“Huh?” Oscar looked from Joe to Vikki. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Oscar,” Joe said, his voice quiet and deadly calm. “You need to go away. Right now.”

“Oh. Okay. Never mind.” The old man started to scuttle back toward the water, but Evan reached out and grabbed him by the elbow.

“Oww,” Oscar complained. “That hurts. Hey Joe, who is this guy? Don’t he know you’re a cop?”

Evan grasped Oscar by his right shoulder, twisted his arm behind his back, and shoved him in front of himself, like a frail, shivering human shield.

“Where’s my kid?” he demanded.

Joe had worked his gun out of his waistband and was pointing it directly at Wingfield.

“Let him go, Wingfield. And I’ll take you to Maya.”

“You’ll take me to her anyway, or I’ll break his fucking neck.” He glanced over at Vikki Hill, who’d taken two steps closer and had now drawn her Glock.

Wingfield shook his head as a warning and twisted Oscar’s arm so viciously he cried out in pain.

“Back away, Vikki. I just want my kid. That’s all. Take me to her. Now.”

Joe locked eyes with the FBI agent. She raised one shoulder in a helpless gesture and pointed at one of the blue-and-white-striped tents two hundred yards away.

“She’s over there, in that cabana.”

“By herself?”

“No.” Vikki hesitated. “Letty’s with her.”

“Give me your gun,” Wingfield ordered. He wrapped one arm tightly around Oscar’s neck. “Do it now, or I’ll snap this old bastard in half.”

“How do you think this is going to end?” Vikki countered. She nodded at DeCurtis. “Just to be very clear, this is Detective Joe DeCurtis. Not a real contract killer.”

“But the gun’s real,” Joe said. “Let go of Oscar, or I’ll use it.”

“Don’t think so,” Wingfield said. He drove his elbow up and into Oscar’s throat and the old man gurgled, his eyes rolling up in his head in terror.

“Take me to my daughter. Now.”

Vikki sighed heavily. “Enough already.” She pointed the Glock at Evan Wingfield’s black suede Belgian loafer and fired a single shot.

Wingfield shrieked in pain and dropped to the sand.

Oscar Jensen stood looking down at the wounded man in disbelief. His throat was red and abraded. “Holy shit. You shot the guy.”

Wingfield was rolling around in the sand, clutching his foot in both hands, his face contorted in rage. “You bitch!” he cried.

Vikki knelt down and easily subdued Wingfield with one knee to his chest. She reached into the pocket of her jeans and brought out a set of plastic zip ties, fastening them around the wounded man’s wrists, just a little tighter than was absolutely necessary.

“Evan Wingfield, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, murder for hire, racketeering, bank fraud, bribery, and income-tax evasion.”