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fireplace and some scene from Venice over the mantel. A Canaletto, but he’d been told to leave it. Blue and white Chinese urns, bronze Brancusis. A chandelier that looked as if it came from a czar. Six French doors led out to a patio overlooking the sea.
    “I don’t know if this is what that guy meant when he said the rich were different from us,” Barney said, gawking, “but, uh… holy shit.”
    “Forget it.” Mickey grinned excitedly. “This is cab fare compared with what we’ve come for!”
    He knew where to go. The Cézanne was in the dining room. That was to the right. Barney took out a hammer and a file from his black case to pry the canvases out of their heavy antique frames.
    The dining room had flocked red wallpaper and a long polished table with giant candelabra. It looked as though it could seat half the free world.
    Mickey’s heart was pounding.
Look for the Cézanne,
he was saying to himself—
apples and pears
. On the right-hand wall.
    But instead of the $5 million thrill he was expecting to feel, his insides turned to ice. Cold, right at the center of his chest.
    The wall was empty. There was no still life. No Cézanne.
    The painting wasn’t there!
    Mickey felt a sharp stab through his heart. For a second, the three of them stood there, staring at the empty space. Then he took off, running to the other side of the house.
    The library.
    The Picasso was over the fireplace on the wall. Mickey’s blood was rushing and hot. Everything had been mapped out. He ran into the book-lined room.
    Another chill. No, this was more like a freezer blast.
    No Picasso!
This wall space was empty, too! Suddenly he felt like vomiting. “What the fuck—?”
    Mickey ran like a madman back to the front of the house. He bounded up the large staircase to the second floor. This was their last chance. The bedroom. There was supposed to be a Jackson Pollock on the bedroom wall. They weren’t going to lose this. He’d worked too hard. This was their ticket out. He had no idea what the hell was going on.
    Mickey got there first, Bobby and Barney right behind him. They stopped and stared at the wall, the same nauseated look on all their faces.
    “Sonuvabitch!” Mickey shouted. He smashed his fist through a framed print on the wall, leaving his knuckles bloody.
    The Pollock was gone. Just like the Picasso and the Cézanne. He wanted to kill whoever did this—whoever had stolen his dreams.
    Someone had set them up!

Chapter 12
    SEEMS SILLY NOW… an orange martini… a sailboat drifting on a blue Caribbean sea…
    That’s what I was thinking when I first got word something had gone wrong.
    I was parked on South County Road, across from the Palm Beach firehouse, tracking the cop cars racing by me, lights and sirens blaring. I had done my job really, really well.
    I was letting myself think about Tess lying next to me on the deck. In a tight little suit, all gorgeous and tanned. And we were sipping those martinis. Don’t know who was making them. Let’s throw in a skipper and a crew. But we were somewhere in the Caribbean. And they tasted soooo good.
    That’s when Dee’s voice crackled on the walkie-talkie. “Ned, where are you?
Neddie!
”
    Just hearing her voice made me nervous all over again. I wasn’t supposed to hear from her until we met back at the house in Lake Worth at 9:30. She sounded scared. I think I knew right then that the scene on the sailboat was never going to happen.
    “Ned, something’s gone wrong!” Dee shouted. “Get back here, right now!”
    I picked up the receiver and pressed the TALK button. “Dee, what do you mean, ‘gone wrong’?”
    “The job’s busted,” she said. “It’s goddamn over, Ned.”
    I had known Dee since we were kids. She was always cool. But disappointment and anger were exploding through her voice.
    “What do you mean ‘busted’?” I said. “Bobby and Mickey, are they all right?”
    “Just get back here,” she said. “Mickey’s contact… Gachet. The