The Bentley's engine purred through Manhattan's streets. Max kept his hands steady on the wheel, even though they wanted to shake.
He'd been wrong.
Publicly. Spectacularly. Wrong.
The word tasted like copper in his mouth.
His phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Text messages, emails, calls from numbers he didn't recognize. The society gossip machine had already started grinding. By morning, every newspaper in New York would run the story. *Disgraced Detective's Comeback Attempt Fails at Gala Murder*.
Max silenced the phone and drove faster.
Blackwell Manor rose ahead—three stories of Gothic Victorian stonework that had housed his family for four generations. Usually, coming home felt like putting on armor. Tonight it felt like retreat.
He pulled into the circular drive. The fountain was still running, water catching moonlight. Everything looked exactly the same as when he'd left three hours ago.
Everything except him.
"Good evening, sir."
Max nearly jumped. Bartholomew Ashford stood at the entrance, dressed impeccably despite the late hour. The man was seventy if he was a day, British to his bones, and had somehow heard the car from inside the house.
"Bart. You should be asleep."
"Should I, sir?" Bart took Max's coat. "And miss your triumphant return from the Metropolitan gala? I think not."
"There was nothing triumphant about it."
"No, sir?"
Max walked past him into the entrance hall. Marble floors, crystal chandelier, oil paintings of dead Blackwells judging him from their frames. He headed straight for his study.
Bart followed. He always followed.
"Brandy, sir?"
"Whiskey. The Macallan. The expensive one."
"They're all expensive, sir."
"The *very* expensive one."
Bart moved to the bar cart. "Difficult evening, I take it?"
Max threw himself into his leather chair. The study was his sanctuary—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a mahogany desk that cost more than a car, and windows overlooking the garden. This was where he solved cases. Where he was brilliant. Where he was never, ever wrong.
"I made a mistake."
"Ah." Bart handed him a crystal tumbler with three fingers of whiskey. "Those do happen, sir."
"Not to me."
"Of course not, sir."
Max downed half the glass. The burn felt appropriate. "Harrison Caldwell was murdered tonight. Poisoned. I identified the widow as the primary suspect within minutes of the body dropping."
"And was she?"
"No. She has an alibi. The Mayor himself." Max laughed, sharp and bitter. "I announced my conclusion in front of half of New York's elite and Detective Chen. And I was wrong."
Bart settled into the chair across from him. "Sir, if I may—"
"You may not."
"—in my experience, being wrong once does not negate being right two hundred and forty-seven times."
"Two hundred and forty-seven convictions. A perfect record." Max stared at his whiskey. "Had. Past tense."
"You haven't been a detective for three years, sir. Tonight you were merely a witness offering an observation."
"I offered a solution. An incorrect solution."
"Then perhaps you should find the correct one."
Max looked up. Bart's expression was mild, but his eyes were sharp. The old man had worked for the Blackwell family for thirty years—first for Max's father, now for Max. There were rumors about Bart's past. Something about British intelligence. Max had never confirmed them, but moments like this made him wonder.
"What are you suggesting?"
"That sitting here drinking expensive whiskey and wallowing in self-pity is not traditionally considered your strong suit, sir."
"I'm not wallowing."
"No, sir. You're spiraling. There's a difference."
Max finished his whiskey. Bart was right, damn him. Sitting here accomplished nothing except giving society more time to sharpen their knives.
"The widow didn't do it. But someone did."
"Indeed, sir."
"Someone who wanted me to think it was the widow. Someone who set up the scene precisely to point to her." Max stood, started pacing. "The bracelet. The light caught her bracelet at the wrong angle. She was standing three feet from where witnesses claimed."
"Witnesses can be mistaken, sir."
"Or witnesses can be lying." Max moved to the windows. The garden was dark except for path lights. "The Mayor provided her alibi. Why would he lie?"
"Perhaps he wasn't lying. Perhaps he was simply wrong about where she was standing."
"No. He was too specific. Too certain." Max turned back. "Bart, what do you know about Mayor Whitmore?"
"Besides the obvious corruption and affair with his chief of staff?"
"Besides that."
Bart considered. "He has significant real estate holdings. Several shell companies. A yacht he doesn't declare on his taxes. And he was supposed to be in Albany tonight."
"But he was at the gala instead. Why?"
"Perhaps he simply enjoys overpriced wine and watching billionaires die, sir."
Max almost smiled. "Pull up everything on Caldwell's business dealings. Focus on real estate, city contracts, anything involving the Mayor's office."
"It's past midnight, sir."
"Then you'd better hurry."
Bart sighed but stood. "Shall I prepare the Obsidian Room?"
The Obsidian Room. Max's private investigation chamber in the manor's east wing. He'd built it himself after leaving the NYPD—a space where he could spread out evidence, build timelines, connect threads without interference.
"Yes. And Bart? Bring coffee. I won't be sleeping tonight."
"Of course not, sir. That would be far too sensible."
Bart left. Max pulled out his phone, scrolled through the photos from the crime scene. Caldwell's purple face. The foam. The wine glass. The table. The crowd.
He zoomed in on Vanessa Caldwell's bracelet. The diamonds caught the light at—
His phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number.
"Still staring at the bracelet? You're so predictable. Look at the shadows instead. - M"
Max's pulse quickened. He zoomed out, studied the full image. The lighting, the people, the—
There. In the background. A shadow that didn't match any person in the frame.
Someone had been standing behind the wine table. Someone the crowd had blocked from view. Someone who'd moved just before the photo was taken.
Max enlarged the image until it pixelated. The shadow was tall, slim. Female, possibly. Wearing something dark.
His hands were steady now. Completely steady.
He texted back: "Who are you?"
The response came immediately: "Someone who appreciates good detective work. Even when it fails spectacularly. The Mayor's yacht is called 'Fair Winds.' Check who visited it last month. You're welcome. - M"
Max stared at the message. Someone was helping him. Someone who'd been at the gala. Someone who knew he'd been wrong and was… what? Amused? Interested?
Someone who signed their texts with M.
He thought about the shadow in the photo. The European accent Detective Chen had mentioned during witness interviews. The museum reference someone had made.
"No," he whispered. "You wouldn't."
But she would. She absolutely would.
Max grabbed his coat.
"Sir?" Bart appeared at the study door. "Your coffee."
"Later. I need to go back out."
"At this hour? Where?"
"The marina. I need to check something."
"Shall I drive you, sir?"
"No. Stay here. Pull those records on Caldwell and the Mayor." Max paused at the door. "And Bart? See what you can find on anyone named Moretti who entered the country in the past month. Focus on art world connections."
Bart's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Her again, sir?"
"Possibly."
"Should I be concerned?"
Max smiled—a real smile this time, sharp and dangerous. "Absolutely. But also excited. If Isabella Moretti is in New York, things are about to get very interesting."
"Your definition of interesting tends to involve considerable property damage, sir."
"Not always."
"Sir, last time you crossed paths with Ms. Moretti, you ended up in a hospital in Prague with three broken ribs and a Modigliani forgery that somehow cleared itself from Interpol's database."
"That was one time."
"It was the only time you've met her, sir."
"Exactly. We're due for a reunion." Max headed for the door. "Don't wait up."
"I never do, sir."
The Bentley's engine roared to life. Max pulled out of the driveway, heading downtown toward the marina. His phone buzzed again.
"You're going to the yacht. Good boy. When you find what's there, don't call the police. Call me. We need to talk. About the murder. About your father. About why you're really investigating this case. - M"
Max's hands tightened on the wheel.
She knew about his father?
The text continued: "P.S. The widow actually is guilty. Just not of murder. Check her passport. Morocco, three weeks ago. Same time as a certain Caravaggio went missing. Small world, isn't it? - M"
Max's mind raced. Caldwell collected art. Morocco had recently reported a theft. If Vanessa was involved in art smuggling, and Isabella was investigating—
No. Not investigating. Stealing. Isabella was a thief.
Which meant Isabella had been at the gala to steal something. Which meant the murder had interrupted her job. Which meant she had information about who really killed Caldwell.
Max pressed the accelerator harder.
Behind him, Blackwell Manor disappeared into the night. Ahead, the city glittered with secrets.
His phone buzzed one last time.
"One more thing, Maximilian. I broke into your house six weeks ago. Your security system is embarrassingly inadequate. We'll discuss that too. - M"
Max should be furious. Violated. Concerned about what she might have taken or learned.
Instead, he laughed.
For the first time all night, he felt like himself again.
The game was on.