Marty said, “And he wore a different suit every day?”

“Sometimes two; one to work and one to go out at night. The man loves his clothes.” I watched Marty poke around the closet; then I said, “Go ahead, take a couple of sports jackets. He’ll never notice. Take anything you want. Brennan might be a little taller than you, but you’re about the same size. I’m telling you, that asshole will never miss them.”

Then I noticed Marty pulling a box from a shelf at the end of the closet and holding it up to show me. It was the box that our matched set of Walther PPK pistols had come in. Brennan’s blue steel pistol was still in the box, surrounded by foam padding; an empty space in the shape of a pistol showed where mine used to reside. Now it was safe in the nightstand in my hotel room.

I didn’t say anything when Marty pulled the gun from the box and checked to make sure there were cartridges in the magazine. He looked at me for any sign of disapproval, and when I gave none, he slipped the gun into the pocket of his shorts. You couldn’t even notice it.

He put the box back right where he’d found it. I knew it would take Brennan months to find out it was empty. Even if he decided to go shooting, he had other guns and might assume he’d stuck the PPK somewhere else. Things like that didn’t bother Brennan.

As we slipped out of the house and locked the patio door behind us, I realized I was about to walk down the beach with a man who had just stolen a gun and was carrying it illegally in public in one of the wealthiest cities in America.

This was an exciting game.

Chapter 22

Marty had a maniacal grin when he turned to me, raised his eyebrows, and said, “This is the big one. You ready for it?” He looked perfect, framed by the rail and the overhang where we were sitting. The sun was just over his head with the Gulfstream Park racetrack behind him.

He held a handful of tickets for the third race and threw in a cartoon madman’s laugh. Who wouldn’t smile at an act like that? He looked cute, dressed casually in a polo shirt and jeans. This was just another one of his surprises, and I had never been to a horse-racing track before.

Marty knew I loved horses but had been avoiding the polo fields of Wellington because I didn’t want to risk running into Brennan. I had casually mentioned it the evening before as we shared a bottle of wine on the beach. That was when he’d come up with this perfect alternative. We’d left this morning for the track in Hallandale Beach. It was a nice ride, about an hour away, and on a weekday, the place wasn’t too crowded. The hot dogs were good and the beer was cold. Marty had managed to sweep me off my feet once again.