“I know,” said Andy. “But what’s done is done.”

“Not as long as I’m alive,” said Serge.

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t let you do this.” Serge checked the contents of his wallet. “We’re going to get them back right now. I’ll spot you, though I doubt I’ll see any of it again. But that’s how I roll.”

They went downstairs and drove out of the parking lot.

A Delta 88 pulled in.

Chapter Thirty

LUCKY’S PAWNSHOP

Ting-a-ling.

A pack of students entered.

The owner looked up from his racing form. “Back so soon?”

“I want to buy their class rings,” said Serge.

“No problem.” The owner hoisted a metal pail onto the counter. “They should be somewhere near the top. But you understand there’ll have to be a modest surcharge. I got rent.”

“Of course.” Serge turned to the students. “Go get ’em.”

The kids dug through rings from all years and states. The owner set two velvet display trays beside the bucket. “Some also might be here.”

“I found mine!” A ring slipped on a finger.

“Me, too…”

“There it is…”

Soon, all hands had jewelry again. Except one.

Andy McKenna scanned velvet slots.

“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.

“Can’t find mine.”

“Oh, just remembered,” said the owner. “What school do you go to?”

“New Hampshire.”

“That’s right. Guy bought it.”

“When?” asked Serge.

“Just before you came in.”

Serge placed a consoling hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Very sorry.”

“I’ll live.”

“You might still get it back,” said the owner. “How’s that?” asked Serge.

The owner turned to Andy. “Your name was engraved inside the band, right?”

Andy nodded.

“Man said he was an investor. Selling rings back to parents of kids who, well, spring break happens.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Serge.

“Who knows?” said the owner. “Guy went to the same college.”

“UNH?” asked Andy.

“Real nice gent.” The owner put a pail back against the wall. “Told him where you were staying.”

“Why?”

“He asked.”

“That’s weird,” said Serge.

“Got the feeling it was a school pride thing,” said the owner. “Told me he wanted to catch up with the new class, maybe even give it back to you for free.”

“But how’d you know where we were staying?”

“You told me, remember? No reservations.” The owner slid velvet trays under the counter. “Man, these rings sure are getting popular.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Serge.

“A second guy was in here. Showed me a badge.”

“Cop?”

“Latin name, Ramirez or something.”

“What did he want?”

“Same as the other guy. I told him you kids were staying at the Algiers.”

“We’re at the Dunes,” said Andy.

“Whoops,” said the owner. “Well, I guess he’ll be coming back. At least I told the first guy the right place.”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Another family meeting.

Prospect reports covered the cedar table in a stucco house south of Miami.

Guillermo thought-but didn’t say out loud-“Has it really been six months already?”

“This one,” said Luis. “Likes to sample product… Everything in Bimini on track?”

“Like glass,” said Hector. “Wiring explosives into the fake shipment as we speak.”

Sixty miles away, Sarah Sheets puttered around the house. Her husband checked the mailbox. More medical bills. So what? He sat at the kitchen table and made out checks.

Sarah packed sandwiches. “Can’t believe the insurance company just reversed their decision.”

“Guess when I mentioned suing…” Randall licked a postage stamp. “Lawyers must cost more than doctors these days.”

She gave him a lunch box and a kiss at the front door. “When do you think you’ll be home?”

“Late. Got a full schedule of students today.”

“Again?”

“Told you not to worry. Everything eventually works out.”

Randall drove across southern Palm Beach County, out past the turnpike and through the gate of an empty airfield. He pulled a tarp off his Cessna. Preflight checklist. Everything in order. He looked up at a clear sky and a deflated wind sock. Perfect day to fly.

Randall climbed inside, put on his headset and radioed the flight plan to Bimini.

A propeller churned to life. The plane taxied a short distance and rotated in place at the end of the strip. One last survey of instruments. He pushed a lever forward. The prop increased to a high whine. The Cessna started down the runway. It quickly gathered speed, approaching takeoff velocity.

Randall was monitoring an oil pressure gauge and didn’t notice the tight formation of sedans race through the gate. He looked up at a dust trail speeding toward the runway at a ninety-degree angle.

“God!”

The first cars screeched to a stop, blocking takeoff. Randall jerked the throttle back, almost breaking the lever. “Please, please, please…”

The Cessna began to skid, bleeding off speed. But not fast enough. Cars filled his vision.

“Come on! Come on!…”

Fifty miles an hour, forty-five, forty… The plane fishtailed. Agents scattered.

Thirty, twenty-five, twenty… The aircraft spun sideways and slammed into a pair of Crown Vics. A prop blade snapped and landed a hundred yards away in a field.

Grogginess. Randall pushed himself up from the controls and removed a headset that had shifted around and covered his eyes. He looked out to see the plane surrounded, dark sunglasses, guns drawn. The next sequence happened in a blink from academy training.

His pilot door flew open. No fewer than six hands grabbed Randall and threw him facedown on the tarmac. Arms twisted behind his back. Cuffs. Then he was yanked roughly to his feet before another hand pushed his head down, shoving him into the back of an undamaged car. What was left of the convoy sped off.

THE PRESENT

A Delta 88 sat below one of the strip’s many half-burnt-out neon signs. A camel on a sand dune. When it came on at night, the camel winked.

Guillermo winked at the plump receptionist in a hairnet. “Hoping you can help me.”

“Sorry, we’re sold out.”

Like many mom-and-pops, the Dunes hadn’t been updated since the fifties. Original wooden mail slots behind the desk and real metal keys on numbered plastic fobs.

“I don’t need a room,” said Guillermo.

“Then how can I help you?”

He reached in his pocket. “Found this ring in the parking lot. You have an ‘A. McKenna’ staying here?”

She checked paper files. “Yes, we do.”

“Great. What room?”

“Can’t give that out.”

“Understand.” He looked over her shoulder at numbered mail slots. “Just want to make certain he gets this back.”

“I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“Don’t want it to get stolen or anything.”

“It’s okay. Everyone who works here is family.”

“I have a business like that, too.”

He handed over the ring. She was on the short side and dragged a footstool, then climbed two steps and reached for slot 24. “Want me to leave a note with it?”

She turned back around. The door to the empty office was closing.