The Water Keeper(80)

I judged him to be about five feet ten inches. I glanced up.

I stood on the chair, slid the tile back, and scanned the area above the tiles, where they met the wall. Lying on the framing sat two Sig Sauer handguns and one AR-15. I knew I was pressing my luck, but I quickly slid the pushpin that held the upper pinned to the lower of the AR-15, slid the bolt back, removed it from the upper, pulled out the bolt, removed the small cotter pin that held the firing pin, and slid out the firing pin. Then I reassembled the rifle. I quickly rendered each Sig equally useless. The only way to know I’d altered any of the three was to disassemble them and look for the firing pin or attempt to fire—which no one would do.

I scratched my head. There had to be more to this guy. He was too slick. Too little footprint. Too few electronics. He struck me as more old school. A pad and paper kind of guy. My eyes landed on the shopping list taped to the fridge. Same handwriting. It contained fourteen items. Three of which had been crossed off the list: vanilla, ramen noodles, and soy sauce. That left eleven: butter, olive oil, salsa, milk, curry, cumin, mint, salt and pepper, chocolate cheesecake, cayenne, and angel food cake. None of which was in his kitchen. And yet next to each of the remaining eleven were check marks. Some of the items had two or three checks marks. Some had nine or ten. Chocolate cheesecake had nineteen. Angel food cake had twenty-seven.

I read the word Angel over and over. Then I looked at this sparse apartment. That Carrera. Those guns. Everything around me was a cover. When it hit me, I spoke it out loud. “This guy is a broker.” The list caught my eye again. “He’s selling people.” I studied the names again. My guess was that the check marks represented buyers or bids or both—a growing price tag. No doubt he was conducting the business end of these transactions on a computer. A phone. Something that allowed bids and transfers with no footprint. But a guy his age, a guy who’d learned to think and calculate before smartphones and black webs, had a way of doing things that was ingrained through practice and education. I was betting that way of thinking had to do with writing it down where he could see it. At the bottom of the list, I saw: “Takeout recipe: Loggerhead soup. Serves 11. Pickup only.” But there was no recipe.

I had a feeling there was more to it, but it was too cryptic.

Before I exited his apartment, I studied the walkway. I wanted to know if he was watching for me while I watched for him. Three minutes suggested I was alone. I closed the door behind me, flipped his breaker back on, and found Summer and Clay poolside.

“Where’s Ellie?”

Clay extended an envelope. “She said to give you this.”

The letter read, “Thanks for trying. You’re probably a good man.”

I flipped the letter over. “That’s all she said?”

He extended my Rolex. “She also said to give you this.”

Something in my heart hurt. Giving back my Rolex rang of finality. “You know where she went?”

He shook his head. “Wouldn’t say.”

An airplane lifted off out of Key West International. Flying northwest. I turned to Summer. “She say anything to you?”

Summer shook her head and stood up. “No, but I’m going with you.”

“How do you know I’m going somewhere?”

“You have that look in your eye.”

I turned slightly. I didn’t want her mother’s intuition to read my face and know there was something I wasn’t telling her. And I wasn’t about to tell her that her date was the broker who had sold her daughter. At least not on this side of the date.

The Uber driver dropped us off on the curb at check-in. We walked inside and didn’t have to look hard. Ellie sat in a chair studying departure signs. Reading the destinations out loud. Gunner sniffed her out and started licking her hands. I sat next to her. “You found one that looks good?”

She seemed surprised to see me. “I gave Clay your watch.”

I lifted my wrist.

“I didn’t steal anything from the hotel.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“’Cept maybe one towel.”

I waited.

“Okay”—she motioned to her backpack—“I took the robe too, but—”

We sat reading departure signs. Somewhere Jimmy Buffet played. She was turning the ring we found in the safety deposit box on her finger. Finally, she turned to me. Her face was angular. Hard. “No such thing as Sisters of Mercy. Least not anymore.” She turned her head, looking away. “Guess they ran out of mercy. Who closes a convent? Like, what, is God . . . closed?”

I let her vent.

She wasn’t sure what to do with the silence, so she started talking again. “I don’t know why you’re here. You don’t owe me nothing, okay? You did your thing. You’re a stand-up guy and all that.” She motioned to Summer. “I realize you two have your hands full right now. I am just filling space in the boat.”

I waved at the signs. “Do you have a plane to catch?”

“Well, not yet—”

“Can I show you something?”

“What? Now?”

“If you really want to fly out, I’ll bring you back, buy you a ticket, send you wherever you like. Even give you some money for your trip. But this is something you need to see.”

She looked at Summer. Gunner had settled at her feet and rolled over on his back. Tongue hanging. Waiting.