“Just take me home. But I need to stop by Adam’s first and find out why he never showed.”

The captain had said Adam had called at ten, promising he’d be there in a half hour. It was now past one. Anything could’ve held him up, but with Lowe’s recent luck, chances were it wasn’t good. And though he desperately wanted to head straight to Hadley’s, he had to check on Adam first.

Bo pointed to the curb. “I drove Lulu here. Jonte’s waiting out front in the Pierce-Arrow. I’ll ride with him to the theater and pick up the Packard. You’d better hope to God it’s still in one piece or Winter might have to kill you twice.”

“Once is more than enough,” Lowe said.

“Hey,” Bo said in a kinder voice. “Chin up. You’ll find your way out of this. Always do.”

There was a first time for everything.

Lowe buttoned up his coat and watched Bo jog down the station’s front steps and slide into Winter’s limousine. But as Lowe started out the door, the police operator said something to one of the detectives that caught his attention.

He backtracked to the front desk. “Did you just say Fillmore?”

The operator glanced up at him, eyes wary, and darted a questioning look at the detective.

“Yeah, Fillmore District,” the detective confirmed. “Earlier this morning.”

“A homicide?”

“We don’t know that yet. What’s it to you?”

Lowe felt the blood drain from his face. His fingertips began tingling. He nearly tripped as he rushed out of the building, unable to say another word.

His mind was numb as he sped away on Lulu, flying through the city. Stop signs blurred. He ignored honking horns and gave no thought to recklessly cutting corners as he wove in and out of traffic on wet pavement.

He brought Lulu to a screeching halt, her back end fishtailing as he skidded behind two police cars. A crowd of people looked to be disbanding behind a sawhorse blocking their view of the shop. A couple of uniformed cops guarded the door.

Lowe’s heart dropped to his stomach when he spotted the black City Morgue truck rumbling away down the street. He jumped off of Lulu and rushed toward the shop’s entrance, shouting in Swedish.

“Whoa.” The police grabbed his arm. “You can’t go in there. You speak English?”

Lowe switched languages. “Adam Goldberg is the owner of this shop, and I’m his friend. Where is he? What’s happened?”

“Calm down, sir. What’s your name?”

“Lowe Magnusson.” He glanced at the men’s faces, forcing himself to look closer and see if he recognized either as one of the many cops Winter paid off; he didn’t. “I’m Winter Magnusson’s brother.”

Recognition clicked behind the first cop’s eyes. He whispered something to the other man. And when Lowe tried to move around them, he said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You don’t want to go in there.”

“Yes, I goddamn do.” Lowe shoved the man’s hand away. “What’s happened to Adam?”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” the cop said, holding up both hands to block him. “Your friend was found dead a couple of hours ago.”

“We’re real sorry for your loss,” the other said solemnly, removing his hat to cant his head.

Lowe glanced back and forth between them as the words sank in.

Dead.

Gone.

Impossible.

A mistake.

Lowe blinked and tried to speak, but his throat wouldn’t work. He licked dry lips and tried again. “How? Why? Oh, God—where’s Stella? Is she . . .”

Please God, no.

This couldn’t be happening. Not again. He’d grieved for too many people. He couldn’t lose Adam and Stella. He just couldn’t. This wasn’t happening.

“Maybe he should talk to the detective,” someone said. “Mr. Magnusson? You okay?”

He nodded.

They let him inside, but stopped him from going past the counter. The shop was wrecked. Broken glass, tools scattered. And all these cops inside here made it feel wrong—a place that he knew as well as his own home suddenly felt foreign.

“Detective Cohen,” the first cop said. “This is Lowe Magnusson. Friend of Goldberg.”

A dark-headed man in a long navy raincoat glanced up from his notepad. “Mr. Magnusson, you say?”

“That Magnusson,” the cop clarified.

The detective gave Lowe a sympathetic nod. “I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss. You were close to Mr. Goldberg?”

Lowe nodded, trying to look around the man’s shoulders to see. “Where’s Stella?”

“The little girl?”

“Ja, ja. Where is she?”

The detective put a hand on Lowe’s shoulder. “She’s all right. In safe hands. Maybe a little traumatized—shop owner next door found her hiding beneath the table over in the corner.”

“Oh . . . Jesus.” Lowe began to unravel. His hands were shaking so badly, he clenched them into fists to make them stop. “I d-don’t understand what’s happening.”

“When was the last time you saw your friend?”

Think. When? “I think it was two days ago. Three.” When he’d come to tell Adam about the new plan. The plan to switch the amulet paperwork. Give Monk the real documents and the forged amulet. Give Dr. Bacall the real thing. “I brought sandwiches,” he said, as if that mattered. They’d played hide-and-seek with Stella.