The photograph was of a painting of an alpine meadow, with mountains rising above a broad grassy open area ringed by conifers. Rebecca Weinstock searched Ridgeway’s face for signs of recognition, found none.

“So?” Ridgeway said as he passed the photograph back.

‘The painting is oil on wood, about six inches high and five inches wide,” Weinstock said. “It was painted between 1936 and 1938 by Frederick Stahl, a German painter. Stahl painted it in warm tones, much like the Italian Renaissance masters whose style he tried to emulate.” Rebecca paused, looked expectantly at Ridgeway.

“So?” Ridgeway said again. “What’s the point of all this? What’s it got to do with Zoe?”

“The point is, do you recognize the painting?”

Ridgeway shook his head. “Should I?”

She studied Ridgeway’s face. Finally Rebecca sighed and nodded her head like a woman who has just made a momentous decision. “Mr. Ridgeway, I don’t know exactly why, but I believe you. I don’t think you’ve ever seen the picture. But, yes, you should have; we have every reason to believe that’your wife had it in her possession when she left Kreuzlingen.

“There was something he was going to have a courier deliver here. I thought it would be here by now.” Ridgeway’s head spun as he heard Zoe’s voice. There it was, the clue that had hovered just beyond the edge of his consciousness for six months, the known but overlooked missing piece.

What could she have found? Something important enough to be kidnapped… killed?

“I’ve got one helluva surprise for the art world.” Seth found himself swept back into his nightmare, watching the dream gather speed, watching Zoe move away from him. “I’lldroptheseoffatthehotel’ssafedepositboxandberightback…”

A picture. Was that what Max was having delivered by courier? Did it ever arrive? If it did, where the hell was it?

“Mr. Ridgeway? Mr. Ridgeway, are you all right?”

The room at the Eden au Lac faded away and once again Ridgeway was looking across the table at the blond woman with the wise compelling eyes.

“You turned almost white there for a moment,” Rebecca said. “It looked like you had some kind of attack.”

“Just nerves.” He set the mug down. “These last few months have been tough and your visit this morning just sort of shot my nerves the rest of the way to hell.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this is a strain but it’s necessary to find the painting, and for you, to find out what happened to your wife.”

‘Tell me more about the picture,” Ridgeway said.

“You’re still sure you know nothing of this picture?” She held the photo up again. “Or its whereabouts?”

Ridgeway shook his head. “No,” he lied, “I don’t have a clue.”

Rebecca looked at him, then went on.

“Stahl, the artist, was a favorite of the SS. Hitler, they say, loved the man and his work. In fact when Stahl died in 1940 Hitler wrote the epitaph that rests over Stahl’s grave, wrote and delivered the eulogy himself.”