Confidence Girl: The Letty Dobesh Chronicles - Crouch Blake (читать книги онлайн бесплатно полностью .TXT) 📗
Everyone happy and loaded. Nobody alone.
At the first intersection, she left the chaos of Duval Street. Two blocks brought her into a residential quarter. It was an old neighborhood. She passed restored bungalows and Caribbean-style mansions.
On every block, there was at least one house party going.
Ten minutes from the hotel, she found a Cuban restaurant tucked away in a cul-de-sac.
The hostess told her it would be a ninety-minute wait.
There was a patio out back with a tiki bar and Letty installed herself on the last available stool.
The noise was considerable.
She didn’t like being here alone.
She opened her phone and tapped out texts to no one.
It took five minutes for the barkeep to come around. He was an old salt—tall and thin. So grizzled he looked like he’d been here back when Ponce de Leon first showed up. Letty ordered a vodka martini. While he shook it, she eavesdropped on a conversation between an older couple seated beside her. They sounded Midwestern. The man was talking about someone named John, and how much he wished John had been with them today. They had gone snorkeling in the Dry Tortugas. The woman chastised her husband for getting roasted in the sun, but he expertly steered the conversation away from himself. They talked about other places they’d been together. Their top three bottles of wine. Their top three sunsets. How much they were looking forward to a return trip to Italy. How much they were looking forward to Christmas next week with their children and grandchildren. These people had seen the world. They had loved and laughed and lived.
Letty felt a whitehot hate welling up in the pit of her stomach.
She didn’t even bother to persuade herself it wasn’t jealousy.
The barkeep set her martini down. A big, sturdy glass the size of a bowl. The drink had been beautifully made with flakes of ice across the surface.
“Wanna start a tab?”
“No.”
“Twelve dollars.”
Letty dug a twenty out of her purse.
The barkeep went for change.
The gentleman beside her had worn a sports coat for the evening. In the light of the surrounding torches, Letty could see by the cut it was designer. Gucci or Hugo Boss. She could also see the bulge of a wallet in the side pocket. So easy to lift. Two moves. Tip over her martini glass in the man’s direction and slip her hand into his blazer pocket as he reached for a napkin to help clean up. She’d done it a dozen times and only once did the mark ignore the spill.
And that’ll really make you feel better? To drop a bomb on their holiday.
When she stole, it was out of necessity. Only ever about the money. She’d never made it personal. Survival had been her sole motivation, even at her lowest points. Never the intentional infliction of hurt to boost her own morale.
While the old barkeep was still at the register, Letty slipped off the chair, leaving her drink untouched.
She threaded her way between tables, out of the restaurant, and onto the street.
By the time she reached Duval, she had managed to stop crying.
Her life seemed to be defined by moments like these.
Moments of pure self-hatred.
And this was just one more in a long, long line.
5
“You slept okay?” Javier asked.
“Yes.”
“How are you feeling?”
“All right. Nervous.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Nerves keep you sharp.”
Wind rustled the fronds of the palm tree that overhung their table. They were sitting outside at a cafe two blocks from the ocean. A cruise liner had just unloaded gobs of people onto the island. They were streaming past on the sidewalk. Herds of Hawaiian shirts and Panama hats propelled by pasty-white legs.
“You should eat something,” Javier said.
Their waiter had brought their lunches five minutes ago, but Letty hadn’t touched her ham and brie panini or her salad.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat.”
She started picking at her salad.
Between bites, she pointed the tines of her fork at the chair between them, where Javier had placed a cardboard box.
“Is that my dress?”
“Among other things.”
“Is it pretty?” she asked in a mock-girlish voice.
He ignored this. “In the box, you’ll find a mini spray bottle. The label says mouthwash. It’s an opiate tincture. Oxycodone. Fitch is a wine snob. Five squirts in his wineglass during dinner. Not four. Not six. Exactly five.”
“Got it.”
“Get him to his room before he starts to fade. His people will hang back if they think you’ve gone in there to sleep with him.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Once he’s unconscious, head up to the office. Now listen to me very carefully. My contact says there will be five men on the island. Three outside. Two in the residence. Considering his notoriety, Fitch has had countless death threats and one actual attempt. These men are private security contractors. Ex-Blackwater types. They’ve all seen combat. They’ll be armed. You won’t be.”
“Where will you be during all this?”
“I’m getting there. Part of your outfit is a Movado watch.”
“Ooohhh, Christmas.”
“Don’t get attached. It’s on loan. We rendezvous at eight on the eastern tip of the island. You won’t be allowed to bring your cell phone. Keep an eye on your watch.” He patted the box. “There’s also a map of the island and blueprints of the house. I would’ve given them to you earlier, but I just got my hands on them.”
“What if I get held up?”
“Don’t get held up.”
“Eight. All right. How are we getting off the island?”
“A Donzi Twenty-Two Classic Shelby. I’m picking it up after we’re done here.”
“Is that a boat or a plane?”
“It’s a boat.”
“Fast?”
“Faster than any of Fitch’s watercraft. Miami Vice fast.”
“Assuming this works, what’ll stop them from just radioing for help? Having the Coast Guard track us down on the way back to Key West?”
“You are taking on some risk here, which is why I will tolerate these questions that seem to suggest I haven’t thought everything through. That I haven’t foreseen every possible glitch and planned accordingly.” Javier took a sip from his glass of ice water. “We won’t be going back to Key West. We’ll be heading five miles further south to a deserted key in international waters.”
Letty forced herself to take a bite of the sandwich.
Javier said, “Now we haven’t even discussed the most important part of this. The reason we’re all here.”
“Skull with a Burning Cigarette.”
“The painting is hanging in Fitch’s office on the wall behind his desk. My intel is that there’s no theft-security system. You just have to cut it out of the frame.”
“Cut it?”
“Careful. Like shooting heroin into your femoral artery, careful. There’s a razor blade hidden on the bottom of your handbag under a piece of black electrical tape.”
“I’m not comfortable with that,” Letty said.
“Why?”
“Because they’ll probably search the handbag, don’t you think?”
“Where do you want to hide it?”
“I’ll think of something. What kind of bag is it?”
“Try to control yourself. Louis Vuitton.”
“Up to this point, the accessories are far and away the best part of this job. That, I keep.”
“We’ll see.”
“And once I get the canvas out of the frame?”
“Roll it up. You’ll find a plastic tube taped to the underside of Fitch’s desk. Stick the rolled-up canvas inside and get yourself to the eastern edge of the island.”
“What about cameras?”
“None.”
“What about the people who actually see me up close? Who can identify me and describe me to law enforcement?”
“You’ll be a redhead tonight.”
“That’s it?”
“What do you want, a latex mask? This isn’t Mission Impossible. This is the price you pay for a shot at four million dollars.”
