Cut and Run

“When and if I find her, you’ll be the first to know. All right?”

She held on to his arm.

“Listen to Tommy and do as he asks.”

“At least take him with you, if not me. Please don’t go alone.” She squeezed his arm.

“This is not heroics. It’s simple numbers. Tommy stays with you.” He’d gone over this a dozen times in his head. The smarter call was to wait for Hampton or Stubblefield to fly down here. Maybe both-to take on the house on Useppa Island with as strong a force as he could currently muster. But Markowitz logged onto the grid at night-and with the meeting of known crime families called for the following night, the list had to be close to being fully decrypted. Larson didn’t have twenty-four hours to wait.

“You call me the minute you know anything.”

“Same there,” he returned. “If Miller should call-”

“You’ll hear about it,” she said. She leaned away from him, then changed her mind and craned across to kiss him. Larson turned to meet her lips. There was nothing particularly romantic about it, but he felt it long after.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“As if I have a choice,” he fired back. “This is me we’re talking about.”

The first hint of a smile began, but then she hid it well.

She paused, the car door now open a crack. “If you find her-when you find her-she won’t trust you. We talked about getting a dog, she and I. We were going to name it Cairo. Like Egypt. Use it. It may help.”

“ Cairo.”

“Yeah. Ever since she saw a picture of the pyramids she’s wanted to go there.” Her eyes grew distant as if watching a film run inside her head.

Larson walked her up the hotel’s front steps and introduced her to Tommy Tomelson.

As he left, he felt horribly alone.

Tommy Tomelson had used some of the life insurance from his wife’s passing to buy the twin-engine inboard-outboard four-hundred-and-forty-horsepower Christine, judging by both the name and all the bells and whistles he’d added. GPS satellite navigation. Sonar. Weather radar. SailMail e-mail. Larson read his own e-mail off the BlackBerry as he navigated the cha

Larson hoped to make the return crossing before darkness fully descended. He wasn’t keen to test his maritime skills on a friend’s six-figure investment.

Tying up at Useppa, a private spit of old island luxury less than a mile long, required permission. Tommy, who often chartered for the island’s guests, had called ahead for Larson. With no bridges co

Walking off the immaculate dock and onto the island proper, Larson stepped back a century, entering an enclave like nothing he’d ever seen. No cars here-only golf carts used for everything from maintenance to transportation. Larson climbed a sidewalk set amid a lush botanical garden of wild orchid, mangrove, tropical fruit trees, and flowers in garish colors. Tiny lizards scurried through the underbrush, sounding to Larson like rats. Single-story shell-white houses carried names instead of street numbers, black shutters, and screened-in porches. BEGONIA HOUSE. THE BOUGAINVILLEA. THE ROSE COTTAGE. Larson ducked beneath a heavy overhanging branch that ran tentacles back to the ground like a shredded curtain. Lights already glowed yellow behind a few windows. The air smelled of perfume. Small waves lapped on a crescent-shaped man-made beach below and to his left. A few sailboats were tied up to moorings there. The encroaching dusk foreshortened distance and softened edges, giving everything a look that for Larson usually followed two or three cocktails.

He stepped off the path, making room for a middle-aged te

Bit by bit, byte by byte, it was to here, Useppa Island, that Dr. Miller’s information quest had led them. The technology had been explained to Larson-using Internet service providers to trace Markowitz’s digital identity to a Direct PC high-speed Internet account.

The address was The Sand Dollar, Useppa Island. Larson had been expecting a hotel, not a private residence.

Larson found the look of the place intriguing, its isolation and privacy perfect for hiding, an ideal location from which to decrypt Laena.

Near the end of the path he reached and entered the Useppa I

Ten minutes passed and Larson ordered another rum. Knowing he shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, he added a basket of french fries to the mix and called it di

Larson daydreamed of the St. Louis Rowing Club on Creve Coeur Lake, missing the spiritual exercise as much as the physical. He felt bone-tired, though the french fries had helped to wake him.

The house detective, an older, florid-cheeked man named Harold Montgomery, whom Tomelson had phoned ahead of time, doubled as the di

“To absent friends,” Montgomery said in a tight voice, clinking glasses with Larson.

“Let’s talk about the layout of The Sand Dollar,” Larson began.