Because he’d finally found Kowalski. Or at least his kid.

A grinning six-year-old stared out from the screen. Little Tony Ward was in the first grade and played the piano. Kid was something of a virtuoso, in fact.

His mother was Angelina. His father was Anthony. It had taken a little digging, but DJ had found one photo featuring his former mentor. Roland Kowalski was Anthony Ward. A rich real estate developer who owned huge tracts of land.

So that’s where he buried all of the people he had us kill for him. Good to know.

He’d first check Ward’s home and loot whatever he could put his hands on. And if Kowalski had guards? DJ would kill them the way he’d killed those two cops. He’d go in under the cover of darkness, scope out a vantage point from which he could set up his rifle, and take out the guards one by one.

The way he wanted to kill the small army patrolling the Sokolov house. Difference was, the Sokolovs were expecting him, just like Kowalski had been when he’d set up the warehouse trap.

Kowalski wouldn’t be expecting an attack on his home—and his thugs were a lot less likely to call the cops. Assuming the man didn’t have a few of his own on payroll. DJ wouldn’t have put it past him, nor would he let it stop him. Once he got his hands on Kowalski’s weapons—and once the Sokolovs’ party was over and the heavy security dispersed—he’d be able to tackle the Russian family’s remaining guards single-handedly.

He hadn’t expected to find Anthony Ward’s address in the white pages but was still disappointed when it didn’t show up at all—under any of his names or legit businesses. Damn these people and their corporations.

“That’s a bust,” he muttered and went back to staring at the photo of Tony Ward with his class the night of the recital.

And then noticed the caption: Miss Stack’s First Grade Spring Concert.

The school’s website had featured a list of staff. With their photos.

Thirty seconds later he had a full name: Miss Stephanie Stack.

A minute after that he had Miss Stephanie Stack’s address, because she was a normal person.

Teachers had access to their students’ personal information, like their birthdays and food allergies. And the names and addresses of their parents in case of emergency.

He stood and stretched. “Miss Stephanie, here I come.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, MAY 28, 3:40 P.M.

Tom turned his gaze from Liza to find Rafe clutching his cell and giving him a death glare. “So you read the news, huh?” Tom asked, surprised that Rafe hadn’t cornered him already.

Rafe jerked his head toward a spare bedroom at the end of the hallway, setting off with an angry gait as he leaned on his cane. Tom followed with a sigh.

Rafe spun to face him as soon as he’d closed the door. “What the hell, Tom?” he hissed. “Belmont straight-up murdered an innocent woman and two cops, and you didn’t tell me?”