“With a breach that severe, an example must be made,” Lucas said. “Which isn’t to say that the gang wouldn’t be able to find someone willing to risk it for a high enough reward. We’re already searching for Juan Ortega, who may have committed treason, acting under someone else’s authority and killing Bianca. But no single person outside the family would have enough clearance to bypass all the security required to access the executive level after hours. Finding enough people willing to take that risk?” He shook his head. “That, even I would admit, does approach impossible. Still, I’ll notify my father.”

He picked up the other two sketches. “As for these, they appear to be house plans, though I don’t recognize either. This one could be a high-ranking Cabal employee, given the size. The other looks like an apartment. I should fax them to my father.” He glanced at Paige. “Is there a fax in the building?”

“I didn’t see one. The front desk would probably do it. Or if you want privacy, there should be a twenty-four-hour print shop somewhere nearby.”

She was reaching for the phone book when he said, “It would be easier to drop them off,” and picked up his cell phone again.

I anticipated a strained conversation—business-like at best—but it sounded like any son talking to his father. Lucas explained what we had, asked about dropping by and Benicio seemed to readily agree. Then Lucas glanced at Karl, who didn’t pretend he couldn’t hear the other side of the discussion, and shook his head.

“They’ve had a very taxing day, Papá,” Lucas said. “They want to get back—”

Pause.

“Yes, perhaps it would but—”

Another pause, then he covered the receiver. “My father would like you and Hope to accompany us. He wants to ask you about the plans directly.”

Karl hesitated.

“Once that’s done, your part will be over,” Lucas said. “You can head to the airport from there if you like.”

Karl nodded.

WE TOOK SEPARATE cars. Karl had no intention of hanging around any longer than he had to. The moment we were done, we’d be heading to the airport.

Benicio lived on Key Biscayne, a secluded island south of Miami Beach, accessible only by a long toll causeway that had Karl muttering, looking in his rearview mirror as if trying to judge how far we were from the airport. It wouldn’t be more than a thirty-minute drive, but the closer we drew to the island, the more distant Miami seemed. The island was gorgeous, heavily wooded with white-sand beaches glittering under the remains of a perfect sunset.