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stood far back in the crowd, and she probably wouldn’t have noticed him except that he was inches taller than the people around him and was regarding her intently.
    Everything about him, from his haircut to his well-cut black suit to the big, muscular body it covered, to the way he stood with his hands clasped lightly in front of him, made her think federal agent.
    Like everyone else, the feds were searching for the missing money. Hard to believe that something in the neighborhood of a billion dollars could just up and vanish, but George continued to insist that all the money was gone, spent in maintaining his lifestyle. She, Margaret, Emma, and especially Jeff had been questioned so often and so extensively about what they knew of its whereabouts that they had come to detest federal agents on sight.
    That they’d had the nerve to invade Jeff’s funeral infuriated her.
    Bastards .
    She glared at the man, which she realized a split second into it was a waste of time and effort—he wouldn’t be able to tell because of her sunglasses.
    â€œ. . . Amen,” Father Snyder said, concluding the prayer, and Riley’s attention shifted back to him as, along with the rest of the crowd, she responded with the obligatory “Amen.”
    Moments later the service ended, and when she glanced back toward the tall fed he was gone.
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    FINN ’ S GAZE swept the crowd again. The tinted windows darkened the scene but didn’t interfere with the details. Viktor Arshun was there. So were Tony Millan, Omar Khan, Al Guzman. All serious bad guys, enforcers for the Russian mob, stateside organized crime, Islamic-fascist interests, and the Medellín drug cartel, respectively. He knew them by sight, because it was his business to know them by sight. They didn’t know him by sight, because it was his business to make sure they didn’t. He had no doubt there were others like them in the mix, as well, circling the family and closest friends of George Cowan like sharks around chum.
    Like him, they were after the money. From the look of things, Cowan had picked a lethal bunch to screw over.
    No wonder he had practically run into the arms of the FBI when his crimes had been found out, pleading guilty even before he could be put on trial. Federal prison, where he was currently segregated from the general population, was the safest place on earth for him under the circumstances.
    If he’d ended up anyplace else, he’d already be dead.
    â€œAnything jump out at you?” Bax asked. He was behind the wheel of the inconspicuous gray Acura that was parked along the service road a few cars behind the limo that had brought the family to the cemetery. Far enough away to remain unnoticed among all the parked vehicles lining both sides of the road, but close enough to allow Finn to keep his eye on his target: Riley Cowan.
    Who, to his annoyance, had made him. Her oversized sunglasses had concealed her eyes, but the way her mouth had tightenedas she looked at him, the way her jaw had firmed and her back had stiffened, the whole hostile vibe he’d picked up from her as she’d zeroed in on him out of the hundreds of mourners in the cemetery, had left him in no doubt that she’d noticed him and either taken an instant personal dislike to him (unlikely) or pegged him as a representative of something she had a problem with. Exactly what she had pegged him as, he couldn’t be sure, although he guessed it was probably some kind of cop. It didn’t matter: he wasn’t there to be noticed, and it had prompted his retreat to the car. He’d just slid into the passenger seat beside Bax.
    â€œNah,” Finn replied. He was burning up in his black suit, and not sorry to be out of the blazing heat even if it did slightly hamper his monitoring of the situation. Remote surveillance—hidden cameras, listening devices, etc.—had its limitations: person-­to-person encounters outdoors