“Okay, so let’s tell the state’s attorney it’s about that time. Fancy lawyer’s going to look for a fancy deal.”

“How much time is she going to get? Whatever it is, it’s not enough, but how much do you think?”

“Well.” He scratched the side of his neck again. “You got kidnapping a minor, for ransom. You got the use of drugs on the kid, the gun. Thing is she can carry on about how she didn’t know about the gun, so we’ll let that slide. And her being a parent, she can use that. But the ransom, that’s going to sting even when she rolls.”

“And she will. There’s no loyalty in her.”

“Not a bit. Five to ten, I figure. Her lover and the other? Twenty to twenty-five, easy. Depending on how stupid they are, they could get a full life sentence. But I figure the three of them are going to throw enough shit at each other, plead it down, get the twenty to twenty-five. If we can prove who waved the gun around? That one’s twenty-five to life.”

He took a long, long gulp of Coke. “But that’s the lawyers and court. Us? We gotta catch them. She’s going over, and if Sullivan has a brain—and I think he does—he’s already filing for full custody, for divorce, and getting himself a restraining order in the possible circumstances she makes bail.”

He took another swing. “You did good, Mic.”

“I didn’t do that much.”

“You did the job, and you did it good. You go on, let the state’s attorney know we’re going to play Let’s Make a Deal.”

Michaela nodded, turned toward the door. “That little girl? The media’s going to swarm like flies, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, they are. Nothing we can do there but give a statement when it comes to that, then go into no-comment mode, and stay there. She doesn’t deserve what’s coming next.”

No, Michaela thought as she went out. None of them did.

Five minutes after Charlotte began to spin shaded truths, outright lies, and self-serving excuses, Scarpetti cut her off. He told her with stone-cold clarity he needed the truth, all of it, or he’d walk away.

Because she believed him, Charlotte spilled her guts.

While she spilled, Frank Denby lounged on the bed of his motel room just south of Santa Maria, watching porn while he iced down his black eye and swollen jaw.

His ribs ached like a mother, so he’d driven as far as he could before calling it. Now after a pop of Percocet, some weed, some ice, he figured he’d head out again in a couple hours.

Sparks had kicked the shit out of him when they’d discovered the brat had gotten out. Like it was his fault. Not that he hadn’t gotten a couple of shots in. Yeah, he’d landed a couple.

But he understood Sparks might have killed him if Sparks hadn’t known he shared the blame.

So the job had gone to shit—all that money blown—and now he, down to a few hundred cash, one stolen credit card he wasn’t ready to use, what remained of the nickel bag in his duffle, had to lie low.

Not that the kid could ID him, but when a job went south, so did he. Mexico felt right. Cruise on down south of the border. A little grifting, a lot of beach time. Hit the tourist spots, make a few bills.

Sparks might have a sweet gig going with his personal training game and banging a movie star mark, but for himself, Denby preferred short, simple cons.

He crunched into a handful of barbecue chips, sulked a little because the guy on the crappy motel TV was getting a blow job and he wasn’t.

He should never have let Sparks talk him into the game, but it had seemed so damn easy. And his share of the two million those rich assholes would pay?

Jesus, he’d live like a king in Mexico with a million bucks. And all he’d had to do for it was help set up the cabin and watch the kid for a couple days.

Who’d’ve figured the brat would climb out the damn window and go poof?

But the brat hadn’t seen his face, or seen Sparks without a disguise, and the movie star couldn’t blab unless she wanted to trade in her Armani for prison blues.

Besides, the bitch was hot for Sparks.

Good old Sparks knew how to string the rich ones along.

He took another toke on the joint, held that sweet, sweet smoke in his lungs, then expelled it, watched it drift away and take most of his worries with it.

Sun, sand, and señoritas, he thought.

Things could be worse.

Then the cops broke down the door, and they were.

Grant Sparks was neither as sanguine nor as stupid as his sometime partner. He’d worked on the blackmail/kidnapping game for nearly a year. Getting Denby on board had been as simple as dangling a million-dollar payoff. Denby thought small, was small, so he’d swallowed that they’d split two mil without a doubt or question.

Which would’ve—damn well should have—left the brains of the game with nine million.

Then he’d take his payoff, spend a couple of years in Mozambique—no extradition—living off the fat.

He knew Charlotte wasn’t quite as stupid as Denby—and was a better liar. He knew how to read women, how to play them. He made his living at it.

Obviously, and it pissed him off, he hadn’t read the damn kid. Maybe a part of him admired how she’d conned him—she had to have flushed the fucking milk. Damn smart kid. And that meant she’d been awake when he’d been in her room, when Charlotte had called.

He’d gone over the conversation—his side of it—a dozen times while he packed up. Nothing there, nothing to lead back to him, or to Denby, or to Charlotte.

Except . . . he’d asked about the nanny’s phone. If the kid remembered that, repeated that, it might be trouble. Still, for all he knew, the kid wandered around in the dark, fell off a damn cliff.

Maybe he hadn’t intended to hurt her—more than necessary—but he wouldn’t be sorry if she’d ended up dead on the rocks.

But dead or alive, he couldn’t take chances. Because women, those he could read, and he knew Charlotte would screw this up. If anything went wrong, she’d flip to save her own ass.

He’d have done the same.

Better, he thought as he packed the TAG Heuer Charlotte had given him, to play it safe. Take a little trip, get out of L.A. before they found the kid—or the body—and she fumbled it all.

He had money. The personal-trainer-to-the-stars gig paid well enough. And the tips paid even better.

He had a Rolex as well as the TAG, Tiffany cuff links and more gifted to him over his eighteen months running this con. Charlotte had stood out, so he’d focused on her.

She didn’t give a crap about the kid, so the kidnapping idea had blossomed. She despised the Sullivans, had a shitpile of envy going for their status—and their money.

Soaking them for millions—she’d loved the idea. Thinking back, he probably hadn’t needed Denby and the blackmail scheme to get her on board.

It should’ve worked.

He packed up his laptop, tablet, prepaid phones, took a last look around the apartment he’d lived in for nearly three years. A long stretch for him, he thought, but the pickings had been good.

Time to head out, head east, he decided, swing through the Mid-west. Had to be plenty of rich, bored housewives, sex-starved widows, divorcées to pluck from.

He shouldered the strap of his computer case, rolled the first of his two suitcases to the door. He’d come back for the other.