Storm put his hand on the blond girl’s arm. She spun on him with eyes the size of saucers, her lips parted, her skin slick.

“Where’s Sophia?” he asked her.

“I … I … I …” she said. And then she seemed to recognize him and whispered harshly, desperately, “She said fifty. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

“Five hundred, the bid is five hundred thousand, the bid is at half a million pounds …”

Storm nodded, squeezed her arm. “Drop it, honey. You’re licked. The guy’d go to a zillion. Where’s Sophia?”

“Five hundred, five hundred, five hundred …” The auctioneer lifted his gavel. The blonde turned to stare at him with her hand lifted as if to bid again.

“Trust me on this, kid. Drop the potato,” said Storm. “Where’s Sophia?”

Her face rolled back towards him, she gawped up at him as if from a nightmare. His eyes went to the brooch on her sweater. To the dimwitted terror in her perky, cherubic face.

“I don’t know,” she said. “She told me to come here instead …”

“She told you …” said Storm. The woman is asking for your help, said Harper Albright in his mind, crying for your help.

“Sold! For five hundred thousand pounds!” said the auctioneer.

His forearm fell. The gavel hit the podium. Whack. Storm felt the blond girl jump in his hand.

Perhaps the auction represents some sort of crisis point …

The audience burst into loud applause, loud laughter and conversation. Storm’s gaze arced over the room wildly. Caught a glimpse of the man in the white suit. Holding up his paddle—number 313—in his green-gloved fingers. Grinning, his teeth predatory. And the others in the seats with their hands moving, coming together. The toteboard caught at five hundred thousand.

Sophia saying: This is where I want to die.

“Oh my God,” said Richard Storm.

It was one minute before eight.

There were some people in the audience who figured he had stolen a purse or a necklace. It was their best guess when they saw him drive back recklessly up the aisle. Wielding his broad shoulders left and right. Shoving people aside without mercy.

But then he was gone, dashing through the rear doorway, and no one was screaming “Thief! Thief!” so it must’ve been all right. The Rhinehart panel was already being removed from the easel. Another painting was already being lifted into place. The audience turned away and forgot Richard Storm. The business of the auction went on.