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his return like he’s one of the Elgin Marbles. He’s my favorite piece in the whole collection. I want to know where he is.”
    “I’ll look into it immediately.”
    “Good,” said Dorothy. “Because I can find another lawyer, Henry. But there’s only one Achilles.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”

3
    Arden Hyde took off her sunglasses to evaluate her appearance in a mirror in a women’s bathroom at Frankfurt airport. Bloodshot eyes? Nothing new. Gorgeous black Italian sweater with Dior ruffled tank underneath? Appropriate for stylish transatlantic travel to a funeral. Complexion? She peered closer at her face and shuddered. Best not to overanalyze. But her family was going to take one look and think she was ready for the coffin, not her uncle Julius.
    In preparation for reentry into family life, Arden scrounged in the bottom of her bag and came up with a handful of pills. Her fingers hovered over a slightly linty collection of pharmaceuticals. Maybe half a Xanax? An Ambien, too, of course. She could always pop something else in the air for added serenity, if needed. She gulped them dry, ignoring the American mother scrubbing her grubby child’s hands in the adjacent sink and giving her a disapproving frown in the mirror.
    Instead of acknowledging the disapproval—there would be plenty more of that soon enough—Arden dug into her bag and found her ticket. She congratulated herself for snaking the last first-class upgrade. Served Hadrian right for schmoozing in the lounge instead of dropping by the check-in desk for himself.
    Her boss, art dealer Hadrian Sloan-Whitaker, made it his business to troll airport lounges for possible celebrity clients. But he was going to sulk in coach the whole way home on this trip.
    Technically, though, Arden reminded herself, Hadrian hadn’t been her boss since a rather hideous scene in Florence.
    “We’re supposed to sell art to museums,” Hadrian had roared at her on the steps of an institution where a nearly done deal had gone woefully awry. “Not convince the bastards to sue us!”
    “It was the right thing to do,” Arden replied. At the time, she was under the influence of a Tylenol PM with a glass of white wine, so she kept her calm in the face of his rage. “The provenance makes it clear that our client’s Nazi uncle stole that triptych out of a Latvian church.”
    “We don’t know that!”
    “Oh, Hadrian. We both read the research. Don’t we have enough money without aiding and abetting war criminals?”
    “Some of us,” Hadrian said, swelling up like a toad, “don’t live on trust funds, Miss Hyde. And we need to put food on the table. You’re fired.”
    Hadrian’s idea of putting food on the table meant fois gras at starred restaurants. So he wasn’t exactly hurting, either.
    In the airport bathroom, Arden’s cell phone rang. She carried it out into the concourse because who really wants to listen to toilets flushing on the phone?
    Arden checked the screen.
    And, despite the fact that the Xanax hadn’t kicked in yet, she took the call.
    “Daddy?”
    “Arden, I have bad news.”
    “I’ve seen CNN, Daddy. I heard about Uncle Julius.” She’d watched a whole report on a television in a convenient airport bar, and even now her throat closed with grief. She clutched the tiny phone with both hands. “Are you all right?”
    “Of course I’m all right!”
    Quentin Hyde’s voice sounded blustery. Arden knew her father liked to think of himself as the family’s commander in chief, a captain of industry who showed no weakness—a gruff, heartless businessman who slew the bulls and bears of Wall Street. Even the death of his elder brother would make no dent in his emotional armor.
    “Are you on your way home?” he barked long-distance.
    “I’m getting on the plane any minute.”
    “Good. I’ll send the jet to meet you in New York. We need you here immediately.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “It’s important to show family solidarity in a crisis, that’s