The company was Mirabella Property Development, a division of Kostler and Reinman, a high-end international German property management and development company. And this was one of their newest developments: Santuario del Sol—Sanctuary of the Sun. Twenty brightly colored detached luxury condos, each hidden from the others by ingenious man-made elevations, deceptive little switchbacks and dense tropical landscaping. There was a glorious clubhouse rising above all the condos, and for a five-figure fee, it could be reserved for engagement parties, wedding receptions, quinceañeras, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, wakes, family get-togethers and, one would assume, bacchanalian orgies—but bring your own lube. There was a guardhouse resembling a small-footprint whitewashed Spanish villa and, behind it, a ten-foot-high wrought-iron gate almost completely hidden by palm trees, tall grass and tropical ferns. The guardhouse, right next to the resident RF keycard stand, was manned 24-7 by two guards in simple black suits. There was one wide road in, the same road out. In the distance, a considerable cliff dropped to the roiling Pacific Ocean. There were no signs announcing the name or address of the place; if you had to ask what this place was, you clearly didn’t belong there.

Santuario del Sol. An exclusive development designed for aggressive anonymity.

It was where I would disappear with thirty million in someone else’s money.

On my third day, I had Remy slam on the brakes in front of the guardhouse.

I kicked open the rear passenger door and frantically unloaded two cases of Johnnie Walker Blue.

“Swear to God,” I said, laughing and dramatically pointing to Remy. “If you hadn’t come along, man, I’d really be in the shit! Okay, now! Bye-bye! Fucking lifesaver, this guy!” I handed Remy a bottle of the whisky. “Least I can do, compadre! Least I can do!”

“Excuse me,” one of the guards said in English as he approached me. “Señor? Sir? May I ask—”

“Oh, geez Louise,” I said, doing my best blustery American in paradise. “My rental broke down about—what?—four miles—kilometers?—from here. You guys use miles, right? Anyway, you wouldn’t expect a new Beemer to break down, right? German engineering and all that. Yeah, so, anyway, that taxi guy comes along and saves my bacon, I’ll tell you what! Sloane’s been waiting for his booze for an hour now!”

“Sloane?” the guard said. “Who is this Sloane?”

“Who’s Sloane?” I said. “He’s Sloane. Sloane! White guy! Balding! Looks like a million other slightly balding white guys in their forties! Jesus! Sloane!”

The guard’s eyes cut to the two cases of Johnnie Walker Blue.

Gotcha.

“Listen,” I said, moving close to him and dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know the guy. I’m just dropping his booze. That’s it. In and out, easy peasy. Motherfucker was half in the bag when he ordered it. I’m sure, you know, he won’t even know if a bottle—”