Just Natalie. Always Natalie. Except for that one three-hour break when she’d let herself breathe. Even that left her feeling guilty.
She took another sip of coffee and grimaced at the cold, bitter taste. There was no time for a refill—too much had already slipped by for her sister.
She’d just opened another grainy surveillance photo when a shadow crossed her doorway.
“Drop everything,” Rhys said without preamble. “Leonovich is on the move. Something’s going down tonight.”
Her pulse snapped into high alert. “What kind of something?”
“We don’t know yet. The FBI picked up chatter about a high-value meeting.” His tone carried the weight of long nights and not enough answers.
She stood, ready to go. “Where?”
“That’s the part we’re still chasing.” Rhys exhaled through his nose, irritation tightening his jaw. “We’ve narrowed it to three locations in the city he uses when he wants privacy.”
Her shoulders fell a fraction. “That’s it?”
“For now.” He frowned, tapping the file against his thigh. “There’s one odd detail. ‘Estonia’ was mentioned.”
She blinked. “As in the country?”
“Again, we don’t know. Callan is still digging for a correlation, but nothing is clear yet.”
Estonia. Why did that ping a faint memory? She lifted a hand, one finger raised. “Hold that thought.”
“Gaby, it’s almost four,” he reminded her. “We don’t have time—”
But she was already at her laptop. “There’s a note in Leonovich. He prefers classical music. Obsessively, it seems. He paid more than I’ll make in my lifetime for handwritten Beethoven sheet music.”
She typed, scrolled, and refined the image search, smiling when she found what she was looking for.
“Here,” she said, turning the screen toward him.
Rhys leaned down and studied the glossy promotional shot of a hotel lobby: marble floors, velvet seating, champagne-gold lighting and, in the center, a sleek black baby grand beneath a spotlight.
His brow furrowed. “What am I looking at?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, reaching in front of him to zoom in on the fallboard above the keys, and the distinct Baltic gold lettering.
ESTONIA.
“Leonovich wasn’t talking about geography. He was confirming the ambiance and the presence of this specific piano. There’s one hotel in Miami pretentious enough to showcase an Estonia baby grand.”
Rhys stared at the brand, realization clicking into place. “Bloody hell,” he breathed. “The Ellington Hotel.”
“Leonovich is used to indulgence,” she said, nodding. “He wants things just so while he conducts his disgusting business.”
Standing, Rhys put his hands on his hips, visibly impressed. “I couldn’t tell one black piano from another. How did you know the brand?”
“By the shape. Estonia’s grands are wider at the tail. My sister plays,” Gaby added softly, her gaze returning to the screen, “Once, at a recital for gifted students, they had an Estonia. She talked about it incessantly for weeks afterward.” She took a steadying breath. “Some things just stick.”
Rhys’s expression shifted, respect evident, but layered with more. Sympathy, maybe, for the toll this case was taking on her. She tried not to dwell on it. She was too tired, and refused to break down, worse, to cry, before a critical op.
“Good work,” he said finally. “Better than good. Bloody brilliant,” he added with the unmistakable British lilt he didn’t often let slip. “You’ve just saved us hours chasing our tails all over Miami trying to find him.”
Warmth spread through her, mortifying in its intensity. Before he could see how much his approval meant to her, Gaby shut her laptop and straightened her notes.
“What’s our cover?” she asked, steadying her voice.
