ETECTIVECHILDRESS TOSSED his suitcase onto one of the beds in room 102 at the Enclave. “Did you see that damned bellboy trying to arm-wrestle me for my suitcase?”

“He was hoping for a ten-dollar tip,” MacNeil replied as he pulled a lightweight laptop computer out of his own suitcase.

“You know what pisses me off about being here?” When MacNeil didn’t reply, Childress explained, “We’re surrounded by gorgeous women who are prancing around in string bikinis, and we look like we’re a pair of fags.”

MacNeil glanced up at his partner, whose desire to look like an ordinary tourist had translated into a pair of Bermuda shorts, a T-shirt with the words St. Maarten intertwined among palm trees, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a camera slung around his neck. “It’s your Bermuda shorts,” MacNeil said.

Childress’s thoughts had already skipped on to other issues. “I don’t like being this ‘up close and personal’ when I’m working surveillance. It triples the probabilities of Wyatt spotting us.” As he spoke, he wandered over to the door and studied the room rates posted there. “One night in this place costs more than the down payment on my last car. The DA is going to have a coronary when the bill for this place comes in.”

“I’ll tell him the truth: There was no place to park on the main road or on the private road into this place where we could spend day and night waiting for Wyatt to leave. The guard at the gatehouse would only give us a one-hour pass, and when that expired, a hotel employee appeared and tried to run us off. We had to register here.”

“Yeah, I know all that, but I’m glad you’re the one who has to explain it to Elliott.”

MacNeil glanced at his watch and reached for his cell phone. It was time for his daily check-in call.

“MR.ELLIOTT?”

Gray Elliott looked up from the photographs spread out across the credenza in his Chicago office, a frown on his face. “Yes?”

“Detective MacNeil is on the phone.”

“Close my door, will you?” Gray said. Swiveling in his chair, he waited until the door closed behind his secretary before he picked up his telephone. “Hi, Mac,” he said.

“Did you get the report and pictures we e-mailed to you last night?” MacNeil began.

Too restless to stay seated, Gray stood up and turned to the credenza. “I got them,” he said shortly.

“Wyatt picked up the redhead at her hotel this morning, and they’ve just checked into a hotel in St. Maarten. We still don’t know who she is, but her hotel room in Anguilla was registered in the name of a guy named Bartlett. Sooner or later, she’ll use a credit card here or produce a driver’s license, and we’ll get a make on her—”

“Don’t bother,” Gray interrupted tightly, staring at a close-up of a man and woman locked in a passionate embrace near a beach. The photo was taken at night using an infrared camera. It was a little grainy, but the subjects were easily identifiable. “Her name is Kate Donovan.”

“Should that name mean something to me?” Mac asked. “It seems familiar.”

“Her father was Daniel Donovan.”

“The restaurant owner—that Daniel Donovan?”

“That’s the one,” Gray said sarcastically. “The Daniel Donovan who died a few weeks ago in what was presumed to be a random drive-by shooting.”

MacNeil sank down on the edge of his bed, already putting together the pieces and arriving at the same conclusion Gray had drawn. “That’s three people who Wyatt is connected with who’ve met untimely deaths in the last few months.”

“Right.”

“How does this guy Bartlett fit into the picture?”

“Kate Donovan is Evan Bartlett’s girlfriend,” Gray spit out. “Or at least I thought she was. Evan and I have known each other since we were kids. He’s a lawyer from a long line of lawyers, all of whom have spotless reputations. I’m quite sure Evan Bartlett knows nothing about whatever she’s involved in.”

Rather than debate that, MacNeil said calmly, “We didn’t see any sign of Bartlett last night, but he’s registered at the hotel in Anguilla that she’s staying in.”

“She’s using his name then, but Evan isn’t there. I saw him at the courthouse yesterday; he’s trying a case.” Rather than let MacNeil think he was letting his personal feelings interfere with his objectivity—which he was—Gray said curtly, “Don’t let Wyatt or Donovan out of your sight. I have to go into a meeting now. One more thing—” he added, “if Benedict’s yacht moves into international waters, I want you to let me know immediately. The same is true if there’s any indication Wyatt’s plane is being made ready to take off from St. Maarten.”

“We’ve got a couple of mechanics at Princess Juliana Airport watching the plane for us. We tailed Wyatt to the hotel in St. Maarten this morning, and he left his luggage there. I don’t think he plans to go back to Benedict’s yacht tonight, but if he and the Donovan woman split up, we can’t keep an eye on both of them and the yacht, too.”

“My budget won’t stretch any further than it’s already stretched now on this case. Ignore the yacht, if you have to. If it moves into international waters, there’s nothing we can do to yank Wyatt off it, but we can exert a whole lot of unpleasant pressure on Zack Benedict to hand Wyatt over to us.”

“Are you expecting Wyatt to lead us to the body down here, or meet up with an accomplice or something?”

“I don’t know about an accomplice, but you can bet your pension that William’s body is somewhere up at the family farm. There are five hundred acres of woods up there, and we’ve been helping the locals comb through them. The ground is frozen, and there’s still some snow on it, but the body is going to turn up any day now. When it does, I want to know exactly where to find Wyatt. Don’t ask me how I know Wyatt’s our murderer or that the body’s at the farm. Once the body is found, the witness will come forward and give testimony. Until then, I’ve promised absolute anonymity.”