In the time she’d spent with Anton, she had noticed a keen intelligence at work behind the cold stare he forced on the world. He wasn’t given to much emotion, but around her, when it was just the two of them, she had noticed a softer side to his personality—a man who loved his mother deeply and took care of her. A man who longed for a sense of romance and was frustrated by the constant vanity and lack of emotional and intellectual depth he found in the women he dated.

Ellie slid into a booth upholstered in fine, rich leather. Anton sat across from her, the circular table between them small, and took the elegant menus from the hostess. “Bring us two Macallans on the rocks,” he told her. “The eighteen, not the twelve.”

As the hostess flitted away, Anton looked the woman up and down, his fingers fishing for something inside his suit jacket pocket. Everything about this place was intimate—the dim modern lighting and limited and spacious seating to give patrons a sense of privacy and importance, which was why, according to her Google research, a lot of LA’s power crowd came here. The men here this evening wore crisp suits and ties and didn’t look a day under fifty. All the women were beautiful and wore fancy jewelry and stunning dresses and didn’t look a day over thirty.

“That thing around your neck,” he said.

“My choker?”

“Whatever. Where’d you get it?”

“My mother gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday,” Ellie lied.

“Those aren’t real diamonds.”

“If they were, I would have hocked it a long time ago.” Anton knew all about Faye Simpson’s gambling problem.

“It looks tacky and cheap,” Anton said. “Take it off.”

Ellie didn’t hesitate, took it off without a fuss. She’d started to wrap it around her fingers so it would fit neatly in her clutch when Anton reached out and said, “Give it to me.”

“Won’t look nearly as good on you.”

He motioned for her to hand it over, impatient, his eyes dead. She placed the bugged choker in his extended hand. He got up, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked away.

Did he know the choker was bugged? That the LAPD was nearby, listening in on their conversation? If he or someone else decided to take a closer look at the necklace, they’d find the microphone. She saw Anton heading in the direction of the restrooms. He had taken his phone with him and it looked like he was either thumbing in the passcode to unlock his phone or dialing a number or possibly sending a text.

Roland and the guys who had trained her to go undercover had told her she had a pretty solid poker face. She held it in place in case anyone was watching—Anton had people everywhere—but she couldn’t put out the fire inside her head, the voices screaming at her. Part of her fear had to do with Anton taking her choker, but the other part—and it was, surprisingly, much larger—had to do with the excitement of being so close to knowing something. Why was Anton looking for Gingerbread Man? And why had he invited her to this fancy, high-priced restaurant and picked out these expensive clothes she was wearing if he wasn’t going to bring her deeper into the fold, involve her in something bigger? This dinner, she was certain, wasn’t about Anton trying to get into her pants. He had shown no interest in her in that way, thank God.