JAKE

Reaching for my cup of coffee, my hand grabbed at the air. I grimaced as the realization hit—I had already emptied the espresso one of the agents had grabbed for me during lunch break.

The coffee from the office machine tasted like tar, but my need for caffeine was strong enough to make me consider pouring myself a cup.

Leaning back in my chair, I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to ease the sharp migraine beginning to throb in my temple. A quick glance at the clock on my desk confirmed what I already knew—I had been at this for hours.

Piles of case files were scattered across my desk, and I had read through them over and over, hoping something—anything—might stand out. A buried lead. A missed clue. A thread I could pull that would unravel the entire puzzle.

The shrill ring of my landline jolted me out of my thoughts. I picked up the receiver and answered, "This is Parker."

It was my boss on the other end of the line, asking to see me in his office. A sudden knot formed in my stomach, though I couldn't tell if it was because I hadn't eaten all day or because I had no solid leads to update him with.

"I'll be right there," I replied, keeping my voice steady as I hung up the phone.

I shrugged on my suit jacket, took a moment to collect myself, and headed to Michael Ashford's office, the Special Agent in charge of New York's White-Collar office.

The glass walls gave me a clear view of him multitasking—cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear while writing something down on a notepad.

When our eyes met, he gestured for me to come in before I had the chance to knock.

Closing the door behind me, I sank into one of the chairs opposite his desk. My gaze darted to the photographs and commendations displayed on his wall, but I forced myself to focus, keeping my hands still to avoid fidgeting.

Michael Ashford was the kind of man who lived strictly by the book, where choices were clear-cut—black or white, right or wrong, legal or illegal. Though I didn't entirely share his perspective on life, I admired him nonetheless and considered him a mentor.

He was a legend in the Bureau, known for his intellect and no-nonsense demeanor—traits I assumed he had honed during years of fieldwork in the brutal world of organized crime, where he spent years infiltrating mob families and helping produce dozens of indictments.

After a long journey, etched explicitly in the map of wrinkles on his dark-toned face, he decided to settle down somewhere quiet—where all was calm on the western front. That place was the White-Collar unit, where criminals were more sophisticated, and there were no bloodbaths or dismembered bodies.

"I've got some good news," Ashford said, setting his phone down. "The painting was fenced to a tech magnate in Singapore. The Singapore Police Force managed to seize it."

Was it now? I must have looked skeptical, because Ashford raised a quizzical eyebrow at my reaction.

"You don't seem surprised."

I let out a small sigh. "I've been on the phone with multiple law enforcement agencies all day. Scotland Yard claims they have it, Interpol says they seized it in Budapest, and a Sheikh in Dubai turned his in after he realized it was a stolen property."

I watched as realization dawned on him.

"And you believe they're all forgeries," he said matter-of-factly.

I nodded. "It's a scam to distract us. When a high-profile theft like this happens, customs crack down hard. Smuggling the original out of the country would've been nearly impossible.

"I think the thieves anticipated this and created multiple forgeries ahead of time, sending them out before the heist even took place. By flooding the market now, they're hoping to misdirect us, drain our resources, and buy time. The real painting never left the country. It might not have even left the city."

Ashford leaned back in his chair, his sharp dark eyes fixed on me. "I agree. But we'll still need to have the seized paintings authenticated. Any signatures, details, or inconsistencies could lead us to the culprits." He steepled his fingers, his gaze unwavering. "What's your personal take on this, Parker?"

Adjusting my tie, I leaned forward slightly. "Art thieves tend to follow a pattern, sir. They're excellent at stealing, but terrible at monetizing.

"The theft itself, no matter how elaborate or glamorous, is the easy part. Selling the piece without compromising its value? That's where things get tricky. My guess is the original painting is being stored somewhere safe while the thief figures out how to profit from it without devaluing the work."

I paused, letting the weight of my words settle. "We're not dealing with amateurs here. Nobody outside the museum staff should've known about the private exhibit. They hacked into one of the most secure systems in the world and bypassed advanced surveillance. This heist was deliberate. Calculated. And there were more expensive pieces on display that they left behind, so they must've chosen this painting for a reason."

"Any leads on the suspects?" Ashford asked.

I shook my head, swallowing my frustration. "Not yet. But I know the thief is a woman.

"Unfortunately, no one has been able to ID her or recall her features. Witnesses say she had dark hair, but the secretary at Hauser Studios swears she had red hair. I'm confident we're dealing with a master of disguise."

The case was driving me over the edge, yet I couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. The smart ones always turned these cases into a chess game—strategy, adaptation, and the constant struggle to stay one step ahead.

"You think she acted alone?"

"Unlikely." I shook my head. "The museum's surveillance and alarm systems were tampered with during the heist. Even if she's good, there's no way she could've managed everything on her own. And there was a getaway car waiting for her outside."

I straightened in my seat. "We're reviewing street-level CCTV footage from the weeks leading up to the heist. Looking for anyone casing the area or acting suspiciously."

Ashford gave a thoughtful nod. "And you've already ruled out an inside job?"

"We're keeping all angles open, but nothing points to insider involvement so far. We've interviewed museum personnel, reviewed their financials, and combed through their phone records—no red flags.

"Besides, most insider heists are motivated by ransom. The Met's already offered a $2.5 million reward, but no one's come forward."

Ashford sighed. "Keep at it, Parker. This case has the potential to turn into an international scandal. We need answers—and soon. Keep me updated."

"Will do, sir."

I excused myself and headed back to my desk, but I stopped in my tracks when I saw a certain someone waiting for me. Letting out a huff, I thought to myself—I had already been interrogated enough for one day.

"Don't you have work to do?" I said, slumping into my chair.

I was met with a cheeky grin from Agent Luke Hoffman, my partner and best friend.

Luke and I had an easy partnership, something that had surprised me at first. I had always worked better alone—less room for error, fewer distractions. But from the moment we were assigned a case together, everything just clicked.

In crime scenes, Luke and I operated like a well-oiled machine. He had an uncanny knack for noticing details I overlooked—a picture slightly off-angle, a footprint facing the wrong direction, or a tiny signature hidden in the corner of a forged painting.

At crime scenes, Luke and I operated like a well-oiled machine. He had a sharp eye for details—subtle things I might have missed, like a picture slightly off-angle, a footprint heading in the wrong direction, or a tiny signature tucked into the corner of a forged painting.

While I took the lead, flashing the badge and asking the hard-hitting questions, Luke worked in the background, reading suspects' body language and tracking their eye movements. Then, at just the right moment, he would ask the perfect question in the perfect tone, his voice disarmingly innocent and his gray eyes sparkling with a friendly twinkle, as if he genuinely just wanted to know.

We got so many leads that way. I had to admit, his boyish charm—what I liked to call his Peter Pan aura—worked wonders at putting people at ease, making them forget he was actually an FBI agent.

"Well," Luke began, leaning on my desk, "I was starting to feel like my brain cells were on the verge of dying after staring at paperwork all day. So I figured now was as good a time as any for a break."

I shot him a look.

"And," he continued with a cheeky grin, "I thought you might need some emotional support after your meeting with Ashford. How'd it go?"

"Another copy turned up," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "This time in Singapore. Looks like our merry band of thieves are having fun messing with us."

Luke let out a loud breath and ran a hand over his neatly trimmed buzz cut that he never allowed to grow more than a few inches. A habit he had taken with him from his military days.

"This case is driving me nuts," he said, shaking his head. "It feels like we're chasing ghosts. They're everywhere and nowhere all at once."

I snorted. "You can say that again."

"What do you think we're missing?"

"Honestly? I haven't figured that out yet." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "But we have to keep digging. The higher-ups are getting impatient."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Right. Like this isn't the Met's fault in the first place."

"Well, they're trying to save face with that reward they're offering," I said with a shrug. "But I don't think our thieves care. My guess? They already have a buyer lined up. They're just waiting for the heat to die down before they make their move."

I rubbed my face, letting out a tired sigh. "We need to think outside the box—approach this from a different angle."

Luke arched an eyebrow. "You mean like calling in a psychic?"

The corner of my mouth twitched. "I was thinking more along the lines of consulting an experienced informant. But I'm willing to push my luck if you know any good psychics."

Luke let out a small chuckle. "I really think we should call it a night and maybe grab a beer."

Then, with a blink that practically screamed feigned innocence, he added, "That reminds me..." He rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to be casual. "Chloe has tickets to a Broadway show this weekend. She wanted me to ask if you'd like to join us."

And there it was—the catch.

Chloe's and Luke's relationship was what people called romance novel-worthy. They were high school sweethearts who vowed to let nothing tear them apart. Luke joined the military after high school, while Chloe moved to New York to study at Julliard and work on achieving her dream of joining the New York Philharmonic cello section.

And a few years later, Luke left the military and joined the FBI, and they were reunited again. And finally, he got down on one knee and proposed to her a few months ago.

Chloe was like a sister to me—a sister who couldn't resist meddling in my love life. She had made it her mission to find me a girlfriend, someone who would "understand my crazy work hours" and "keep me sane." After several disastrous setups, I had hoped she would let it go. Clearly, I was wrong.

I smirked. "Let me guess. One of Chloe's charming friends will just happen to be there too?"

Luke's shoulder slumped. "She's worried about you. And you know she won't stop." His eyes narrowed in mock seriousness. "Besides, my best man can't show up to my wedding without a plus-one."

I pretended to take a few moments to think. "Maybe I'll rent a fake date for the wedding. They have apps for that now, don't they?"

"Smartass," Luke muttered, shaking his head.

His expression shifted, becoming more serious as he pointed to a file on my desk. "That caught my attention earlier while you were with Ashford." He tilted his head. "Laverna?"

"It's nothing. Just a theory I'm working on," I said dismissively.

He wasn't satisfied and kept looking at me expectantly.

I sighed. "I've been studying the thief's MO, looking for patterns. There's a female thief in Europe—Laverna, named after the Roman goddess of thieves. She's pulled off some extraordinary jobs, the kind most would call impossible. Her heists are daring, meticulously planned, and usually involve high-tech equipment."

Luke's gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You think she left Europe and decided to expand her business here?"

"Maybe. But it's just a theory. Nobody knows what she looks like or her real name. She's a master of disguises, uses countless aliases. For all we know, she could be an urban legend."

Laverna was a ghost in the criminal underworld, shrouded in mystery. Some believed she worked alone, others thought she was the head of an elite network of thieves. And then there were those who dismissed her entirely, calling her a folktale for aspiring criminals.

"Still, we should check with Interpol," Luke said. "See if they have anything on her."

I nodded but said nothing, my gaze drifting to the file on my desk. It felt like it was mocking me, daring me to connect the dots.

The beep of my phone pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced at the screen and found a new text.

I'm not a fan of the three-day rule, so here I am, texting you now. We artists love to break the rules, after all. I believe Picasso had a saying for that, but I can't remember it for some reason. Can you help?

A smile automatically made its way to my lips. For a brief moment, all the tension and frustration of the day seemed to melt away.

"Hey!" Luke's voice cut through my thoughts. He was eyeing me with a suspicious look. "I know that smile. There's a girl behind that smile."

My grin widened. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know?"

I grabbed my coat and stood. "I'll tell you everything. On one condition—beer's on you."

Luke laughed, straightening up. "Done."

As we walked toward the elevator, my thoughts drifted back to Emma. There was a flicker of excitement in my chest at the prospect of seeing her again.

But as the elevator doors closed, my focus shifted back to the case. The thief might have stayed one step ahead of me for now, but this game wasn't over—not by a long shot.

All I needed was a crack, a slip. And when it came, I had to be ready.