He slid out from the cover of the Dumpsters, scanning every visible inch of the house.

These guarded and gated communities were a joke. They had a snotty-faced twentysomething at the entrance and some idiot driving around in a golf cart who was probably jacking off in an empty lot right now. They had shrubbery right up against every window, dozens of easy-access sliding glass doors, alarms that were just as often turned off as they were on, and at least one out of every five left their doors unlocked.

Dix had actually locked the utility room door next to the garage; that was the most common one left open. So Con made a complete pass around the perimeter, looking in every window, checking out the pool, getting the lay of the land for a quick getaway.

He could get in this house six different ways, have the alarm disarmed in less than fifteen seconds, and get to the top ten most common hiding places in under five minutes.

If Gerry Dix had designed this house the way he had the one in the Hamptons, then there would be a vault built into a wine cellar that was invisible to a casual visitor, behind a locked door that Con could pick.

If Gerry didn’t want to think too hard when he was in his winter home, then his vault combination would be the same as it was up in the Hamptons, and Con had used one of his favorite tricks to get that combination-he’d left his video phone on the bar where the vault was hidden, politely excused himself while the client opened the vault, and recorded the number in his files when he got home.

The safe combination was Gerry’s home phone backward, so he’d had Avery text him Dix’s phone number in Vero, and sent up a silent prayer that Gerry was unimaginative and lazy.

Because if he was, this would be a very easy job.

He returned to the utility room door, always an easy one to crack and guaranteed to have an alarm pad within two feet of it, but there was a dead bolt across it and he didn’t have time to remove it. He lightly jostled the door, enough to alert a dog.

All was silent.

The back slider would probably be easiest. These kinds of homes never installed a security bar on the sliders. Undersized apartments with nothing of value but a laptop inside? Bars all over the place.

The family room slider was locked, but the diningroom door wasn’t, which didn’t surprise Con at all. Still, there would be an alarm. He peered in, but couldn’t see the digital flash of an alarm pad anywhere. He’d have to move fast, straight to the utility room near the garage.

He slid the glass soundlessly, just enough to lean his head in and listen. If anyone lived, breathed, or walked in this house, he’d hear it.

Silence. A clock ticking. The rhythmic tap of an overhead paddle fan. Meaning Gerry hadn’t left town, just the house.

Inside, he moved stealthily toward the kitchen, rounding it to the utility room he’d tried to open before. The keypad was right at the door, flashing red. Armed.

He had a few special tools in his backpack, but all he needed for this was a screwdriver and flashlight. He slipped a flathead out, popped the cover off the pad, and shined his light on the rubber numbers. Only two were slightly depressed, the six and the two. Damn. Most people used four numbers for their alarm, so one or both of these were used twice. He had about five seconds left.

Most people used four numbers, but many people used their address, especially for second homes. He pressed 6-6-2 and the light turned green.

One barrier down.

Outside the utility room, he scanned the layout of the first floor. A huge curved staircase with a wroughtiron rail ran up the center with a living room and dining room on either side. He guessed the office was the only other front room.

No basements in Florida, so a bar or wine closet was usually off the family room. He headed that way, taking in the details of standard high-end décor and slightly musty smell of a house that was barely lived in.

If Dix didn’t have a vault in his wine cellar here, then he’d check the master closet or the office for a safe.

The family room was sports themed, with multiple TV screens and a full bar with stools. No sign of an entrance to a wine vault. Con walked around the bar to a door he suspected was a storage closet, opened it and found… another door. Metal and bolted.

No need to be neat, since Gerry would know he was robbed ten minutes after he got home. With luck and timing, Con would be long gone from St. Richard’s Island by then.

He brought out his gun and fired once, destroying the lock. Behind the door was a floor-to-ceiling safe with a combination lock.

Taking out his phone, he clicked on the text with Gerry’s phone number and tried a combination, spinning the wheel easily. Click. Click. Click.

Three cheers for creatures of habit. He opened the walk-in safe, flashed his beam of light, and swore.

There must have been thirty small jewelry cases. Evidently Gerry liked more than just religious artifacts. Kneeling down, he started snapping open the cases, just as his phone vibrated with the warning from Lizzie.

He flipped open two, then heard the rumble of the garage door.

Shit. He had less than three minutes. Two more boxes, one empty, one full of diamonds.

But no Our Lady of Sorrows medallion. The sound of the garage door closing was like trumpets of warning in his ears. He really did not want to come face-to-face with Gerry Dix.

He scooped up the remaining boxes, pouring them into a makeshift apron of his T-shirt, and, kicking both doors closed just to buy himself a little more time, bolted toward the slider he’d left open. He didn’t bother to reset the alarm, because Gerry had to know by now that it wasn’t set.

Just as the kitchen door from the garage opened, Con eased through the slider door and flattened himself against the wall long enough to hear which direction Dix was headed.

To the safe, of course. Probably with a gun in hand, since he saw his alarm had been disarmed.

Holding the boxes in his T-shirt, he ran across the expanse of the pool deck, through the next yard, around the house under construction, straight to the Dumpsters.

“I heard a gunshot!” Lizzie whispered when he got there. “Oh my God, how much did you steal?”

“It’s in one of these.” He let go of his shirt, and the leather and velvet jewelry cases tumbled to the ground.

Instantly, they were on the ground, opening.

“Holy crap,” she exclaimed at a million-dollar necklace.

“Don’t get attached, Lizzie, just open. And don’t let anything fall on the ground.”

On his third try, he had it. “Here it is. Turn around and let me put this in the backpack.”

She did, and he tucked the box safely in the pack she wore.

“What about this other stuff, Con? Are we going to just leave it here?”

Ripping off his T-shirt, Con swept all the boxes into it and wrapped it up like a makeshift pouch. “Get on the bike, Lizzie. I’ll drive.”

“You’re keeping all that? Con, you can’t!”

“Get on the bike, Lizzie, fast!” He hopped on in front of her, the sack of boxes dangling in his left hand, his right turning the key and thumbing the starter button. The bike roared to life. The second he felt her thighs around his and her arms grab hold of him, he rumbled to the road, straight for Dix’s house.

Just as they reached the front, the security lights exploded and every house light glowed simultaneously, bathing them in brightness. Con slowed down just enough to hoist the bag and get some muscle behind his throw, when the front door opened and a rifle aimed right at his head.

Damn. If he was killed the first time he didn’t steal, he’d be pissed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dix hollered, lowering the rifle a fraction.

“Returning what I don’t want.” He tossed the shirt.