“So who did it?”

“No shortcuts,” Quinn said. “You find the evidence and bring it to me…then I’ll tell you. Shall we put it to a vote?”

“I’m in,” says Kate. “We either bring her home safe or give her a proper burial.”

“Sure,” says Theo. “I could stand a little island action.”

“Absolutely,” adds Otto through a mouthful of omelet.

“You wouldn’t have brought this case to us without good reason,” Jana says. “Let’s do it.”

“Actually, I don’t think we should take this one,” Quinn says. “But it’s four to one, so consider us officially engaged.”

The rest of them stare at Quinn, trying hard not to express their surprise. Their boss can be mercurial, but they’ve all learned it’s better to just roll with it. You don’t play chess with Matthew Quinn. You play five games of chess simultaneously, and you just have to accept that you won’t be able to see all of the pieces (or the boards, for that matter).

Instead of ruminating further, they simply eat the breakfast he prepared for them.

“What about your omelet?” Jana asks.

“I ate earlier,” Quinn says, pulling a file folder from the side of the omelet station. “Now here’s the plan.…”

Chapter 3

THEO (THE TRADER)

The flight down to Turks and Caicos is smooth as can be expected, and within minutes of clearing the gate I have a drink in my hand. (Which is kind of awesome, actually.) The sun is shining, the freezing snows of Boston are just a memory, and I’m carrying a bag full of bait that will hopefully catch a killer. What better way to spend a Sunday evening?

My target is the lifeguard—one Paolo Salese. The first one to dance with Paige Ryerson.

I’m looking forward to a spin around the dance floor with him, too.

A private car takes me to one of those sprawling resorts north of Grace Bay Road. This is where Paige Ryerson and her girlfriends stayed, and this is where Paolo works during the day, guarding the Olympic-sized pool. Usually, I’d expect him to be on the prowl at one of the five bars on the property. Most likely, the watering hole with the greatest percentage of underage ladies.

But not tonight.

Tonight there’s some serious global heat on Paolo the Playboy, so he’s probably going to fade into the background like a local. Takes me a few drives (and a few fat tips), but somewhere around 9:00 p.m., I find his location: a glorified shack bar not far from the beach, but far from the path that tourists care to wander. It’s the kind of place where the bar top can be lifted off its moorings and hidden away come daylight. The kind of place where guys like me (in a suit) aren’t usually welcome.

Like I give a damn.

Paolo’s hunkered over a shot of something brown and a cheap island beer. Guessing by the sticky rings on the wood beneath his arms, he’s had more than a few.