The Mexican sun beat down like a crooked cop's brass knuckles. Three weeks we'd been in Puerto Vallarta, and I still wasn't used to the heat. Different from the city - cleaner, but just as merciless.
Sam lounged by the hotel pool, bronze skin gleaming like aged whiskey. She'd traded her red dresses for a white swimsuit that made my collar tight. We'd been playing it straight, or as straight as people like us ever get. Just another pair of American tourists soaking up sun and premium tequila.
Then Inspector Rodriguez showed up.
He found us at the hotel bar, immaculate in his white linen suit despite the heat. "Señor Marlowe, Señorita Blackthorne. Your reputation precedes you."
"Former reputation," Sam corrected, stirring her margarita with one manicured finger.
Rodriguez smiled like a card sharp holding aces. "Perhaps. But when a thief like Thomas 'The Ghost' Morrison crosses the border with five million in stolen diamonds, one cannot help but think of... former reputations."
The name hit me like day-old coffee. Morrison was a legend in certain circles - never left a trace, never caught on camera. The kind of thief that made other thieves nervous. And he’s the one that put a slug in me and escaped down an alley. The one that got away.
"What's your interest?" I lit a cigarette, watching Rodriguez through the smoke.
"He has stolen from very powerful people, Señor Marlowe. People who would prefer to handle this... quietly." He placed a photo on the bar - a mansion perched on cliffs above the ocean. "We believe he is hiding here, in the home of a former cartel associate."
Sam picked up the photo, her face unreadable. "And you want us to what? Knock on the front door?"
"I want you to do what you do best. Americans watching Americans draws less attention than federales. If you succeed, certain questions about your hasty departure from the States might... disappear."
I looked at Sam. She gave me that smile - the one that meant trouble was coming, and she was ready to dance.
"One condition," I said. "We do this our way. No interference."
Rodriguez stood, adjusting his immaculate cuffs. "Three days, Señor Marlowe. After that, we do things the Mexican way."
He left a file on the bar. Inside were floor plans, security details, and a list of Morrison's known associates. The kind of intel that told me Rodriguez had been planning this little chat for a while.
Sam moved closer, her perfume mixing with sea air. "So much for retirement, sugar."
I drained my bourbon. "You getting soft on me, Blackthorne?"
"Never." She grabbed the file, eyes sparkling like the ocean at midnight. "But if we're going to crash a cartel party, I'm going to need a new dress."
Outside, the sun was setting over the Pacific. Somewhere in that clifftop mansion, a ghost was hiding with a fortune in hot ice. In seventy-two hours, we'd find out if we still had what it took to catch him.
Paradise has a funny way of pulling you back into the game, just when you think you're out. But with Sam Blackthorne watching my back and a ghost to catch, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
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