They worked methodically. The woman clearly liked to shop and had enough money to buy designers with names Riley couldn’t even pronounce. Fortunately, so far she hadn’t found any other severed body parts in the pockets.
“Got something,” Nick called from the makeup table.
“Please tell me it’s not another body part.”
“Not a body part,” he promised. He was sitting on the tufted bench, studying the contents of a sparkly binder.
Riley peered over his shoulder. Inside was a series of photos all of a blond woman with a deep tan who looked to be in her mid-fifties. The kind of mid-fifties where people would say she didn’t look a day over forty. In one shot, she wore big sunglasses and a designer bag with a tiny dog inside. In another, she was on the phone as she left some kind of gym in clothes way too expensive to sweat in. The next pictured her on a yacht with a mimosa in one hand and several pounds of gemstones on the fingers of her other hand.
“That’s Valencia Van den Verk,” Riley said.
“Who?”
“You know. From that reality showReal Bosses: The Women Behind the Mob. She has her own lines of athletic clothes, nonalcoholic mixers, and makeup. She also owns one quarter of a UK football team.”
“Van den Verk as in Franco Van den Verk?” he asked.
“Yeah. That’s her ex-husband. He’s in prison for—”
“Corruption, racketeering, and tax evasion.”
“Why would Sesame have photos of a mob boss’s ex-wife?” she wondered.
“It’s not just photos.” Nick turned the page. “It’s interviews, real estate listings, product launches. Jesus. Who pays that much for shit to smear on your lips?”
“She’s a mogul. Worth more than when her husband was laundering millions through nail salons and casinos,” she explained, relieved that her guilty pleasure viewing habits were actually paying off.
“And Sesame just happens to have a complete dossier on the woman. Not loving the mob ties,” he admitted, still studying the pages.
A severed finger, a disappearing act, and the ex-wife of a mob boss. Riley didn’t know what it all added up to, but she knew it wasn’t good.
“Are your spidey senses picking up anything?” he asked her.
“They’re still on the fritz.”
“It’s probably this stupid fucking wallpaper that makes me want to punch it.”
She patted him on the shoulder. “Hey, look. There’s an espresso maker in here. And a mini fridge,” she noted.
Nick eyed the retro off-white fridge. “Those things cost, like, a grand.”
“So do those cashmere throw pillows,” she told him as she waded across the carpet to the appliance.
Riley opened it and found a small selection of sparkling water, some expensive-looking cheese, and four small unmarked vials. “What do you suppose these are?” she asked.
Nick joined her and plucked one of the tubes from its plastic stand. “Unmarked clear liquid in lab vials. Fun.” He held it up to the light.
“Maybe it’s some kind of weird cosmetic or, like, one of those expensive face-peeling solutions.”
“Or maybe it’s something worth losing a finger over,” he guessed.
The doorbell rang.
Riley gathered the rest of the vials, and together they marched down the stairs.
Nick pulled the gun out of the back of his jeans. “Go into the kitchen and put those vials in the drawer that doesn’t have the finger,” he ordered, advancing on the door.
“Aren’t you going to tell Kellen about these?” she hissed.
