He shuffled the printouts. Files on a Pakistani rug. Punctured IV bags draining onto the basement floor. The barn interior, two Mercedes Geländewagens and a wrestling mat.

He stopped. Stared at the last photo. Not what was in it but what was missing.

Melinda’s tiny hand gripped his elbow. “What?”

“A vintage Rolls.”

Evan had seen Dex drive away with it when he’d taken Despi. But it had never reappeared. René needed his toys. As his operation at the chalet drew to a close, he’d have wanted to get the car clear of the location, ready to meet him at his next stop. What had he said at the dinner table? You could take silk sheets and caviar and inject them directly into my veins. His obsession with luxury might be the thing that exposed him.

“What model was it?” Melinda asked.

“A Phantom.”

“That,” she said, “might prove useful.”

Evan stared at the photo taken outside the barn. The edge of the picture captured the bank of shoveled snow that rimmed the vehicle path. It was indented with dozens of notches made by the G-Wagons when they’d backed up for their three-point turns. Evan focused on a particular imprint in the icy rise. Another bumper mark, much lower, studded with the rectangular outline of a license-plate frame. But he knew there had been no license plate on the Rolls. As he squinted at the shape, Melinda leaned over him, her breath smelling of Juicy Fruit.

“What?” she asked.

“The license-plate indentation in the snow here. I don’t remember it having—”

“We’ll look at that in a minute,” she said. “Right now tell me—the Phantom. Was it a I, II, III, IV?”

“How can you tell?”

“I can’t. But come.” She steered him between two wet tables, the mist from a retrofitted insecticide sprayer moistening their cheeks. “Quan? Quan?”

A man in the far corner raised an arm hesitantly. Melinda beelined for him. He stood at attention as they approached. Covering his vast table, sandwiched between Mylar sheets, were sales brochures for vintage automobiles.

“You deal in car brochures?” Evan said.

“You’d be surprised,” Melinda said. “This Bugatti one here? It’s worth nearly three hundred grand.” She looked at Quan. “You need to help him identify a type of Rolls-Royce Phantom.”

She started to translate between the men, but Evan stepped in with badly accented Vietnamese. “It had big fenders that swooped up over the front wheels. Swept-back pillars so the windshield was on a tilt. And it had those things over the rear tires—”

“Fender skirts? With rivets?”

“Yes.”

“The Brits, they call them ‘spats.’ Close-coupled body style?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Was the passenger compartment somewhat short? Did it look … zoomy?”

“Yes.”

“Like this?” Quan tapped the Mylar covering an old Rolls brochure.

“Not exactly.”

Quan bent over, rummaging beneath his stool, and came up with a coffee-table book. Flipping through the pages. “This?”