Page 80 of The Newcomer
Isabelle was a step behind the little girl. “Unless Mom writes me a note so I get an excused absence. Then we could go to the beach.”
“Nice try,” Ava said. “You go on to school. Maya will be here waiting after lunch, and so will the beach.”
Joe’sphone pinged to signal an incoming text message. “It’s from Agent Hill,” he told Letty. “She wants us to meet her for breakfast at the Seahorse.”
“The diner down in Pass-a-Grille? Now?”
“Maya can stay here with me,” Ava offered. “We’ll have our own school.”
“I can write my name,” the child boasted. “M-A-Y-A.”
Ava clapped her hands in appreciation. “That’s great. Let’s see if you can write my name. A-V-A. Hey, did you know my name is spelled the same backward and forward?”
“Niceparking job,” Letty said, as they approached his truck in the motel lot.
He opened the passenger door and she climbed into the truck.
“Did you really think I’d run?” she asked, as they pulled into traffic.
“No, but I didn’t want to take a chance,” he said. “The FBI isn’t fooling around with this stuff, Letty. They want to nail Evan Wingfield, and as I understand it, you’re their best shot at doing that.”
It was early and traffic was light. They passed tourists and retirees out walking or jogging along Gulf Boulevard, the road that strung the beach towns together, going south to St. Pete Beach and Pass-a-Grille.
The Seahorse Restaurant was a low-ceilinged wood-frame building sitting on a corner lot facing Tampa Bay across the street. It had cheerful green-and-red awnings and flower boxes spilling over with red geraniums. Joe pulled over to the curb. Letty sat very upright, looking straight ahead. Only her hands moved, clutching and unclutching in her lap. She’d hardly slept, and her stomach was in knots.
“I’m scared.”
“I know.” He placed his hand atop hers. “I swear, Letty, no matter what, I won’t let anything bad happen to you, or Maya. We’ve got this.”
She took a deep breath. Nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“That’sher,” Joe said in a low voice, indicating a lone woman seated at a table in the corner of the covered patio.
The agent was dressed in a black knit tank top and white jeans. Letty was surprised to note that Vikki Hill looked younger than the photo Zoey texted from the diner, maybe early forties? Her sunglasses were pushed up into her dark, shoulder-length hair. Her skin was coffee colored, in contrast to the vivid red lipstick she wore. She was studying the menu, but looked up as Joe and Letty approached.
“Agent Hill,” Joe started, as he pulled Letty’s chair away from the table.
“Just Vikki, please,” the agent corrected him. “Hi, Letty. Thanksfor coming.” She gestured at the coffee carafe, but Letty shook her head. “I’ve been up since three, and I’ve already had enough caffeine.”
“How about some food?”
“Not hungry,” Letty said.
“You sure? The bureau is buying. I’ve already eaten. Shrimp for breakfast! Crazy, huh? I could get used to being in Florida this time of year.”
“You probably wouldn’t like it in July, though,” Joe said.
“I don’t like July, anywhere,” Agent Hill said.
Jittery from all the coffee, Letty kept looking around the room.
“It’s just me,” Vikki Hill said, noticing her unease. “No backup agents, no plainclothes cops dressed as waiters or other tourists or hidden cameras. Just me. So, I understand Joe here has filled you in on what’s going on?”
“He tells me Evan Wingfield hired you to kill me. Right?”
“Well, not me personally. You know Wingfield pretty well, worked for him, dated him, so you probably realize he doesn’t really have a very high opinion of women. I mean, he likes them for some things, but he doesn’t really trust them to do the heavy lifting, if you get my drift. He actually wants me to act as a sort of broker, to find him someone else to kill you.”
Letty swallowed hard. Her head was throbbing and she felt sick. She took a tiny sip of water.
