Peach nudged the magazine closer as the waitress disappeared. She wasn’t listening to Skynyrd. The headphone was connected to a shotgun spy microphone and voice recorder hidden under the open pages. The microphone, pointed at a table nearest the white beach, amplified the conversation that Frank Macy was having with another man and two girls who didn’t look much older than Peach. Frank and his male friend had pints of Guinness in front of them. The girls didn’t look old enough to be drinking anything other than strawberry lemonade.

So far, they were talking about Cosmopolitan magazine and threesomes. Yuck.

Peach sipped her O’Doul’s. She didn’t drink, but she blended in readily enough at a beachside bar with a non-alcoholic beer in front of her. She’d taken her outfit from Harley Mannequin. Spiky black wig, streaked with red and blue. White Road Warrior tank top. Jean shorts with an oversized American Rebel belt buckle and fishnets down her legs. Black studded boots. She’d added thick blue eyeshadow, a nose ring, and a fake tattoo of chains and flames on her forearm.

The bar was half a block from Gulf Boulevard at the southern end of the peninsula between the Gulf and Tampa Bay. Steps away, waves roared over the sand, crashing in foam. The patio umbrellas rattled and flapped in the wind. So did the palm trees. There was no sun, only layer after layer of dark clouds. On the beach, surfers rode in on the swells, and teenage girls had their hair swirled into birds’ nests. The dust of blown sand coated everything, including her tongue.

‘One of my buddies has a place on the beach,’ Macy said. ‘I think we should take the party there.’

‘Does he have a hot tub?’ one of the girls asked.

‘Hey, it’s a zoning requirement to have a hot tub when you live on the beach. Didn’t you know that?’

His joke was greeted with giggles. Frank Macy was a hit with the young girls. Macy, sexy and suave, looked like a male model. Wavy hair, long and deliberately greasy. A plain white tee under an unbuttoned checked short-sleeve shirt. Red European pants. Weirdly smart, innocent eyes. His companion, who was Asian and had mostly avoided the conversation, was tougher and less sophisticated. Muscle shirt. Tattoos. Wild, ragged hair with a shaved railroad track.

‘I bet my colleague here can get us all happy and relaxed,’ Macy said.

The Asian man didn’t smile. He drank his beer, and his eyes were stone.

Peach spotted a familiar face near the entrance to the bar. Annalie Martine scanned the tables, eyeing the crowd, which was mostly swimmers with wet towels slung over the backs of the wooden chairs, and beach hipsters with dirty hair and chains. She hunted for Peach, but didn’t find her. Harley Mannequin had done her job.

Peach’s phone vibrated on the table. She saw a text message.