"Exactly," Jonathan said. He carefully removed the canvas from the frame and rolled it up. He took a plastic tube from his pocket and slipped the painting inside.

"What is something like that worth anyways?" Lew asked. He was starting to wonder if this whole Robin Hood approach was the best idea.

"Ten million dollars," Jonathan said.

"And there were twenty of them!?" Lew was honestly shocked. Then he spotted the jewels in the case by the wall. "Maybe we make this worth our while," he said with a nod of his head.

"You do and you're on your own. That's not why I did this. Speaking of which," Jonathan said, pulling something out of his pocket. Lew saw it was a stick of charcoal. He stepped up to the wall where the painting had been and drew a large flat oval. On either side he drew what looked like mirror images of the number three. When he was done, he stepped back and admired his work.

"I don't get it. What's a butterfly got to do with van Gogh," Lew said, looking at the image.

"It's not a butterfly. Before we crossed paths, I did a few years in Africa, mostly around Kenya and the Gold Coast. There are African symbols everywhere down there, and they're so old no one knows who made them or when they were first used. This is the hye wo nyhe. It means 'the one who burns you, be not burned.' "

"Sure, whatever you say," Lew said. He didn't get it at all. All he got was that it wasn't okay to steal something you could sell, but it was okay to draw on the walls with a crayon.

"It's a symbol of forgiveness," Jonathan said, as they turned and headed out.

"Forgiveness? You're forgiving this asshole after what you told me about him?" Lew thought he could know this guy for years and would never understand him completely. But he did think it was a pretty cool symbol.

They made their way back out to the balcony without incident, leaving the guard tied up. If they let him go, he'd be shot for sure. Not that he had much chance now. Lew didn't know how Jonathan felt, but he had to admit, taking anything else would have made it a whole different event. He felt like he'd done something good with the skills the army had given him, for the first time in a long time. He'd feel even better once they unloaded the painting and weren't walking around with a ten-million-dollar bull's-eye on their backs.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Jonathan hung up a payphone and ran across the street, almost getting clipped by a cab in the morning rush hour. He made it to the table at the outdoor cafe where Lew was sitting, gnawing down the closest thing to a McMuffin that he could order.

"You look like you just won at the track," Lew said. "Did you set up the exchange with the museum? How'd they take the idea that they've got a fake on the wall?"

"Oh, I set it up all right," Jonathan said, motioning to the waiter for more coffee. Lew thought the last thing this guy needed was caffeine, the way he was bouncing.

"And?"

"They want to do some tests on the one they've got before they buy in, but they're totally on board, trust me. I'm going to call them tonight. We'll probably do the exchange in Amsterdam in a couple of days."

"So what's got you so fired up?" Lew asked.

"Did you know there's a finder's fee for stolen art?" Jonathan asked, holding his cup up for the waiter to fill. Lew had stopped chewing and was eyeing his new friend, trying to see if this was a joke or not.

"What kind of finder's fee?"

Jonathan took his time, taking a sip of his coffee. "Ah, that's good."

"Don't make me hurt you," Lew said. "How much?"

"Since we want to remain anonymous, we had to take a bit of a lower commission, but it's still-"

"How much!?"

Jonathan smiled and leaned forward. "Eighteen percent."

"Of ten million," Lew said when he stopped choking.

"Yes, sir."

"I think I just found my purpose in life," Lew said, holding up his coffee cup.

"You and me both, my friend," Jonathan said, clinking his coffee cup to Lew's like they were drinking champagne, which soon they would be. Lew looked in Jonathan's eyes and knew they weren't talking about the same career. Oh, they'd be doing the same thing, but not for the same reasons.

Not at first, anyway.

9.

FCI Yazoo City Yazoo, Mississippi 12:10 A.M. Local Time LEW MADE SURE the phone was in the exact position it had been before he'd called Jonathan, not that it was likely Quinn would notice if it wasn't. His desk was a mess of papers, receipts, and electronics manuals. Lew pushed the edge of the blotter to the side and smiled when he saw several travel brochures hidden underneath. If nothing else, this wasn't a setup. Of course, that didn't guarantee Quinn would make good on his promise if Lew went through with it. He needed some leverage.

Before he could search the office any further, he saw Quinn making his way across the yard. He only had moments before he'd have to commit one way or the other. After the phone call, he pretty much knew what he was going to do, but if he feigned indecision it might give him a chance to find that leverage he needed.

Lew sat down. He looked away from the television. It was just a rerun of Match Game, but the memory of what he'd seen there was still too fresh. He acted bored as he heard Quinn's footsteps approaching.

Quinn, damp and smoky, pattered in and immediately unlocked Lew's cuff. He strained up on his toes and peered out the window like a kid about to steal a cookie. When he was apparently satisfied, he slipped around his desk, fumbled with some keys, and unlocked a drawer.

"Everyone's either locked down or working the fire," Quinn said. "The truck is parked at the loading dock. Get it done and then hide in the back with the body. The doc is busy treating some wounded men. The truck driver is locked down in the waiting room. We couldn't have planned it better."

"What do you mean we, paleface. Did I miss the part where I agreed to do this?" Lew said, knowing he could stall for only so long. Quinn was right; if he was on the level, this was the perfect window to get this done.

Quinn took his hand out of the drawer, and Lew looked down the barrel of a snub-nosed revolver. A long moment stretched out before Quinn flipped the gun around and offered the handle to Lew.

"Please," Quinn said. Lew realized Quinn had gotten himself into a pickle and Lew was the guy's only way out. The funny thing was Quinn was his way out too. Lew took the gun, careful to remember where he touched it. He'd wipe those spots, and the other fingerprints on the gun would be his insurance.

"Aren't you worried that the autopsy will show a stabbed prisoner is full of lead?" Lew asked.

Quinn's reaction was silent but telling. "Colero's not gonna make it to the coroner, is he?"

"You better hurry" was all Quinn said. Lew stood up, put the gun in his waistband.

"How is Costa Rica this time of year?" Lew asked. The look on Quinn's face was priceless. But the good humor didn't last once Lew thought of what he was about to do.

LEW PEERED INSIDE the door leading to the loading dock. Miguel Colero sat on a beat-up picnic table smoking a cigarette and looking bored. Lew figured he must have greased a few more guards to be here instead of in the morgue. Beyond Colero was the coroner's cube van, the back gate rolled up and waiting to be fed. Inside was a single pine box. Other than that, the van's cargo space was empty, save for a storage locker in each corner for supplies.

He eased through the door and across the concrete floor toward Colero. Lew reached for the gun in his waistband just as his victim turned around.

"What are you doing here, ese?" Colero asked.

Lew pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. Colero's demeanor remained unchanged.

"You're probably not going to believe this . . ." Lew said, then, "Holy shit!" Lew looked at the truck with shock plain in his eyes. Colero turned and Lew slammed the butt of the gun into the back of his head.

Colero groaned and fell face first onto the picnic table, like he'd been served up for a feast. Lew ran back and checked the hallway. When he saw it was clear, he put the gun back in his waistband and searched the shelves along one wall. It took him a few minutes, but he finally found some duct tape.

By the time he had Colero trussed up like a shiny gray mummy, the pint-sized drug lord started to come around.

"Chingada Madre," he said groggily.

"That's pretty bad language for an accountant, hombre," Lew said. He tore off a foot-long length of tape before he put the roll back on the shelf and checked the door again.

"What the hell are you doing?" Colero said, fighting his bindings.

"I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Lew said.

"Try me, hijo de puta!"

"I'm saving your miserable, worthless life," Lew said. He put the length of tape over Colero's mouth and then heaved him up on his shoulder. "But I can see how you'd be confused."

10.

Washington Heights New York City 1:00 A.M. Local Time "SLOW DOWN. YOU'RE not making any sense," Emily said.

Dan Cooper, a young man who couldn't have been more than twenty years old, had shown up at her door ten minutes after she'd gotten home.

He was some sort of intern for the New York Times. He was short, slight, and had shaved his head and sported a patchy goatee in an apparent attempt to look older. It hadn't worked. He looked like a cancer patient with a dirty face. If he'd paid more than fifty dollars for the suit that hung on him like a sack, it would be a crime. He wore black and white Keds running shoes, one of them with the laces untied. He'd been struggling with a mishmash of folders and rolled-up tubes under his spindly arms when she'd answered the door. But all of that wasn't why she'd let him in, it was what he'd said: "I know who murdered those people."

But he'd been talking nonstop for ten minutes and still wasn't making any sense. Several of his rolled-up tubes were unwound on her kitchen table. They were maps of New York, and Dan had drawn on them with several colored markers.

"I'm sorry. I get excited sometimes. Could I get a glass of water if it's not too much trouble?"

"Help yourself," Emily said. She scanned the maps again while he went to the sink, but her focus waned when she realized Dan was standing beside her oven.

The metal case of cash had been waiting for her on the kitchen table when she got home. Once she got over the idea of someone being inside her apartment while she'd been gone, she looked inside. The cash from the limo was there, along with a folder with a single word on it: "WAGNER." Then the kid's knocking had startled her, and she'd dropped everything on the floor. After quickly scooping the contents back into the case, she'd panicked and jammed the case into her oven before answering her door.

"Um, you still haven't told me how you got past the car out front." Wagner had sent a car to watch her, but the masked man had warned her that might happen. Even so, it had been disturbing to her, so she wondered how this Chihuahua of a person had handled it with such composure.

Dan turned around, holding his glass with a self-assured grin on his face. "I paid a homeless guy twenty bucks to pee on their car," he said with pride before putting the glass of water to his lips. Emily shook her head. Maybe she'd underestimated this guy.

"Brazen," Emily said. "Most seasoned reporters wouldn't have figured out how to get past a couple of FBI agents."

Water shot across the room. Dan almost dropped the glass as he coughed another few ounces out of his lungs. Emily jumped up and went to him, taking the glass from him and patting him on the back.

"F . . . FBI?" Dan managed when he could breathe again.

"Yes. Who did you think they were?"

"Jeez, I just thought it was a couple of reporters. I think I'm going to be sick."

"Not here!" Emily said, grabbing him and pushing him toward the bathroom. They almost made it.

Half an hour later, she'd finished cleaning up the mess. Dan lay on her sofa, his suit jacket hung on the back of a chair, and a cool compress rested on his forehead. She sat beside him and with a motherly touch, checked his temperature by pressing her hand to his cheek.

"Feeling better?"

"How am I going to be a reporter if I go to prison?"

Emily looked at his slight build and thought if he went to prison, a career choice would be the least of his problems. "You're not going to prison," she said, thinking if anyone in that room was headed that way, it was she.

"I am. I know I am. Cripes, they're probably listening to us right now," Dan said. She saw him getting worked up again and tried to think of a way to distract him.

"Tell me about this again," Emily said, walking over to the table. "What do you think you found?"

"It's probably nothing," Dan said, carefully sitting up. But she could tell by his voice he didn't believe that. By his voice and the fact that he was in her apartment. He'd apparently tried to get his coworkers to help him, but they wouldn't listen to him. She was his last-ditch attempt for vindication.

"Humor me," she said. "The dots all along the streets. What are they?"

"Traffic cameras," Dan said, carefully standing and coming over to the table. They sat down. Talking about it seemed to relax him. And the sooner he recovered, the sooner she could get him out of here.

"What about them?" Emily asked, egging him on.

"During each murder, the traffic cameras in the area went dark for a short period of time. Just a few minutes. Just long enough to . . . well . . . do it and get away without being seen."

"Do they know how he did it?" Emily asked, interested in the answer.

"No. Or not that I know of, anyways. But here's the thing, it's a pretty unique trick. So I started thinking, if I was smart enough to know turning off the traffic cameras would let me kill without being seen, what about my getaway?" This was where he'd gotten all excited last time and Emily had lost him. She wasn't sure if she finally got her mind off the money in her oven or something, but this time it was making sense.

"If you can't see him kill, you just look at the cameras outside of the dark zone and you can piece it together."

"Right," Dan said. "My uncle works for the traffic department, so I asked him for a listing of any other dark areas around the same time as the murders."

"Good thinking," Emily said, honestly impressed.

"Thanks. Well, the first two murders were dead ends. No other cameras went dark. I figure he probably got on a bus or went down into the subway or something. But here . . ." Dan flipped through the maps and pulled the one he was looking for on top. Emily could see it was a map of the area of town where the third murder took place.

"You got something?"

"Just after the time the third murder took place, a bunch of other traffic cameras went out in sequence. They started close to The Cloisters museum," Dan said, pointing to the dots he'd marked. Then he drew along the streets with his finger, showing Emily where the line went. "And ended here, near Brooklyn."

"What's the big red X mean?" Emily asked.

"This is where it gets really Twilight Zone-y. Just before the last traffic camera came back on, there was a traffic accident right there. A truck hit a car, killing the driver. Then boom, just when the accident is over, the camera comes back on." He stopped talking and smiled, leaving Emily feeling let down.

"It's interesting, but probably just a coincidence. There were likely a lot of accidents during that window."

"That's what I thought at first. Then I saw the police report," Dan said, digging through the papers. She grabbed his hand.