I held my breath. Never, ever, ever had I heard such a sentiment from Bunny’s mouth, and I would have bet my favorite True Religion jeans that I never would.

“Bart was a shithead,” Bunny continued, still staring out the window. “I’m glad I divorced him. But it sure is nice to have someone to spend your life with.” She turned and met my eyes. “Sam was pretty special.”

“He is.” I shrugged. “Who knows, maybe he’s a pretty special con man.”

“You believe that?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe it either,” Bunny said. “So what are you doing about it?”

“I tried asking the cops and the feds, but they don’t know anything more than I do. I called this detective I know, but it doesn’t seem like he’s able to help me.”

She scoffed. “So try harder, Izzy. You’re no stranger to getting your hands dirty. Do it.”

“How?”

Her eyes narrowed with annoyance. “I don’t know.”

“But what if Sam is a thief? What if he stole Forester’s money?”

“Then when you find him, you can cut his little pecker off.”

“It’s not little, actually,” I said before I could stop myself. I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry.”

Bunny tossed her head back and laughed, one of only a handful of laughs I’d ever heard from her. “Well then, all the more reason to track that boy down.”

I nodded. Nodded again. Thought of what I had to do. “Thanks, Bunny.” And I left.

From a distance, John Mayburn followed Lucy DeSanto as she pulled out of the garage behind her Lincoln Park mansion. Compared with the other brick or wood-sided houses on the street, the place was a monstrosity. It was made of white-gray stone, took up three full lots on Bissell Street and was shaped like a huge L. From what Mayburn could tell from studying its aerial view, the inside of the L opened to a large courtyard, a luxury in Chicago.

The problem, at least for Mayburn, was that a massive wall made of the same white-gray stone surrounded the place, which made it impossible to see inside from the street. To add to the overkill, the wall was spiked on top.

He needed to be inside this house. Working with the auditors at the bank he’d been able to detect a pattern, his only lead on this case. Whenever DeSanto worked from home he predominantly handled transactions for a business called Advent Corporation, whereas when he was at the bank his transactions were easily spread among the thirty clients in his portfolio. Something funky was going on with DeSanto and Advent Corporation.

Advent claimed to do corporate business consulting. They actually had the nerve to call themselves “process reengineers,” which Mayburn found freaking priceless. Really, what did such people actually do?

There was one interesting thing he and the bank had pieced together about Advent-the year before, they’d had twenty-five million in sales and netted eighteen, and yet they did about thirty-five million in transactions with Bank Midwest. Always through Michael DeSanto.

Mayburn was starting to suspect Advent was a mob-owned corporation, and DeSanto was laundering funds for them. Why he always ran such transactions from home, Mayburn wasn’t exactly sure, since he could access the same network from work. What was probably happening was that DeSanto got instructions from Advent while at home, either through a secure phone line or through a different secure network. That was why Mayburn needed to get into the guy’s house and, in particular, onto his computer.

He wanted to crack this case, not just because the bank was jumping on him to do so, but also because it annoyed him that some smug jerkoff like DeSanto got the fat crib and the girl and the family and probably a pile of money in an offshore account. DeSanto seemed to have a full-fledged life, something Mayburn realized he was missing.

Since he hadn’t figured out a way to get inside, he was tailing Lucy again.

Her car was a ninety-thousand-dollar Mercedes; glittering navy-blue with ivory leather interior. She looked pretty in the car. Whenever she parked it by her florist, whom she visited every week, it seemed that sunlight flooded out of the door when she opened it, as if the sun had been trapped inside by those ivory seats and Lucy’s finespun, blond hair. Mayburn wondered if Lucy’s husband ever noticed these things. He doubted it.

Mayburn trailed Lucy’s car down Armitage Avenue and onto Clybourn. He knew then where she was going, and he groaned. He trailed her for another two blocks, then drove past her as she pulled in to the parking lot of Gym Matters, a business that taught gymnastics and movement skills to toddlers. Lucy had a three-year-old, and she took her here two afternoons a week. So far Mayburn hadn’t followed her inside. Too risky. But maybe the break he needed on this case was inside Gym Matters. Maybe he could get closer to Lucy this time. Maybe her friends would be there and she would discuss plans to redo her kitchen or her bathroom. If so, Mayburn could find out when that work would take place and he could show up early in the day, posing as a plumber. Or maybe Lucy would talk about a vacation they were planning, and while they were gone, Mayburn might be able to start a contained fire near the house and get inside with the firefighters. Mayburn had thought about doing that when the DeSanto family was in town, but he hated to scare Lucy and the kids, and from what he could tell, DeSanto was such a control freak, he’d get right inside with the firefighters, which would mean Mayburn wouldn’t get a chance to look at his computer.

Mayburn turned his car around and doubled back toward Gym Matters. He pulled in, parking far away from Lucy’s Mercedes. Inside the front doors was a long, narrow waiting area that overlooked a large room with a matted floor, where two instructors led around a pack of hyped-up kids. Lucy sat by herself at the far end of the waiting area. She had a pile of hot-pink thread in her lap, and it looked as if she was knitting a tiny cap. When Mayburn stepped up to the front desk, only six or so feet from her, she raised her head. For a moment, Mayburn was both anxious and thrilled that she was about to see him, and for the first time.

But Lucy DeSanto only looked through the glass wall until her eyes found her tiny daughter, Eve. She smiled-one of those contented private smiles that people make when they’re lost in their thoughts. Then she returned her attention to the bronze knitting needles, which made a pleasant click-clacking sound.

Mayburn told the clerk he was looking for information about programs for his daughter.

The clerk put a promotional sheet in front of him and invited Mayburn to watch the class in progress. He took a seat about four feet from Lucy.

It was exciting to be so close to her without her husband or girlfriends around. But the problem with her current solitude was the fact that he couldn’t learn anything from her that would help him get inside the DeSanto house.

He sat for a tedious hour, watching the group of toddlers race from one station to another, jumping on mini trampolines, climbing on large blocks, throwing themselves onto the padded floor in a fit of giggles. If anything, the kids seemed to pick up energy as the hour went by, as if someone had slipped speed into their juice boxes. He wondered how Lucy was ever going to get that kid to take a nap.

Lucy kept to herself and her knitting. Once, she answered her cell phone, giving Mayburn a burst of hope that some detail would filter through the room, but from what he could hear, the caller was her sister, and the discussion consisted only of what gift to order for their mother’s birthday.

When the hour came to an end, Lucy and her daughter went to the car.

He followed, frustrated, and got in his own car.

His cell phone vibrated from inside his jacket pocket. He took it out and saw the display, Isabel McNeil cell.