Page 17 of King’s Ransom

All the cops and agents eyed me closely as Special Agent Hooper led me and my team past them.

Their glares were just like Hooper’s: the glares of formal law enforcement officers pissed off that private operators had been brought in.

A petite 30-something Japanese-American woman in a sleek skirt suit, high heels and perfectly done hair met us.

She gripped an iPad in the crook of one arm.

Hooper didn’t stop walking as he introduced her. ‘This is Mia Kimura. Ms Kimura is Mr King’s executive assistant.’

‘Hey.’ She nodded seriously.

‘This way,’ Hooper said. ‘Everyone’s in the master bedroom.’

Ms Kimura followed us as we strode toward the southwest corner of the floor.

As we moved out of the central elevator vestibule and into the southern half of the floor, I saw, off to my left, a living and kitchen area that occupied the southeast corner.

Two women sat on opposite sides of the space, almost as far apart as they could get.

One was a short Asian woman in her mid-50s, dressed in a tailored beige suit.

She sat on a stool by the kitchen counter, flanked by a compact no-neck bodyguard, and watched me with hopeful tear-stained eyes.

‘The first Mrs King,’ Audrey said. ‘Winnie Tan. She came in from her mansion out at Shinnecock Hills.’

The second woman was sitting on a sofa by the corner windows (flanked by her own gigantic, shaven-headed bodyguard and a lean, bearded, tanned gentleman in a perfectly cut pinstripe navy suit and glasses; he seemed to be consoling her).

This woman couldn’t have been more different from Ms Tan.

She was dressed in a tracksuit top, figure-hugging yoga pants and gold flip-flops, and even though she was seated, I could tell she was incredibly tall and slim.

And she was startlingly beautiful.

Eyes, cheekbones, hair. Model beautiful.

She, too, watched me closely, but her gaze was harder, almost imperious.

Audrey said, ‘The current Mrs King. The ex-supermodel, Yasmina King née Ivanova.’

‘By the look of things, I’m guessing Wife No. 1 and Wife No. 3 don’t get along,’ I said.

‘They haven’t spoken a word to each other all morning,’ Audrey said.

‘And Wife No. 2?’

‘She was spending the holiday season in Vail with her ski-­instructor boyfriend. Flying back as we speak,’ Audrey said.

‘Was the current wife staying here?’ I asked.

‘No, but her two kids were, with a nanny,’ Special Agent Hooper said. ‘The current Mrs King, Yasmina, was at her mansion on Meadow Lane in Southampton. Choppered in this morning after they pulled her out of her hot-room Pilates class. She’s understandably devastated that her husband and children are missing. You can talk to her later. We gotta keep moving.’

As we passed them, Hooper called to the tanned and bearded gentleman who’d been consoling Yasmina King.

‘Yo, insurance man, you’re up,’ he said brusquely.

Tanned-bearded guy came over.

He was good-looking and fit, with dark hair; his perfectly trimmed beard lined his angular jaw. His pinstriped suit looked even nicer up close. His glasses were Tom Ford.