He had spent the past week poring over the investigation documents and pounding the databases, looking for any buried thread that might lead to René Cassaroy. Chasing down leads in the IRS documents, he’d uncovered a host of addresses on various continents. Many forwarded on to additional addresses in Croatia, Togo, the Republic of Maldives, and other nations lacking extradition treaties with the U.S. Evan had plenty such addresses himself, some no more than an office front set up to throw trackers off course. To get beyond the long arm of the FBI, René had probably retreated to one of these countries, but which one was anyone’s guess. Evan could spend a lifetime trekking around the globe, knocking on doors, staking out P.O. boxes, and talking to shady middlemen—unless he produced a concrete lead.

Which was why he was here.

Way across the floor, Melinda Truong balanced atop a ladder, reaching for a box at the top of a rise of industrial shelving. A sea of male workers milled nervously at the base of the ladder, calling up to her with gentle admonitions and offers of help. As she grabbed the box, one hip swung wide in a balance-beam correction, her waist-long black hair flinging wide like a flicked horse tail.

A collective gasp went up. The building itself seemed to hold its breath. Melinda righted herself and hopped down the ladder, her neon Nikes striking every other rung. At the bottom she presented the open box of X-Acto blades to an assistant and then scolded her workers in Vietnamese for doubting her.

“Now, get to work. I don’t pay you to worry.”

Nodding respectfully, they hurried back to their workstations. They were all half terrified of her and half in love with her.

For good reason.

Dusting her hands, she noticed Evan threading his way through the tables toward her and grinned.

“And here I thought you’d forgotten all about me,” she said, reaching up to take his face in her hands.

“Impossible.”

On tiptoes, she kissed both of his cheeks, cheating to catch the edge of his lips. “What do you need, darling? Another driver’s license? Death certificate? Fresh passport for that getaway you’re gonna take me on to Turks and Caicos?”

“I need your brain,” he said.

She crossed her arms. An Olympos double-action airbrush dangled from her hip. She’d padded the futuristic grip with pink tape to ensure that no one borrowed it. As the only woman in the building, she color-coded all her tools.

“My brain? I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Flattered. It’s a magnificent brain.”