bricks as she’d seen Ramon do. The third brick was loose in the grout.
“Got it.” With one good yank, she was able to slide the brick out, set it aside, then gingerly reached her hand into the hole.
And touched the edge of a key.
She rocked back on her heels and looked straight up at Dan. “This, my friend, is a sign from the universe.” She held the key up to him.
His grin, a little crooked, gave her a kick in the tummy.
“Nice work, Maggie May.”
And the old nickname pretty much left a boot mark on her heart. She could still hear his voice, whispering in her ear when they were alone and he slipped his hand under her shirt. Maggie May . . . then again, she may not.
“Let’s see if it still works,” he said, obviously not sidetracked by memories.
He helped her up and they headed to the gate, where he inserted the key. The latch unlocked with one turn, and he pushed the ten-foot-high gate open against the thick Florida crabgrass so they could slide in.
For a moment, they just stared in silent disbelief.
What used to be a spacious and gloriously landscaped expanse of prime Coral Gables real estate clearly hadn’t been pruned, cleared, or inhabited for a very long time.
Dan led them along the wall, away from the water, toward the main house. Untamed brush grew everywhere. The swimming pool, enclosed in shreds of dried, torn screening, was completely drained, cracked, and coated in mossy fungus.
At the far end of the property, near the water and tucked into a wall of protective shrubbery, there were a few grassy slopes. Viejo had carted in tons of dirt to build a miniature valley where he’d planned to grow coffee. The endeavor was a disaster; Miami didn’t have the climate or the soil. But the hills stayed, along with the tool shed the workers had erected. Their shed.
She didn’t look. Instead, she took in the brown patches of grass where sun had broken through the foliage and burned it, while other areas were jungle green and thick. The back of the three-story hacienda was in total disrepair—faded, chipped, with numerous barrels missing from the Spanish tile roof, and the ones left behind were shadowed with black mold. Every window was gray with filth, and closed tight.