The same two words. Inside job.

ELLIE WAITED PATIENTLY as a champagne-colored Bentley convertible pulled through the opening gates and crunched toward her on a long white-pebbled driveway.

“Agent Shurtleff.” Stratton stopped in the circular drive, acting surprised. He was wearing golf clothes, and the expression on his face showed that he was about as pleased to see her as a heavily sliced drive into the woods.

“Nice job on the arrest up in Boston,” Stratton said, getting out of the car. “Don’t suppose, in all that time you and Kelly got to spend together, you managed to come up with anything on my art?”

“We have lines out to dealers and police agencies all over the world,” Ellie said, trying not to scowl. “Nothing’s turned up on the radar so far.”

“Nothing on the radar, huh?” Stratton smiled behind Oakley sunglasses. “Well, let me let you in on a little secret…” He leaned close and whispered sharply in Ellie’s ear, “They’re not here!”

Stratton headed into the house and Ellie followed. A housemaid came up and handed him a few messages. “And what about that little friend of yours? The lifeguard who managed to break through my security? Is he under the radar, too?”

“I guess that’s why I’m here,” Ellie said, her voice echoing in the huge alcove. “Truth is, we’re not certain anyone actually broke through your security.”

Stratton turned around, exasperated. He raised his shades up on his bald brow. “I would’ve thought that having a gun held to your head by this man would have rid you of that ‘inside job’ theory. How many has he killed now? Five, six? I admit I didn’t go to detectives school, but it’s not exactly a stretch to think maybe he might have my paintings too.”

Ellie felt her face muscles twitch. “I’ll only take a minute of your time.”

Stratton glanced at his watch. “I have a lunch meeting at Club Collette in about twenty minutes. I guess that leaves me about one minute to hear your latest brainstorm.”

Ellie followed him, uninvited, into his study and Stratton threw himself behind the desk into a tufted leather chair.

“You remember I was questioning why the alarm cable was cut, even after the maid recalled that intruders had the interior code?” Ellie took a seat across from him and opened her satchel.

He circled his hand impatiently. “Surely we’ve gone beyond that one?”

“We will,” Ellie said, producing a manila envelope. “Once we can figure out what to do with this.”

She pulled out a plastic evidence bag and placed it on the desk in front of him. Inside was a flattened-out piece of paper. Stratton looked at it, and the cocky smirk on his face melted away.

10-02-85. His alarm code.

“It’s not exactly a stretch, is it,” Ellie said, biting her lip, “for us to be puzzled why your thieves had such an avid interest in the date of your first IPO?”

“Where did you find this?” Stratton’s face grew taut.

“On one of the bodies of the people murdered in Lake Worth,” Ellie replied. “I think I asked you before if you could provide a list of everyone who had access to your alarm code. I believe you mentioned a caretaker, the housekeeper, your daughter, Mrs. Stratton, of course…”

Stratton shook his head, as if amused. “You really fancy yourself a hotshot detective, don’t you, Agent Shurtleff?”

Ellie felt her spine tighten. “Sorry?”

“You have a degree in art,” Stratton said. “Your job is to assist other agents in matters of provenance, I believe, and authenticity. I imagine it must be very difficult for you to have such an admiration for beauty and have to spend your life chasing down the wonderful objects that other people own?”

“My job is to uncover fakes,” Ellie said, shrugging. “Whether they’re on canvas or not.”

There was a knock on the door. Liz Stratton stuck her head in. “Excuse me.” She smiled at Ellie, then a little dully to Stratton. “Dennis, the tent people are here.”

“I’ll be right there…” He looked up at her and smiled. Then back to Ellie: “I’m afraid our money-wasting moment is over now, Agent Shurtleff.” He stood up. “We’re getting the house ready for a little gathering Saturday night. The Shoreline Preservation League, wonderful cause. You should come. We just got our settlement from the insurance company. There’ll be all sorts of new art on the walls. I’d like your opinion.”

“Sure,” Ellie said. “You overpaid.”

Stratton kept looking at her with a smug smile. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and came out with a wad of bills, credit cards, some change and left it on the desk. “As long as we understand: one of my jobs, Agent Shurtleff, is to protect my family from people making accusations about our private affairs.”

Ellie scooped up the evidence bag and was about to put it back in the envelope. Something made her stop and stare.

“You a golfer, Mr. Stratton?”

“Play at it, Agent Shurtleff.” Stratton smiled. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Among the wad of bills and loose change Stratton had dumped on his English leather desk was a black golf tee.

WHEN I LEFT PHILLY’S, I jumped in Dave’s Subaru. I figured I had some time before the bodies were detected – a day, at most – and by then I had to be miles away. But miles where?

I drove wildly, seeing over and over again the horrible image of my brother sitting there like some kind of gutted animal. Knowing I had dragged him into this. Seeing his stuff all over the car – schoolbooks, a pair of beat-up Nikes, CDs, Dave’s Muzak.

I ditched the car in some podunk town in North Carolina and found some salesman in a used-car lot who sold me a twelve-year-old Impala for $350, no questions asked. I went into the men’s room of a roadside diner and dyed my hair. Then I carefully sheared most of it off.

When I looked in the mirror, I was a different person.

My thick blond hair was gone. Along with a lot of other things.

I thought about ending my life on that trip. Just making a turn off some remote stop on the highway, driving this old ruin of a car off a cliff, if I could find a cliff. Or a gun. That actually made me laugh. There I was, wanted for seven murders and I didn’t have a gun!

And I might have – ended it on that trip. But if I did, everyone would think I was guilty and had killed the people I loved. And if I did, who would look for their murderer? So I thought maybe I’d just go back to Florida, where it all had started.

In a twisted way it made sense. I’d show them. The cops, the FBI, the whole world. I didn’t do it, didn’t kill anyone – well, except that one murderer up North.

So about a day later I rumbled my clunker over the Okeechobee Bridge into Palm Beach. I parked across from the Brazilian Court. I sat staring at the yellow-hued building, smelling the breeze off the gardens, realizing I’d come to the end of my journey – right where it all had started.

I closed my eyes, hoping some karmic wisdom would hit me about exactly what to do next.

And when I opened my eyes, I saw my sign.

There was Ellie Shurtleff coming out the front door.