“Yes, quite clear.” Bruce kept staring at the numbers. “The pay’s not bad,” he said.

“The average job is about ten thousand bucks, but, as I said, the average hit man is not that bright. Most get caught because somebody talks too much. And most of the people handing over the cash aren’t that smart either. You’re going through a nasty divorce and your spouse is suddenly murdered. Don’t you think the police might have some questions?”

“I don’t recognize any of the victims.”

“None are from Florida, and none involved divorces. Most were bad business deals. The last one was an inheritance issue.”

“Do you have photos or composite sketches of other contract killers?”

She punched some keys and another computerized face flashed on the screen. Male, age forty, Caucasian, flat nose, beady eyes, bushy hair, and so on. It was only a sketch. She said, “Four years ago, this guy was seen leaving a marina in Galveston just seconds before a yacht burst into flames. Three people died, not from burns but from bullets to the head. Probably a bad business deal.”

“And a bad sketch. This guy could be one of a million.”

“Yes, but it’s not one of our cases. Luckily.”

“May I ask how you got the sketch?”

“We have a lot of contacts, some within law enforcement, some on the outside.”

“Nice to know. So our girl is a master killer.”

Lindsey hit a key and Ingrid returned to the screens. “Not so sure about that. She allowed herself to be seen by a number of people. She slept with your friend several times. They had lunch and dinner out, and so on. That’s highly unusual for a killer at the master level. Normally, these guys are never seen. But, on the other hand, hiding in plain view is often a smart move.”

“Maybe she had no choice. Sleeping with Bob led her to her target.”

“Any chance she slept with Nelson?”

“Who knows? He was single and close by. A nice-looking gal, great body, ready to hop in the sack for other reasons but eager nonetheless. Surely you’ve seen this before.”

“Not really. It’s not unusual in the world of espionage but we’ve never seen it. The elite spy services have always recruited beautiful women who know how to seduce. As you know, men can be quite weak at times.”

“So I’ve heard. But this is not exactly the Mossad, right?”

“Highly unlikely. A trained spy would not run the risk of being caught on video around the hotel.”

“How many contract killers are female?”

“Zero, in my experience. Ingrid would be the first.”

“So how’d she do it?”

“I’ve read your summary and I think you’re pretty close. She arrived on the island with a colleague, probably a man. Posing as a couple, they leased a condo near Nelson’s. I assume there are plenty available.”

“Only about a million. It is Florida.”

“She hooked up with your friend Bob and that’s how she met Nelson. She got lucky when the storm appeared, and that virtually eliminated her chances of being caught. She’s gone.”

“No chance of finding her?”

“Always a slight chance. I’ll meet with my pals at the FBI and have a chat. They’ll be excited to see Ingrid here, to add her to their rather short list of professional killers. Who knows? This is a murky world and there’s often a potential informant looking for money. It’s a long shot but there might be someone out there who knows a thing or two and needs a buck. Doubtful, though.”

“What’s your theory on his computer?”

“After she killed him, she would not have left without his hard drive. However, if she simply stole it, then she would have left behind a massive clue for the police.”

“She replaced it?”

“That’s my guess. Replaced it with a hard drive that contains nothing useful but is heavily encrypted. The police can’t scratch its surface.”

“So she knew the specs of his desktop.”

“Again, we’re guessing at this point, but my answer would be yes. She and her pal had probably been inside Nelson’s condo. Did he have home security?”

“Yes, there was an alarm system. There was a camera at the front door and another looking at the rear patio. Both were destroyed in the storm. The police think they may have been disabled beforehand.”

“Where is his computer?” she asked.

“Police. They’re supposed to hand it over, along with other personal effects, next week. Polly McCann will meet with them and take possession. I’ve been pushed out of the investigation, which is fine with me.”

“What day next week?”

“Wednesday.”

“I’d like to be there.”

“Come on down. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“We really need to look at the hard drive. If it’s a dummy left behind by the killer, that’s a clue, though I’m not sure what we can do with it. If it’s the real hard drive, then it could be a treasure trove of information.”

“Assuming it can be accessed.”

“Yes, but didn’t you say in your notes that his sister has the passcode for the thumb drive?”

“She does.”