Wingfield was dressed in an open-collared pale blue dress shirt with French cuffs, black designer jeans that probably cost more than Vikki Hill’s first car, and black suede loafers. Mirrored aviator glasses pushed up into his carefully coiffed hair. Like he was headed for a weekend in Palm Beach instead of paying off a hit man and picking up his kidnapped daughter. He had a leather carry-on bag on his shoulder. Gucci? Prada? Vikki had never been good with designer names.

She tapped the horn as he emerged from baggage claim. He looked around, spotted her, and headed for the rental.

Wingfield opened the passenger door and slid into the front seat.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

He kept the carry-on at his feet, which made Vikki tense.

“I’ve had worse. How’s Maya?”

“You wanna know the truth? She’s kinda whiny. I mean, I get that her mom and her aunt are gone, but it’s been a couple days now. You’d think she’d settle down, but not so much. You wanna put your carry-on in the back seat?”

He patted the bag like it was a dog. “I’m good. Back in New York, Maya was seeing some bullshit therapist Tanya insisted on. Before all this happened. Once I get her home, Juliette, that’s my fiancée, thinks she’ll adjust. We’ll put her in a good private school. Juliette has already put in applications at Brearley and Chapin. She can make some little friends. The kid just needs normal, you know? Her mom was a whack job, which was part of the problem. Always half drunk or hopped up on pills.”

Vikki had to bite her tongue to keep from pointing out that it was always the mother’s fault. She pulled the car into traffic and headed for the airport exit, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. Garcia told her he’d be driving a silver Volvo sedan.

Wingfield kneaded his forehead with his right hand and looked moodily out the side window.

“Something wrong?” she asked, keeping her eye on the side rearview mirror. She felt a tiny spark of relief when she spotted the Volvo two cars back.

“Headache. That coffee they served on the flight was for shit. You’d think they could figure out how to brew a decent espresso for what they’re charging in first class. How about stopping at a Starbucks? My treat.”

“Oh wow. You’d spring for a grande? For me? Big spender.”

He shot her a sour look. “You’re a real smart-ass, you know that? No wonder you’re not married.”