“It’ll take years to trace everything Adyton’s done,” Jace said to the men and women around the conference table, “but based on the Lincoln Bank SARs, he’s cleaning vast amounts of money.”

“Preferred method?” Margo asked, furiously typing notes into her laptop.

“Two. Layering, meaning multiple deposits to offshore banks, then using those funds to invest back into small businesses around Chicago—a bakery next door, local art galleries—all in family members’ names; and second, he uses smurfs: people who take his dirty cash, buy gambling chips or gift cards, and redeem for clean money. This bank’s due diligence manager has loosely tied in the Chicago mob as the operational go-between that handles the enormous cash flow generated by the artifact sale.”

Margo’s fingers stilled. “The mob? Why would they help a lone wolf?

“No doubt they’re receiving a massive commission, or maybe extorted Adyton to launder through them.”

“How long has Lincoln Bank kept track?” Dirk asked.

“Reports go back to two thousand eleven, which is when the Syrian uprising began. Deposits are all under ten grand, but the sudden and excessive transfers offshore are what triggered the banker’s suspicion.”

“Sean said the warehouse he was brought to was stacked with crates. He took a photo.” Margo’s gaze flicked to the Chicago police representative. “Place isn’t owned or leased by Adyton, though.”

“No, ma’am,” the cop said. “So far we haven’t found any in his name. This particular warehouse is owned by a Tomas Hussain. We’ll begin surveillance and send anyone entering or exiting through the facial recognition database. We’ll contact ComEd and AT&T and have them pull their records.”

Margo nodded her approval. Jace watched her enter the facts, but underneath the table he flipped his phone frontward and backward like a casino dealer. He could so multitask this better and get the task force back out on the street with their next assignments. She was taking too long to absorb all the intel.

“What about the rest of the eBay items?” she asked.

“His company account is listed as WindyCityAntiques,” Dirk began.

Jace bowed his head, listening to his buddy’s dry report as he plugged Gretch’s stalker’s phone number into the DAVID system.

Brandon Myers, thirty-three, divorced five years ago, with a restraining order shortly thereafter that was still in effect. Lived at a high-end address in Wilmette. Hedge fund manager at Hennings, a small but aggressive company twenty minutes from here. A quick swing by there before lunch and problem solved. This is not your lucky day, Brandon Myers.

“…we’re filtering his listings through the International Foundation for Art Research,” Dirk concluded, “and four cultural watchdog sites sponsored by INTERPOL and UNESCO.”

Margo nodded. “That about wraps it up.”

As the task force closed files and stood, Jace caught Margo’s eye. “Is Gretch good to go back to her apartment?” Or mine?

“From our end, yes.” The unspoken message hung in the air. Whoever was stalking her could still be a risk.

Jace nodded. “The other issue is taken care of too.” He looked forward to confronting the fucker, reassuring Gretch, absorbing her gratitude. Although there’d been that odd tone in Sean’s voice when he’d mentioned walking Gretch to the hotel. Jace flipped his phone back and forth faster to distract from the growing guilt. God knew he’d done enough poaching of his other brothers’ women. He didn’t need to steal from the one guy who was probably still a virgin.

* * *

As high commander of gutless wonders, Sean waited until Gretch disappeared into Walter’s office to go refill his coffee. Finally. The morning had been a tense standoff beginning with no new sneakers and no syllable uttered about last night. Given the Vermeer and the damn Quran that took all his focus, his impasse with Gretch was beyond his energy at the moment. Thus not getting coffee until just now, so they didn’t run into each other in the break room.

Sean reclaimed his stool, looked up the Wickham home number in the database, and dialed. It had been seven months since he’d worked in the mansion. What was the son’s name again?

“Wickham residence,” a woman answered. “May I help you?”

“Sean Quinn from Moore and Morrow art restoration—”

“I’ll get Mr. Wickham for you, sir.”

“Actually, I’d like to speak to his son.” Devon—Hannah’s sweetheart—was definitely not there, which left the son who’d bought the painting.

“Rick?”

That was it! “Rick, yes.”

A pause. “You said Moore and Morrow?”

Sean grinned at the suspicious tone. Based on the hideous painting, Rick knew nothing about art or the priceless masterpieces his father collected. “This is in regard to the painting he gave Mr. Wickham last October.”

“One moment.”

Sean paced his tiny cubicle, ignoring the urge to hang up and hand the problem over to the FBI. Finding the criminal was such a long shot, and his brain was eking out final synapses after zero sleep. But the mystery of how the stolen art came to be in Rick Wickham’s hands compelled him to hold.

“Hello?” Rick’s voice was groggy from sleep.

Sean checked his watch. After ten. “Yeah, hi.” He introduced himself and explained his role in restoring the gift. “May I ask where you bought that painting?”

“Some place on West Milwaukee. I forgot the name.”

“It would be on the receipt.”

“I left without one. I was in a hurry.” The irritated tone nudged a vague memory of the man, whose natural expression even in unguarded moments screamed entitled.

“May I ask how much you paid?” Sean asked.

“Seventy-five bucks.”

Gretch breezed out of Walter’s office with a stack of folders, glancing Sean’s way before he could hunker down in his cubicle. She stilled, expressionless, long enough for the moment to take an even more awkward turn.

“Hello?” Rick said loudly.

“Yeah.” Sean nodded to her and slowly sank onto the stool. “Did the clerk know this was a present for Harrison Wickham? Or that you were his son?”

“No.” A pause. “Why?”

This wasn’t useful. “It’s a question of the pigment the artist used,” Sean lied. “We were wondering whether the store had other pieces by this artist so we can research further. Maybe they’ve sold to your family before.”

“Sorry. All I remember is it was next to a Chinese restaurant.”

Sean bit back a laugh. “And the name of the restaurant?”

“Dunno. It had a red-and-black awning and a Yelp poster for the best Peking duck in Chicago. I’d gone for lunch and realized it was my dad’s birthday, so I stopped by the art store after.”

It should not be this difficult. “Nearest cross street?”

“Kimball?” The questioning tone didn’t instill confidence, but it was a start. Sean thanked him and hung up. He pulled up three Chinese restaurants on West Milwaukee and Google Earthed the location closest to the Kimball intersection. Bingo. ShenYen Restaurant had a red-and-black striped awning. The pink brick shop to the right had a giant paintbrush above the door. Donatello’s Art and Supplies was painted in gold, although the font was chipped to the point of tacky. He Googled the store, but their website was minimal and unenlightening.

Sean sighed. Chinese food was near the bottom of the food chain, but if he went there for lunch, he could inquire next door. Actually, he could kill three birds with one stone—neither he nor Gretch had brought in a bagged lunch. Time to stop being a coward.

He buzzed Gretch’s interoffice line, palms damp. His name would be blazoned across her console.

“Yes?” Her tone was guarded. He stared at his ash-gray partition because he had absolutely no comeback. She’d never answered the phone without insulting him before. Not even his first day, when any normal person would treat the new guy with kid gloves and overly bright smiles.

Then again, he’d seen for himself last night just how abnormal she was underneath the sassy personality and killer body. He ached for an insult. Ached to go back to the way things were before his stupid idea to hang at Teenie’s last Saturday night.

“Got lunch plans?” He winced at his high voice.

The silence over the line went on long enough for a drop of sweat to trickle down his temple.

“Are you asking me out?” The incredulity was more like her, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

“More like inviting myself along.” He kept his tone light. “Wherever you plan to go. Personally, I’m in the mood for Chinese. There’s a place on Milwaukee I’m dying to try.”

A muffled oath. He rose slowly, eyeing her down the hall as she thunked an elbow on the desk and slapped her forehead into her palm. Come on, Gretch. Let me have it with both barrels.

“All right.” She sighed. “But if you start with that weird chewing, I’m outta there.”