Fleets of private cars and airplanes moved them around. But when it came to the things they could hold in their hands, the ornaments of their fingers and necks and cabinets and walls, they liked a little history with their sparkle. Sometimes the word history was a euphemism for notoriety.

The Anninger magpie was half-vulture.

There was silver in a sideboard that had been stolen in a coup, the aristocrats of that country hanged and burned while their homes were looted. Mrs. Anninger had a brooch, two rings, and a necklace that had been Nazi plunder. There were gun collections that should, by all rights, have been haunted by their accomplishments, and the oldest Anninger son had two goddamned shrunken heads in the library of his favorite house. Artwork that could be traced back through theft and raid was practically commonplace.

But Mr. Anninger Sr. and his only daughter shared a taste for the truly infamous, with displays and stashes of contraband and ghoulish souvenirs that made Owen hate them. It also made him work the hardest for those two in particular. It was a pet project of his. He was curious to see how far they would go. How much money would they burn to warm their boredom? How many dim thugs would they stack into the dangerous spaces, ordering their hirelings to climb over one another to reach the forbidden fruit for their dessert—the only thing left for them to want after their endless feast of too much of everything else.

The painting that Marcelline had acquired was one of a haul from the largest heist of personal property in history. It, along with its gallerymates, hadn’t been seen in more than twenty-five years. But that much legend would only get it to Mrs. Anninger–level unsavory.

The selling point, the sticky bit of trivia relayed to Owen from Marcelline’s perfect mouth—How did she not get lipstick on her wineglass?—was that this piece had more story than the others, and a story that not many people knew, possibly because it might have been bullshit. But rumor was good enough to turn up the want in a certain kind of person. In an Anninger kind of person.

This painting was arguably one of the more minor works stolen from the museum. It wasn’t the most missed or the most sought. But it had been the only one seen, or at least reported to have been seen, in the trophy room of a famous, and famously murdered, music producer. There had been whispers of bragging. There were always whispers of bragging. That was the game. That was the entire point. The long story of the painting was better than the quality of the artwork itself.

Per Marcelline, it was theirs, off the books, and the price was negotiable.

Yeah. If there was a chance of blood on it, Mr. Anninger would want it. Or his daughter.