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father, and her own independent pigheadedness, would spur her into action. She’d get whatever facts her father had, including any he might have omitted from his official police report, and then run with this alone.
    She had no clue what kind of danger she’d be walking into.
    That did it. Derek was going to insert himself in the situation— now .
    Gripping the arms of his chair, he shoved himself around to face his desk. He’d finish up his critical work here, and then head over to the hospital, or the Burbanks’ apartment if Rosalyn had already been released. He’d respectful y check on her recovery. And then, he was going to get Sloane alone and pry information out of her.
    Reaching for his keyboard, he nearly knocked over his almost-empty coffee cup and a pile of paperwork.
    Son of a bitch. His desk was a disaster. He didn’t have a minute to organize it—not today. But, damn, he hated clutter.
    The paradoxical thought almost made him laugh aloud. Clutter and the far corner of the twenty-second floor, where C-6’s squad was located, went hand-in-hand. Boxes of confiscated goods—from fake Rolexes to equal y fake Nike sneakers—were stacked everywhere. Getting from point A to point B meant weaving your way around the crap and through the aisles.
    Derek always got a kick out of watching FBI shows on TV. In the Hol ywood versions, the New York Field Office was usual y a tal glass building that was a dead ringer for Trump Tower and that took up half a city block. Modern, expansive, and grand—it didn’t even slightly resemble the perpetual construction zone that was 26 Federal Plaza. And the FBI’s home in that building? Just eight floors in al . Too bad reality didn’t emulate fiction. Bureau employees would be in hog heaven inside one of those TV buildings—glass-wal ed offices and spacious cubicles, al decorated with sleek, streamlined furnishings instead of what looked like rejects from a scratch-and-dent sale at a used furniture outlet.
    So, C-6—or the Asian Criminal Enterprise Task Force, as it was formal y known—existed in its old, cluttered splendor. On the plus side, at least there was a great view of the Brooklyn Bridge. And the ten agents and two NYPD detectives who constituted the squad were great to work with.
    “Hey.” Jeff poked his head over the top of Derek’s cubicle. “What happened with Sloane last night? Did she say anything?”
    “Yeah.” Derek grimaced. “‘Good night.’”
    “You’re kidding. No guess as to why her parents’ place was broken into?”
    “Nothing except the party line—that it was no secret that Matthew had col ected some expensive pieces from his travels, that he and his wife were fairly wel off, and that they both worked long hours—leaving an empty apartment that was a perfect target for thieves.”
    “Nice logic. Except for the fact that there’s a ful -time doorman there to dissuade thieves, and that we know it was Xiao Long’s guys who did the breaking and entering.” Jeff’s comment was greeted by silence.
    “Are you going to confront her?” Despite the potential blowup that provoking Derek might elicit, Jeff wasn’t ready to back off. “Or do you plan to let things slide and see what you can draw out of her without clueing her in to your motives?”
    Derek slapped his hands on his desk, using the leverage to shove back his chair. “Tony’s asked me that same question three times already,” he retorted, referring to their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Antonio Sanchez.
    “And?”
    “And I’l tel you what I told him. We have no proof Matthew Burbank is involved in anything. He could be a target, not a criminal. As for Sloane, she’s way too smart for games.
    Whatever her father told her, she’s not about to be fooled by supposedly subtle attempts to pump her for information. She’s also not about to spil her guts if she chooses not to—with or without a confrontation. One thing’s for sure—if she planned to tel me what her