THE DENNIS STRATTON was sitting, legs crossed, in a well-cushioned wicker chair in the lavish sunroom overlooking the ocean. Multiple calls were lit up on the receiver and a cell phone was stapled to his ear. Vern Lawson, Palm Beach ’s head of detectives, was hovering close by, along with Stratton’s wife, Liz – a tall, attractive blonde in cream slacks and a pale blue cashmere sweater wrapped around her shoulders. A Latino housemaid flitted in and out with a tray of iced tea.

A butler led Ellie into the room. Stratton ignored them both. Ellie was bemused by how the rich lived. The more money they had, the more padding and layers of swaddling they seemed to put between themselves and the rest of us. More insulation in the walls, thicker fortress bulwarks, more distance to the front door.

“Sixty million,” Dennis Stratton barked into the phone, “and I want someone down here today. And not some flunky from the local office with an art degree.”

He punched off the line. Stratton was short, well built, slightly balding on top, with intense, steely eyes. He was wearing a tight-fitting, sage green T-shirt over white linen pants. Finally he glared at Ellie as though she were some annoying junior accountant with a question about his taxes. “Find everything you need down there, Detective?”

“Special Agent,” Ellie said, correcting him.

“Special Agent.” Stratton nodded. He craned his neck toward Lawson. “Vern, you want to see if the ‘special agent’ needs to see any other part of the house.”

“I’m fine.” Ellie waved off the Palm Beach cop. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to go over the list.”

“The list?” Stratton sighed, like, haven’t we already done this three times before? He slid a sheet of paper across a lacquered Chinese altar table Ellie pegged as early eighteenth century. “Let’s start with the Cézanne. Apples and Pears…”

“ Aix-en Provence,” Ellie interjected. “1881.”

“You know it?” Stratton came alive. “Good! Maybe you can convince these insurance idiots what it’s really worth. Then there’s the Picasso flutist, and the large Pollock up in the bedroom. These sons of bitches knew just what they were doing. I paid eleven million for that alone.”

Overpaid. Ellie clucked a little. Down there, some people tried to buy their way into the social circuit through their art.

“And don’t forget the Gaume…” Stratton started to leaf through some papers on his lap.

“Henri Gaume?” Ellie said. She checked the list. She was surprised to see it there. Gaume was a decent postimpressionist, moderately collectible. But at thirty to forty thousand, a rounding error next to what else had been taken.

“My wife’s favorite, right, dear? It was like someone was trying to stab us right through the heart. We have to have it back. Look…” Stratton put on a pair of reading glasses, fumbling on Ellie’s name.

“Special Agent Shurtleff,” Ellie said.

“Agent Shurtleff.” Stratton nodded. “I want this perfectly clear. You seem like a thorough sort, and I’m sure it’s your job to nose around here a bit, make a few notes, then go back to the office and file some report before you break for the day…”

Ellie felt the blood boil in her veins.

“But I don’t want this tossed up the chain of command in a memo that gets dropped on some regional director’s desk. I want my paintings back. Every single one of them. I want the top people in the department working on this. The money means nothing here. These paintings were insured for sixty million…”

Sixty million? Ellie smiled to herself. Maybe forty, at the most. People always have an inflated impression of what they own. The Cézanne still life was ordinary. She’d seen it come up at auctions several times, never commanding more than the reserve. The Picasso was from the Blue Period, when he was turning out paintings just to get laid. The Pollock – well, the Pollock was good, Ellie had to admit. Someone had steered him right there.

“But what they took here is irreplaceable.” Stratton kept his eyes on her. “And that includes the Gaume. If the FBI isn’t up to it, I’ll get my own people involved. I can do that, you understand. Tell that to your superiors. You get the right people on it for me. Can you do that, Agent Shurtleff?”

“I think I have what I need,” Ellie said. She folded the inventory into her notes. “Just one thing. Can I ask who set the alarm when you went out last night?”

“The alarm?” Stratton shrugged. He glanced at his wife. “I don’t know that we did. Lila was here. Anyway, the interior alarms are always activated. These paintings were connected straight to the local police. We’ve got motion detection. You saw the setup down there.”

Ellie nodded. She packed her notes in her briefcase. “And who else knew the code?”

“Liz. Me. Miguel, our property manager, Lila. Our daughter, Rachel, who’s at Princeton.”

Ellie looked at him closely. “The interior alarm, I meant.”

Stratton tossed down his papers. Ellie saw a wrinkle carved into his brow. “What are you suggesting? That someone knew the code? That that’s how they got in here?”

He started to get red in the face. He looked over at Lawson. “What’s going on here, Vern? I want qualified people looking into this. Professionals, not some junior agent, making accusations…I know the Palm Beach cops are sitting on their hands. Can’t we do something about this?”

“Mr. Stratton,” the Palm Beach detective said, looking uncomfortable, “it’s not like this was the only thing going on last night. Five people were killed.”

“Just one more thing,” Ellie said, headed for the door. “You mind telling me what the interior alarm code was?”

“The alarm code,” Stratton said, his lips tightening. She could see he resented this. Stratton was used to snapping his fingers and seeing people jump. “Ten, oh two, eighty-five,” he recited slowly.

“Your daughter’s birthday?” Ellie asked, trying a hunch.

Dennis Stratton shook his head. “My first IPO.”

JUNIOR AGENT. Ellie seethed as the butler closed the front door behind her and she stepped onto the long pebbled drive.

She’d seen a lot of big-time houses over the years. Problem was, they were usually filled with big-time assholes. Just like this rich clown. She was reminded that this was what made her want to leave Sotheby’s in the first place. Rich prima donnas and jerks like Dennis Stratton.

Ellie climbed into her office Crown Vic and called in to Special Agent in Charge Moretti, her superior at C-6, the Theft and Fraud division. She left word that she was headed to check out some homicides. As Lawson had said, five people were dead. And 60 million in art had disappeared the same night. Or at least 40…

It was only a short drive from Stratton’s over to the Brazilian Court. Ellie had actually been there once when she had first moved down, for brunch at the Café Boulud, with her eighty-year-old aunt, Ruthie.

At the hotel, she badged her way past the police and the press vans gathered outside and made her way to room 121 on the first floor. The Bogart Suite. It reminded Ellie that Bogart and Bacall, Cary Grant, Clark Gable, and Garbo had all stayed at this hotel.

A Palm Beach cop was guarding the door. She flashed her FBI ID to the usual look – a long, scrutinizing stare at the photo and then her again – as if the cop were some skeptical bouncer checking fake IDs.

“It’s real.” Ellie let her eyes linger on him, slightly annoyed. “I’m real, too.”

Inside, there was a large living room decorated smartly in a sort of a tropical Bombay theme: British Colonial antique furniture, reproduction amaryllis prints, palm trees waving outside every window. A Crime Scene tech was spraying the coffee table, trying to dig up prints.