wanted the details explaining why he was hanging around that condo and doing nothing. Not that his stay in paradise was any kind of hardship. A beach bum existence was right up his alley, not exactly hell on earth by any stretch of the imagination. Sanibel Island was beautiful, and better yet, it was peaceful and quiet. Now the lights of Fort Myers Beach sparkled across the dark bay, the big luxury high-rise condos and hotels full of tourists. Restaurants over there would be packed with hungry visitors lingering over fresh seafood and imbibing fancy cocktails.
Novak usually ran at night when he was away on assignment. When he was at home in the bayous of Louisiana, he worked out at dawn, on a specific course he’d laid out to increase his speed and strengthen his endurance. Novak was a big guy, six feet six inches, and weighed 240 pounds. His large size should have affected his ability to react to provocation, but he had worked diligently to overcome that problem and now could surprise opponents by how fast he could move. He couldn’t always sustain the quickness, but usually it didn’t have to last long to put another man down. It had done him well in many a barroom brawl.
Here he had no reason to tangle with anybody because he spent all day watching for the woman to appear. It was a good gig, he supposed, sitting around on the sand or in his private screened lanai, relaxing, and waiting for something to pop. No such luck thus far. In a nutshell, he was bored. All was quiet, all the time. The other guests looked to be typical tourists doing absolutely nothing unusual or criminal, just nice normal people enjoying hard-earned vacations, so good for them.
Tonight he was ready to hit the sack. He had run longer than he’d meant to, crossing the Sanibel Causeway and jogging down McGregor Boulevard on a circuitous route to Fort Myers Beach and the marina where he’d docked his sailboat. He liked to check it out every day or so. His boat, a Jeanneau Sun Odyssey 379 that he’d had factory-built to accommodate his large frame, was his prized possession. His boat was sleek and fast, a beautiful forty-footer that was comfortable when he sailed south into the Caribbean Sea. He had wanted a big bed he could actually stretch out in.
The Sweet Sarah was secured at a berth in the biggest marina he could find because he liked the anonymity of being lost inside a forest of masts, just in case any past enemies were still thinking of exacting payback. It happened now and then, since he had made life miserable for a lot of bad guys, both as an NYPD cop and as a Navy SEAL and now as a private investigator. For obvious reasons, he made a habit of watching his back. Things had looked good over there, his sailboat shining from the scrubbing he’d given her a few days ago and battened down tight. He would have preferred to stay aboard the boat, but Claire didn’t do things on a whim. She had a good reason for him to hole up at Ocean’s Edge. He just didn’t know what it was.
When Claire had left the message, he had already been in Florida waters, which saved time. He’d been anchored up north at Clearwater Beach, where he had been restocking supplies after spending an enjoyable month at sea with Lori Garner. Unfortunately for him, Lori had been called to New Orleans by some family thing and had boarded a plane home in Tampa. He’d met Lori on a job that brought down a corrupt state judge in Galveston, Texas. She’d endured some bad things there, including taking a bullet, but their weeks spent out on the drink had healed that wound. It had been good for him, too.
Lori had promised to rejoin him soon, but Novak wasn’t counting on it. He hoped she would. She was younger than him, and it had taken some time getting used to her slangy banter and fierce independence. She was a bit abrasive at times, but somehow that had a way of calming him down. They ended up as lovers out there alone in the vast sea, something he hadn’t minded one bit. In fact, he missed her more than he thought he would.
Now he was on his own again, working a case he knew nothing about. The woman he was after was a Guatemalan national. Alcina Castillo was young, barely in her twenties, pretty, dark eyed, and dark haired. Claire was holding her cards close to the vest this time, which was unlike her. He didn’t like being kept in the dark much, but maybe Claire didn’t know the particulars yet. Perhaps this Alcina woman was supposed to fill them in. He wished to hell somebody would.
By the time he made it to back to the condo, the exterior night-lights lit up the place as bright as day, too bright for people trying to sleep. It was a good thing they turned them off at a reasonable hour. Looking forward to a hot shower and grabbing a bite to eat, all Novak wanted was a good night’s sleep with the windows thrown wide so the sound of the pounding surf would soothe him. He was ready to get home to Bonne Terre, the old plantation he had inherited on the day he was born. There was plenty of work he could have been doing on his dilapidated mansion, instead of sitting around here and waiting for something to pop.
Dark and rolling and eternal, the ocean crashed to shore on his right. The breakers were wild and loud, pushed inland by a storm he could see out at sea. The waves curled and crested in pale ghostly lines that stretched down the beach. He slowed when he hit the condo and walked past the four buildings to the nature preserve on the far side. Everything looked peaceful. Nobody was in sight, nothing out of the ordinary, just like every other night when he’d come home from his run. He turned to face the cool ocean breeze and tasted the salt in the air as he sat on the wood bridge that led into the pitch-black, tangled preserve. He sat alone there and let his pulse slow to normal.
A wide strip of small white shells reached out in both directions on the beach. Sanibel Island was world renowned when it came to seashells; at least that’s what he’d been told. Storms like the one tonight brought in treasure troves in every hue and shape and color, dredged up from their resting place on the outer shelf that protected the coast. Novak could see flashes of lightning forking down out of backlit clouds to strike the sea.
The Ocean’s Edge complex still glowed under soft yellow—infused spotlights on the tan stucco walls. The condo was old but recently refurbished; he liked the 1950s feel of it and the thick walls and private porches. One could walk a matter of feet out its breezeways and wade into the shallows. It was a homey place, and employees were courteous and helpful. It hadn’t taken long to figure out which residents were full-time and who was visiting for a week or two. Truth be told, he had settled in with a pair of binoculars and spied on all of his unsuspecting neighbors.
Mopping sweat off his face and torso with his forearm, he relaxed there. After letting his body cool down a bit, he kicked off his Nikes and waded out into the surf. He swam about thirty yards out, well past the breakers, and then floated out there on his back, relaxing his muscles and staring at the stars as incoming waves pushed him back to shore. When his feet touched sand, he walked out and sat back down on the bridge.
Novak felt good sitting there alone. He liked the dark and the solitude, and he hadn’t had enough of it for the last month. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed Lori’s company; he had. He hoped she might be waiting at Bonne Terre when he got home. He rarely invited anybody to his plantation—never, actually. He liked her, and they fit together well. She was a former military cop and a trained Army sniper. He liked that about her, too. They understood each other and what had to be done.
When he heard a distant shout, he turned and looked up the beach. He could just barely make out three people, maybe thirty yards away. Nobody else was in sight. In the residual yellow glow that didn’t quite light the sand, he could see a big guy heading out toward the water. Problem was, he was dragging what looked like a kid with him. The boy looked young, maybe twelve, maybe even younger. He was no match for the man or his long, angry strides. When the boy fell to his knees, the man just dragged him while the boy attempted to regain his feet. The other person was a woman trying her level best to stop what was going on. She looked even smaller than the kid. They had come out of the first condo building, but Novak didn’t recognize them from his surveillance. What it looked like to Novak was a case of domestic violence. The woman grabbed the back of the man’s shirt and dug in her heels in a fruitless effort to slow him down. That’s when he stopped, spun on her, and shoved her hard enough to put her on her back in the sand.
Novak tensed up. He didn’t
