Vivian stood still as the bustling crime scene at Amelia Hankins’s house swirled around her. She focused on the grainy image of the van captured by a security camera, a key piece in the puzzle that had just clicked into place. The APB had gone out with urgency, and it wasn’t long before they had a name to go with the plates: Liam Wright.
“Looks like he’s some sort of freelance delivery driver, based on the bureau database,” Sterling said, reading from his phone, his voice cutting through the clamor of the house.
“Seems convenient,” Vivian said. This scant information gave sparse details on Liam Wright’s profile, but his occupation spoke volumes to her. He was mobile, always on the move. A perfect cover for a thief—or a killer.
With no immediate way to track him, they were left to play the waiting game. Vivian hated waiting; it felt like surrender. She cast a glance at Sterling, who seemed equally ill at ease with the forced pause in their pursuit. Instead, he’d turned his attention to the security footage again, looking for clear shots of the thieves’ faces or any discerning features such as tattoos.
“Any thief worth their salt is going to have a tattoo covered up,” Vivian said.
“I know. But these bastards…they’re good. On the way into the house, their faces are covered with the flowers they’re bringing in. And on the way out, they keep their heads low. And this bag…”
Sterling pointed to a long duffel bag one of the so-called florists was carrying. “It’s lumpy and pretty much disheveled when they go inside the second time, hanging over this guy’s shoulder. But when they come out…”
“It’s not full,” Vivian said, squinting at the phone screen, “but there’s definitely something in it.”
“Looks that way.”
“Mrs. Hankins,” Vivian called, her tone shifting to one of gentle authority, “may we have a look around? See if anything was stolen?”
Amelia Hankins, a portrait of composure despite the chaos, nodded. “Of course. Whatever helps.” She sounded a bit off-kilter—whether from the murder in her home or the fact that the fundraiser was going to be cancelled was anyone’s guess.
“Can you show us around? Maybe take us by where any high-value items are placed and let us know if anything is missing?”
“Very well.”
Vivian and Sterling followed Amelia Hankins through the house, moving past uniformed officers and the white noise of forensic analysis. They bypassed the hallway that dead-ended at the mudroom. As they walked by it, Vivian looked down the hall in the direction of the mudroom. Cops and FBI agents were filtering in and out, the body of Laura Ramirez drawing them in.
Beyond the kitchen, in the secondary den where the florists had set up their bouquets, they came to a staircase that led both up and down. Amelia led them down the stairs, her footsteps measured and careful.
“The only true high-value items in this house are in my husband’s study,” she said. “Why he insisted on having his study downstairs is beyond me. Damned room feels like a cavern.”
When they arrived there, though, Vivian found nothing cavern-like about it. It was a room steeped in history, lined with bookshelves and the scent of aged leather. It was borderline pretentious, the sort of study a rich man who cared about appearances might have. She was willing to bet over three-quarters of the books on the shelves had never even been opened.
“Please, Mrs. Hankins,” Sterling said. “Have a look around and let us know if you see anything missing or out of place.”
As Amelia Hankins did as she was asked, Vivian’s eyes scanned the room methodically. It was a treasure trove for any collector: first editions, antique globes, and artifacts that whispered stories of the past. As she moved through the study, her senses sharpened, each item demanding consideration.
“Let’s start with what we can see,” Sterling suggested pragmatically, his gaze following Vivian’s. “Any empty spaces on these shelves?”
Amelia’s eyes clouded with thought as she surveyed the room, then slowly began to approach a built-in bookshelf. The shelves were quite deep and as the woman neared it, Vivian could already see the space that had captured her attention.
Amelia’s fingers trembled as they traced the outline of the empty space. There was a thin, almost transparent mount of some kind sitting on the shelf. And it was empty.
“Here,” she said. “Right here…”
“What should be there?” Vivian asked.
“A blade…a sword of some kind. A short sword…I think that’s what it was called. It once belonged to George Washington.”
“You’re certain?” Sterling asked.
“Yes. Positive. It always sat here. He really treasured it. I think he spent upwards of ninety thousand dollars on that thing.”
Another sword, Vivian thought. Maybe that’s the link…
“Is anything else missing?” she asked.
“I don’t think so,” she said, clearly dazed. “If…if there’s anything else, I can’t see that it’s missing.” She turned from the wall, her gaze sweeping across the room, looking for other absences that did not exist.
Vivian glanced at Sterling, a silent exchange passing between them. They had seen this before—the selective thievery, the precision. It wasn’t random; it was targeted. Whoever had taken the sword, be it the florists or someone else, had known where to look for the sword.
“Is there anywhere else that thieves may find interesting?” Sterling asked.
“My jewelry, I suppose. But that’s upstairs in my closet.”
“Go have a look anyway,” Vivian said.
As Amelia nodded and left the room, wringing her hands, Vivian’s mind worked furiously. She stepped closer to Sterling, lowering her voice. “Four hits now,” she said. “Two involved historic swords. This isn’t about money—it’s about collectors. Someone specific. I think we can officially narrow that list of collectors and dealers down now.”
Sterling’s brow furrowed, the cogs in his mind visibly turning. “A collector with a penchant for historical swords?”
“Seems like it,” Vivian agreed, her brain already profiling the kind of person who would commission such thefts. “Someone with deep pockets and an interest in blades.”
Vivian leaned against the wall, her arms folded. The meticulousness of the thieves nagged at her, a puzzle demanding to be solved. A collector, yes, but also someone who understood the thrill of the hunt, the allure of possession. And someone who would have no qualms with sending out killers to get his treasures.
Sterling took his phone out and began composing a text. Noticing Vivian looking at him, curious, he told her, “I’m going to update the list we sent out earlier…tell the teams compiling the list of dealers and collectors to home in on swords or historically relevant weapons.”
Vivian’s mind raced. The George Washington short sword—gone. A symbol of power and history, now in the hands of a thief with a taste for the unique. She thought about Jenna Caldwell, her stern face etched in her memory from the briefings. Professional, discreet, the kind of person who could slip in and out unnoticed.
“Jenna may have the answers we need,” Vivian said, her eyes narrowing as she considered the implications.
Sterling glanced at her, his expression serious. “What are you thinking?”
“Jenna was here,” Vivian replied, her voice firm with conviction. “Mrs. Hankins confirmed this. Jenna is canvassing these places. If we can figure out where else she’s been, it might lead us to other potential targets—or even better, to our thieves. And it’s information we can get without having to interrogate her further.”
“Right.” Sterling nodded. “We can cross-reference these collectors and sellers…see if they have had any contact or business with Jenna Caldwell.”
“And that does sound boring, but it could give us the answers we need.”
Sterling nodded excitedly as he wrapped up his text. Just before he sent it, Amelia returned through the door. Her breath was slightly labored from rushing to and from her bedroom.
“My jewelry is all there,” she said. “Nothing else has been stolen.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hankins,” Vivian said. “Would you happen to—”
She was interrupted as another person came rushing in. It was the same FBI agent as before—the one with the startlingly black eyes.
“Sterling,” he said. “We just got a ping that some local blues have spotted Liam Wright’s van. They’re keeping their distance until you arrive, but said if it comes down to it, they have no problems overtaking him.”
“Perfect,” Sterling said, already hurrying for the door. Vivian followed, feeling as if she’d been lobbed into a hurricane and was being buffeted about. “Got an address?”
“Sending it to you now, but of course, it’s likely to change. I’ll also send you the contact info for the cops so you can keep up with them.”
Vivian hurried along behind Sterling. As they climbed the stairs back to the main floor, he peered back over his shoulder for just a moment. “You doing okay back there, Fox?”
“Yeah. It’s just…Jesus, this is fast-paced.”
“It can be. But it’s better than all that waiting around, right?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
And with that, they made their way to the front door and stepped back out into the sunlight where the day, hopefully, was starting to lead them to the end of this case.