“I actually did manage to dig up some information on Bill Harris,” Brooks said. “It’s troubling.”
“How so?”
“It appears that in the last two years, Harris had some unusual deposits in his bank account. Nothing huge, but regularpayments from an offshore account we’re still trying to trace. Five thousand every two weeks.”
Nash frowned. “You think he was being paid for his research?”
“Or for something else. There’s also a connection to a known associate of the Ferrante crime family. A coffee shop meeting caught on security footage three weeks before his death. Guy named Dominic Russo—mid-level enforcer, specializes in acquisitions.”
“Acquisitions?”
“That’s what they call it when they want something obtained discreetly. Usually art, historical artifacts, things that can be moved through private collectors.”
“Ferrante crime family,” Nash repeated. “Never heard of them.”
“East Coast operation, but they’ve been expanding west in recent years. Mostly high-end stuff—art theft, antiquities smuggling. They stay under the radar by focusing on items that aren’t widely known to exist. Things that won’t make headlines if they go missing.”
“Gold smuggling?” Nash suggested.
“Wouldn’t be out of character,” Brooks confirmed. “I’ve got a contact in the art crime division running a deeper check. I should know more tomorrow.”
Nash sat up straighter, suddenly making a connection. “Wait—this reminds me of what Blaze uncovered a few months back. Remember how some of the conquistador gold had been melted down and sold through the reservation in Wyoming? Ms. Connie was passing it to Kelly’s grandparents, who were selling it on the black market. And then Blaze tracked some of it to Kentucky and even back to South Carolina.”
“That’s right,” Brooks said, his voice sharpening with interest. “The horse-racing circuit was one of the channels theyused to launder the gold coins. And if I recall, there was an East Coast connection that was never fully explored.”
“It could be the Ferrantes,” Nash said. “Maybe they’ve been after our gold all along, not just whatever Bill Harris discovered.”
“It’s possible,” Brooks admitted. “Let me look into whether there’s any connection between the Ferrantes and the buyers Blaze identified in Kentucky.”
Nash ran a hand through his hair, trying to process how this connected to Porter Rockwell and his family’s gold hunt. “Wait a sec,” Nash said, his mind racing. “Have you found anything else out about her witness protection?”
“Not yet. I have some feelers out. It’s complicated—those records are sealed tight. But I’ve got a contact at the Marshals Service who owes me a favor. In the meantime, you could try something.”
“What’s that?” Nash asked.
“You could just ask her.”
He hesitated, then let out a short laugh. “Right. Good plan … I’ve got to run. Thanks for your help.”
“Bye.”
Nash got off the phone with Brooks feeling like an idiot. Of course he could just ask her. But the truth was, he hadn’t really felt like he could last night. That wasn’t really an option until today, when she’d shown up at his office. And oh man, she’d come to him because she thought he could help her. She’d come running into his arms.
Nash felt foolish thinking about the whole thing like some stupid romance book that Kensi Stone would write. No, no, no.
He was distracted during his meeting, finding it impossible to focus on the corporate merger being discussed when his mind kept returning to Sadie, to the threat against her, to the bizarre coincidences that had brought them back together. Twice he hadto ask the client to repeat a question, earning a puzzled look from Jeremy, who had never seen Nash anything less than laser focused.
Afterward, he decided he should cancel the rest of the day. He told his secretary to also cancel the next two days. When she asked why, he said he was taking some personal time.
“Is this about the Levitt girl who came by?” his secretary asked.
Nash was annoyed. He didn’t want anyone at the firm knowing anything. “No,” he said. “Please remember that my personal life ispersonal.”
The secretary looked bewildered. “Of course. Sorry.”
He felt like a fool for being so defensive.
As Nash was heading toward the elevator, a voice called out behind him. “Nash? Got a minute?”
