I’m still trailing Charlie as the parking ramp dumps us out onto 44th Street. We’re quickly consumed by the lunchtime crowd, but in the distance, I already hear the sirens.

I look at Charlie; he studies me. We’re not just thieves anymore. By the time Gallo and DeSanctis are done with us, we’re murderers.

“Should we call mom…?”

“No way,” I counter, still tasting the vomit on my lips. “That’s the first place they’ll look.”

The sirens get closer, and we step into the line that’s curving out of a nearby pizza place. By now, the sound’s almost deafening. At the end of the block, two police cars slam their brakes and screech toward Grand Central’s Vanderbilt Avenue entrance. Our heads are lowered, but like everyone else in line, we’re in full stare-mode. Within seconds, car doors slam shut and four uniformed officers race inside.

“C’mon,” I say, jumping out of line.

You sure you want to run? Charlie asks with a glance.

I don’t bother to answer. Like he said, this isn’t about my anger anymore. Or some heated, knee-jerk revenge on Lapidus. It’s about keeping us alive. And after almost fifteen years of freeze-tag, Charlie knows the value of a head start.

“You know where we’re going?” he asks as he follows.

I’m already running toward the opposite end of the block. “Not really,” I say. “But I have an idea.”

Joey was the eighth to be called. Naturally, the first was the underwriter at KRG Insurance who wrote the policy. Lapidus chewed his head off in picoseconds and forced a fast transfer to a fidelity claims analyst, who, when he heard the amount, called the head of the fidelity claims unit, who called the president of claims, who then called the CEO himself. From there, the CEO made two calls: one to a forensic accounting firm, and one to Chuck Sheafe, head of Sheafe International, to personally request their top investigator. Sheafe didn’t hesitate. He immediately recommended Joey.

“Fine,” the CEO said. “When can he be here?”

“You mean she.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t be a pig, Warren. Jo Ann Lemont,” Sheafe explained. “Now do you want our best or do you want a boy scout?”

That’s all it took. The eighth call went to Joey.

“So do you have any idea who stole it?” Joey asked from the seat opposite Lapidus’s desk.

“Of course I don’t know who stole it,” Lapidus barked back. “What the hell kind of stupid question is that?”

Stupid, maybe, Joey thought – but she still had to ask it. If only to see his reaction. If he was lying, there’d be some sort of tell. A look-away, an uneasy grin, a hollow stare she could see in his eyes. As she brushed her short auburn hair from her forehead, she knew that was her gift – sharpening focus and finding the tell – she learned it playing poker with her dad, and honed it during law school. Sometimes it was in the body language. Sometimes it was… somewhere else.

When Joey first walked into Lapidus’s office, the first thing she noticed was the intricate Victorian bronze oval doorknob. Embossed with an egg-and-dart motif, it was cold to the touch, difficult to turn, and it didn’t match any other doorknob in the building. But as Joey knew – when it came to CEOs – that was the point. Anything to make an impression.

“Now is there anything else, Ms. Le-?”

“It’s Joey,” she interrupted, her chocolate eyes looking up from her yellow legal pad. Although she had a pen in her hand and the pad in her lap, she hadn’t written a word – ever since her first notepad was subpoenaed, she knew better than that. Still, the pad helped people open up. So did using first names. “Please… call me Joey.”

“Well, no offense, Joey, but as I remember it, you were hired to find our missing three hundred and thirteen million. So why don’t you get back to it?”

“Actually, that’s what I was about to ask…” she began as she pulled a digital camera from her briefcase. “Do you mind if I take some photos? Just for insurance purposes…”

Lapidus nodded, and she clicked off four quick shots. One in every direction. For Lapidus, it was a minor inconvenience. For Joey, it was the easiest way to document a potential crime scene. Put it all on film, she was taught early on. It’s the one thing that won’t lie.

Through the lens, Joey studied the cherry-paneled walls and Aubusson carpet that embraced the room with their deep burgundy hues. The room itself was filled with Asian artifacts: on her left, a framed calligraphy scroll containing a Japanese poem applauding spring; on her right, a pre-World War II step-tansu, which was a simple wood chest with small drawers; and straight ahead, behind Lapidus’s desk, the obvious pride of his collection: a thirteenth-century Kamakura Period samurai helmet. Made of carved wood and layered with shiny black lacquer, it had a forged-silver crescent moon embedded in the forehead. As Joey knew from an old college history class, the shogun used to use the silver insignias to identify his samurais and see how they were doing in battle. Just another boss who doesn’t like to get too close, she thought to herself.

“How do you get along with your employees, Mr. Lapidus?” Joey asked as she stuffed the camera back into her briefcase.

“How do I-” He stopped and watched her carefully. “Are you trying to accuse me of something?”

“Not at all,” she quickly backed off. But she clearly found her first button. “I’m just trying to figure out if anyone had a motiv-”

Across the room, the door to Lapidus’s office flew open. Quincy stepped in, but didn’t say a word. He just held tight to the oval doorknob.

“What?” Lapidus asked. “What’s wrong?”

Quincy glanced at Joey, then back to Lapidus. Some things were better said in private.

“Is he in there?” a hoarse voice shouted from the hallway. Before Quincy could answer, Agents Gallo and DeSanctis shoved their way into the room. Joey grinned at the interruption. Baggy suit… barrel chest… cheap shoes scuffed up from running. These two weren’t bankers. Which meant they were security or-

“Secret Service,” Gallo blurted, flashing her the badge on his belt. “Can you excuse us for a moment?”

Joey couldn’t help but stare at the swollen cut on Gallo’s cheek. She didn’t see it when he first walked in. His head was turned. “Actually, I think we’re all on this together,” Joey said, hoping to make nice. “I’m here from Chuck Sheafe’s place.” It wasn’t often that she dropped her boss’s name, but Joey was all too aware of how trust worked in law enforcement. Fifteen years ago, Chuck Sheafe was third in command of the Secret Service. To fellow agents, that meant he was family.

“So you’re working for the insurance company?” Gallo asked.

It wasn’t the reaction she was looking for, so Joey just nodded.

“Then that still makes you a civilian,” Gallo shot back. “Now like I said: Please excuse us.”

“But…”

“Goodbye, ma’am, it was n-”

“You can call me Joey.”

Gallo cocked his head with a predatory glare and once again revealed the bruise on his cheek. He didn’t like being interrupted. “Goodbye, Joey.”

Too smart to push, Joey tucked her notepad under her arm and headed for the door. All four men watched her as she crossed the room, which wasn’t something that happened often. With her relatively athletic build, she was attractive, but not gawking attractive. Still, she didn’t acknowledge any of them. She made her living knee deep in male egos. There’d be plenty of time to fight later.

As the door slammed behind Joey, Lapidus rubbed his palm against his bald head. “Please tell me you have good news.”

Quincy tried to answer, but nothing came out. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them from shaking.

“Are you okay?” Lapidus asked.

“Shep’s dead,” DeSanctis blurted.