Even with all the technology at their disposal, it was sheer unadulterated shoe leather that had finally broken the logjam.

They had taken screenshots of their pesky unsub off the MTA closed-circuit system in New York City and had them sent to their team of agents still down in the islands.

Their agent on Eleuthera had just lost hope when a guy in a bar said he knew the man in their picture, had fished with him. The agent had asked him where they had fished. The man had said they had gone marlin fishing in the Atlantic falloff thirty miles out north of Little Abaco.

It was this Gannon who had found the money. Reyland was sure of it. Gannon had come across the plane and had taken the money. Since he was a diving instructor, he had probably even dived down for more loot and had seen the director dead in the plane.

Which was the reason why, like Everett, he had apparently come up to NYC to talk to that puke, Wheldon, to blow the whistle about it.

Oddly, Gannon was an Irish national. Or at least he had used an Irish passport when he flew into the States from Eleuthera Island. He had flown to Tampa and then to Phoenix, of all places, and then on to New York City.

But besides that, all they knew about Gannon apparently was his name, address and boat. He had no social network presence. No credit cards at any major banks.

They had even hacked the Irish government records to see if there was any clue to his origins, but no dice. Not only was the Irish database a primitive, disorganized nightmare, there were actually thirty-seven bog-trotting Irish Michael Gannons running about in the world.

No matter, Reyland thought. He and his team were now on the way to Eleuthera right now. When they got there, they would go to Gannon’s house and hopefully find him there with his pants down. If not, they would tear his place apart and find out everything they could about him. Pick up his computers, any physical files he had.

Who knows? Reyland thought pleasantly. In their search, maybe they might even come up with the items the man had stolen.

Done shaving, Reyland let the warm water out and turned on the cold and splashed some on his face. When he glanced up, the electronic in-flight display board to the right of the mirror said that they would be arriving at Nassau in forty-seven minutes.

He patted at his face and neck with a fluffy cream-colored towel that smelled like a scented candle. As he did this, the ETA on the screen suddenly changed to forty-one minutes.

How do you like that? Reyland thought, smiling. They were making even better time now. Things were coming up rosy all fricking over.

72

Coming on 3:00 a.m., Sergeant Jeremy was out at the Coral Castle Resort in Charles Bay.

He was sitting in its lobby, and beyond the arched opening in front of him he could see the bartender turning off the lights of the straw hut bar beside the elaborately lit pool. To his left on the bench beside him sat a man. He was a large white man with a bad sunburn and a prodigious gut that protruded through the curtain-like gap of his unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. The man’s eyes were closed, and he was sweating profusely.