That was the first wrong thing.

Luca Vance did not leave his door unlocked; he was a careful man, and a security-conscious one.

An unlocked door meant a man in a hurry, a man who no longer expected to come back.

We moved through the familiar rooms, and in the master bedroom we found the floor safe behind the closet mirror standing wide open, and Luca standing in the center of the room, holding a leather-bound journal and a stack of financial folders, his packed luggage beside the bed.

He turned, and saw the officers, and the drawn weapons, and me behind them, and his face did the thing I had been waiting all day to see it do.