“And, yes, it could have belonged to someone else, but I don’t think so.”

“Even if it was hers, what makes you think she opened the door?” Peter demanded. “Maybe it was that sculptor who shares the building. How do you know she isn’t connected to some mob operation?”

I opened and shut my mouth several times but didn’t speak. Tessa Reynolds is African-American, and I didn’t want to find out that her race was driving my uncle’s wild suggestion. She’s also African-American aristocracy, her mother a famous lawyer, her father a highly successful engineer. They worry that I’m dragging Tessa down into the mud, the cases I get and the people who show up at the building. I’d already had an anxious call from Tessa’s mother after last night’s break-in made the late news.

I was too tired, and too confused, to pursue that line of thinking. Instead, I booted up my laptop. I’d e-mailed myself the camera footage that showed the trio who’d come into my office yesterday afternoon. Now I showed the images to Rachel and Peter.

“Does any of them look like Petra to you?”

“Of course not!” Peter stomped away from the machine and pulled out his cellphone. “This is a fucking waste of time. Why are we even sitting here for, letting Vic spin us around in circles? She’s just trying to get off the hook for putting Petey in harm’s way.”

Rachel shook her head; tears were slowly welling and falling along her nose. “That’s Petra in the middle.”

“How can you be sure? Of all the-”

“Peter, it’s the Crocodile Dundee hat and outback oilcloth coat she got in Melbourne. She was so proud of them. Even in this picture, I can tell.” She looked at me through her wet lashes. “Vic, someone must have forced her to do this. We’re meeting with Special Agent Hatfield at the FBI in an hour. Give me some names, some people the FBI can talk to.”