THIRTY

LOWE COLLECTED HIS THINGS from the holding window and nodded at the captain before heading upstairs to the police station lobby with Bo.

“Thanks again,” he told Winter’s assistant.

“You should’ve called last night,” he chastised, his slender, sinewy body outpacing Lowe’s as they ascended into dreary midday light filtering in from gray windows. “If Chief Ryan knew they had a Magnusson locked up on trumped-up charges, he would’ve gotten out of his bed to come here and personally haul their asses over the coals.”

Lowe straightened his necktie and attempted to brush out the wrinkles in his suit jacket. His back was killing him. He’d dozed off in the jail cell once or twice, only getting enough sleep to make him grouchy. He was also vaguely aware that he hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday’s lunch. And yet, none of those discomforts matched the unyielding heavy ache in the pit of his stomach.

Monk wanted him dead.

Levin was eager to expose him for a forger and rip away any credibility he had as an archaeologist.

The hunt for the crossbars was now hopeless, so he’d certainly voided his payout from Bacall. And in the process, he’d likely resigned the man to his death, thereby leaving his daughter exposed to his dangerous ex-partner’s dark magic and unhealthy obsessions.

And—the worst of it all—he’d not only lost Hadley; he might very well have ruined her reputation and career.

“Christ, Bo. I’ve fucked up.”

Bo tugged the brim of his newsboy cap and agreed heartily, confirming his fears with an enthusiastic expression in Cantonese that Lowe could only guess meant “thoroughly.”

“I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t tell Winter about this,” Lowe said.

“I’m sure you would,” Bo agreed. “You’re a decent man, despite your faults, and I like you. But my loyalty is to Winter, and you know that.”

“Just take me home. But I need to stop by Adam’s first and find out why he never showed.”

The captain had said Adam had called at ten, promising he’d be there in a half hour. It was now past one. Anything could’ve held him up, but with Lowe’s recent luck, chances were it wasn’t good. And though he desperately wanted to head straight to Hadley’s, he had to check on Adam first.

Bo pointed to the curb. “I drove Lulu here. Jonte’s waiting out front in the Pierce-Arrow. I’ll ride with him to the theater and pick up the Packard. You’d better hope to God it’s still in one piece or Winter might have to kill you twice.”

“Once is more than enough,” Lowe said.

“Hey,” Bo said in a kinder voice. “Chin up. You’ll find your way out of this. Always do.”

There was a first time for everything.

Lowe buttoned up his coat and watched Bo jog down the station’s front steps and slide into Winter’s limousine. But as Lowe started out the door, the police operator said something to one of the detectives that caught his attention.

He backtracked to the front desk. “Did you just say Fillmore?”

The operator glanced up at him, eyes wary, and darted a questioning look at the detective.

“Yeah, Fillmore District,” the detective confirmed. “Earlier this morning.”

“A homicide?”

“We don’t know that yet. What’s it to you?”

Lowe felt the blood drain from his face. His fingertips began tingling. He nearly tripped as he rushed out of the building, unable to say another word.

His mind was numb as he sped away on Lulu, flying through the city. Stop signs blurred. He ignored honking horns and gave no thought to recklessly cutting corners as he wove in and out of traffic on wet pavement.

He brought Lulu to a screeching halt, her back end fishtailing as he skidded behind two police cars. A crowd of people looked to be disbanding behind a sawhorse blocking their view of the shop. A couple of uniformed cops guarded the door.

Lowe’s heart dropped to his stomach when he spotted the black City Morgue truck rumbling away down the street. He jumped off of Lulu and rushed toward the shop’s entrance, shouting in Swedish.

“Whoa.” The police grabbed his arm. “You can’t go in there. You speak English?”

Lowe switched languages. “Adam Goldberg is the owner of this shop, and I’m his friend. Where is he? What’s happened?”

“Calm down, sir. What’s your name?”

“Lowe Magnusson.” He glanced at the men’s faces, forcing himself to look closer and see if he recognized either as one of the many cops Winter paid off; he didn’t. “I’m Winter Magnusson’s brother.”

Recognition clicked behind the first cop’s eyes. He whispered something to the other man. And when Lowe tried to move around them, he said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t want to go in there.”

“Yes, I goddamn do.” Lowe shoved the man’s hand away. “What’s happened to Adam?”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” the cop said, holding up both hands to block him. “Your friend was found dead a couple of hours ago.”

“We’re real sorry for your loss,” the other said solemnly, removing his hat to cant his head.

Lowe glanced back and forth between them as the words sank in.

Dead.

Gone.

Impossible.

A mistake.

Lowe blinked and tried to speak, but his throat wouldn’t work. He licked dry lips and tried again. “How? Why? Oh, God—where’s Stella? Is she . . .”

Please God, no.

This couldn’t be happening. Not again. He’d grieved for too many people. He couldn’t lose Adam and Stella. He just couldn’t. This wasn’t happening.

“Maybe he should talk to the detective,” someone said. “Mr. Magnusson? You okay?”

He nodded.

They let him inside, but stopped him from going past the counter. The shop was wrecked. Broken glass, tools scattered. And all these cops inside here made it feel wrong—a place that he knew as well as his own home suddenly felt foreign.

“Detective Cohen,” the first cop said. “This is Lowe Magnusson. Friend of Goldberg.”

A dark-headed man in a long navy raincoat glanced up from his notepad. “Mr. Magnusson, you say?”

“That Magnusson,” the cop clarified.

The detective gave Lowe a sympathetic nod. “I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss. You were close to Mr. Goldberg?”

Lowe nodded, trying to look around the man’s shoulders to see. “Where’s Stella?”

“The little girl?”

“Ja, ja. Where is she?”

The detective put a hand on Lowe’s shoulder. “She’s all right. In safe hands. Maybe a little traumatized—shop owner next door found her hiding beneath the table over in the corner.”

“Oh . . . Jesus.” Lowe began to unravel. His hands were shaking so badly, he clenched them into fists to make them stop. “I d-don’t understand what’s happening.”

“When was the last time you saw your friend?”

Think. When? “I think it was two days ago. Three.” When he’d come to tell Adam about the new plan. The plan to switch the amulet paperwork. Give Monk the real documents and the forged amulet. Give Dr. Bacall the real thing. “I brought sandwiches,” he said, as if that mattered. They’d played hide-and-seek with Stella.

The detective scribbled down Lowe’s answer in a small notepad. “And how did you know him?”

“We’re childhood friends. I grew up in this neighborhood.”

“How old was he?”

“What?”

“His age?”

“Same age as me,” Lowe said, confused. “Twenty-five. What difference does that make?”

The detective squinted at Lowe, and then nodded toward the back of the shop. “It appears someone was looking for something here. You got any idea what that might’ve been? Did Mr. Goldberg have any enemies? Anyone harassing him?”

Christ. Was this his fault? Was it Monk or Levin? Couldn’t be. How would they have known? One of Monk’s men? He’d been so careful. And Monk acted like he didn’t know who the forger was when he’d questioned Lowe in Levin’s office at the theater last night.

“I don’t think so,” Lowe said.

“The couple next door—”

“The Ackermans,” Lowe said. “The hardware store.”

“Yeah. The wife said she saw a dame go inside around nine thirty.”

Lowe stilled. “Who?”

“Didn’t know her.” The detective checked his penciled notes. “Black hair. Tall. Dark fur coat.”

Hadley.

“Said she was in there for a quarter hour or so. Left by taxi. As soon as she was gone, a man got out of a blue Cadillac and entered the shop.”

Lowe didn’t know anyone with a blue Caddy. But God almighty, what the hell was Hadley doing over here? She’d tracked down Adam and someone followed her. Who?

“Mrs. Ackerman heard shouting,” the detective continued. “Said she heard Mr. Goldberg telling the visitor to get out. Tried to get into the shop to see what was going on, but the door was locked. Had her husband knock on the door, but no one came. So they called us. We had a patrol car in the neighborhood, but by the time the officer got here, the man had raced out the door and taken off in the Cadillac.”

“Did Mrs. Ackerman get a good look at him?”

The detective nodded. “Dark hair. Tall. Thin. Handsome guy, she said. Her husband got the tag number.” The detective narrowed his eyes. “You know anyone named Oliver Ginn?”

It felt as though the floor suddenly washed out from under his feet. He put a hand on the counter to steady himself and tried to keep his voice light. “His name sounds familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve heard it.”

“Well, we can’t seem to place him at all. Dispatch gave us the address listed for the registration, and it doesn’t exist anymore. Destroyed in the Great Fire. Belonged to a man who died. Name of”—he checked his notes—“Noel Irving.”