Page 132 of The Newcomer
“Headache. That coffee they served on the flight was for shit. You’d think they could figure out how to brew a decent espresso for what they’re charging in first class. How about stopping at a Starbucks? My treat.”
“Oh wow. You’d spring for a grande? For me? Big spender.”
He shot her a sour look. “You’re a real smart-ass, you know that? No wonder you’re not married.”
Vikki gave him a bland smile. She was really looking forward to slapping handcuffs on Evan Wingfield. And if he tripped in the sand and fell face-forward and she “accidentally” mashed his face into the ground with her non-designer shoe, that would be icing on therevenge cake she’d been mentally baking since the first day she’d met Evan Wingfield.
“Maybe later,” she said. “My guy is gonna get antsy if we’re delayed.”
“So tell him we’re making a coffee stop,” Evan snapped. “What else has he got to do today?”
“Lemme just get across the bridge. I think there’s a Starbucks on the St. Pete side.”
Wingfield stared out the passenger-side window. Tampa Bay was calm, with a light breeze, and sailboats skimmed across the sun-dappled water’s surface, but he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. The rank odor of anger and tension radiated off him like cheap cologne.
“That bitch Letty probably filled Maya’s head with all kinds of poison against me,” he said abruptly. “Have you talked to her since you got down here?”
Vikki shrugged. God, what a narcissist. It was always about him. Never about the child he claimed to love.
“She’s a kid. She watches this stupidPAW Patrolcartoon show and begs to go to McDonald’s.”
“Does she ask about me?”
“Sometimes.” She deftly slipped the knife between his ribs. “Mostly she asks about her mommy. And Letty.”
“Six months from now, she won’t remember their names,” Wingfield said. “Do you remember anything from when you were four?”
“I remember my dog, Patches.”
“Good idea,” Wingfield said, snapping his fingers. “We’ll get her a dog.”
“Super. That ought to fix her right up,” Vikki said, keeping her eyes on the road.
When she saw the Starbucks in a strip shopping center, she flipped her turn signal and turned in to the parking lot, hoping that the silver Volvo would follow suit. She turned to Wingfield. “Drive-through?”
“No. I need to go in and use the bathroom. Be right out.”
She tried not to stare at the leather bag at his feet, hoping he’d leave it behind. He opened the door, stepped out, and at the last minute, grabbed it and looped the strap over his shoulder.
As soon as she saw him enter the store and head for the men’s room, she texted Garcia.
Pit stop. He wants coffee and a piss.
Garcia texted a thumbs-up emoji.
She called DeCurtis from her Apple watch. “We made a pit stop at Starbucks. He’s got a carry-on with him that he won’t let out of his sight.”
“Hopefully it’s the money,” DeCurtis said. “Has he said anything incriminating?”
“Only if you consider every sentence you utter as being evidence that you are a total shitsicle of a human being,” Vikki said. “How’s Letty doing?”
“About like you’d expect. Somehow, she’s managing to hold it together, probably for Maya’s sake.”
She saw Wingfield emerge from the bathroom and head for the counter. He paced the restaurant, leaned against a high-top table, pulled out his phone, and made a call.
“I don’t like this,” Vikki muttered. “He’s in there making a call.”
“So are you,” Joe pointed out.
