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Cole tightened the straps of his backpack and checked the back of the building yet again. A stray cat at the edge of a garbage can eyed Cole warily, the hair on its back sticking straight up as it debated whether Cole was a big enough threat to cause it to leave the scraps it had been eating when Cole first arrived.

With no other hint of movement, Cole climbed on top of the dumpster nearest the fire-escape ladder, bringing him to within three feet of the bottom rung.

Bending his knees, he jumped straight upward and grabbed the bottom rung with both hands.

His weight pulled the ladder downward with a grinding squeak. The cat scurried away, and Cole winced. He hadn’t meant to make that much noise.

The ladder jolted to a stop when it was mere inches above the dumpster. He glanced around again for any sign of life before starting his upward climb. He stepped onto the first-floor landing, careful to balance his weight to avoid making more noise. He then continued up the stairs to the rooftop, six stories up. Looming above him from only a couple of kilometers away, the Eiffel Tower shone brightly. Too brightly.

Ducking to keep from being seen by anyone who might bother to look up, he continued to the edge of the building. Who was he kidding? It was two in the morning. Only crazy people were up at this hour.

Voices carried from below, and Cole peeked over the edge of the roof. A man and a woman leaned on each other as they swaggered down the street. Whether they were intoxicated or exhausted, Cole couldn’t tell, nor did he care.

He climbed onto the edge of the rooftop, deliberately focusing on the four-foot gap between him and the next building instead of the six stories of empty space below him. Just like the standing long jump at field day in junior high, except for the lack of soft sand in his landing zone.

He bent his knees and swung his arms back. Then he took a deep breath and launched himself onto the next roof. He cleared the opposite ledge but stumbled as he fought to regain his footing. One hand pressed against the rooftop before he righted himself and continued to the spot above where Peter Wade’s office was located on the fifth floor.

Cole evaluated the surrounding rooftop before attaching his rappelling gear to a window-washer anchor. It was a stroke of luck that he’d needed this particular equipment on his last assignment. He set his secondary line on the second window-washer anchor, along with the motor that would allow him to use a remote to pull him back up to the roof rather than forcing him to climb back up manually.

Once satisfied that his rigging was secure, he did another check of the street below. The couple had disappeared, but the hum of a nearby engine kept him in place until a car drove by and the street was once again quiet.

Planting his feet on the edge of the rooftop, he tightened his line and climbed downward. He reached the fifth floor and counted off the windows to make sure he entered the correct one. Thankfully, no light shone from within.

Cole stood on the railing of the balcony and retrieved a thin, narrow metal strip from the zippered pocket on the front of his backpack strap. Twenty seconds later, the window latch clicked open.

Cole pushed the window open and slipped inside. He remained stationary for a moment while he evaluated the space before him. A large designer’s table in the corner, two stools beside it. A small, wooden desk in front of the window. A long couch pushed against the far wall.

Confident that he was alone, he pulled the end of the rope into the room and unhooked his harness. A quick scan revealed that the office was clear of surveillance cameras and motion detectors. That would simplify things.

He searched the office, beginning with the desk, which had only a single center drawer. It wasn’t even locked. He slid it open to find nothing beyond basic office supplies.

The artist’s table was devoid of everything except a pencil holder filled with various colored pencils and pens.

He moved to the nearest piece of artwork, a print of the Eiffel Tower. He pulled it away from the wall enough to ensure that nothing was hidden behind it. He repeated the process with two more framed prints without success.

Continuing forward, he reached the far side of the room and discovered a small niche tucked into the corner. Inside it was a four-drawer filing cabinet.

Cole picked the lock and started at the bottom drawer. Bingo. A small safe with a combination dial had been fitted inside. What was it with everyone hiding their safes in drawers?

He studied the top, unable to identify the manufacturer. That was going to complicate things. Unless...

Cole dialed Isabelle’s number.

Isabelle answered on the third ring. “What kind of safe is it?”

“How did you know I was calling about a safe?” Cole whispered.

“Because it’s...” She trailed off, and he could hear her sheets rustle. “Two fifteen in the morning.”

“Okay, so it’s about a safe, but I can’t tell what kind.” Cole described it.

“It’s probably a Forrester,” Isabelle said. “Zero first, then a four-digit com-bination.”

“Thanks.”

“Just don’t get arrested.”

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

“Thanks.” Isabelle hung up, and Cole pulled out his specialized listening device.

At least this time he didn’t have as tight of a time constraint as he’d had for his break-in last week. He simply needed to open the safe, find any evidence that would prove Wade was involved with the theft, and get out before he showed up in the morning—and before anyone noticed Cole’s rope hanging off the side of the building.

Working steadily, Cole dialed through the combination, restarting twice when the second number gave him some trouble. Forty-two minutes later, he pulled the handle and lifted the safe door to reveal the contents inside. A bunch of beige fabric.

Could these be what had been stolen from Ralph’s safe? Or had Wade created them?

Cole lifted the fabric from the safe and laid out the pieces on the couch, photographing each one in turn. When he reached the last one, he looked in the safe for anything else hidden within, but only a small stash of cash remained.

Cole returned the fabric to the safe and secured it before pulling open the next drawer to the filing cabinet. He flipped through the files, all of which appeared to be old tax records.

He closed that drawer and opened the next one. This time, the files were labeled with names rather than years. Cole took photos of each label, pausing when he reached Giuseppe Bianchi’s name. Cole pulled the file out and opened it. Inside were several legal documents, including an opinion from Wade’s attorney on whether to sue for defamation. Cole photographed the documents, carefully keeping them in order in the file.

He replaced it and only had to look to the one right behind it before he came to another familiar name: Dominic Vitale.

This file was much thicker and included a police report that outlined Wade’s claim that Dominic Vitale had paid one of Wade’s employees to steal one of his designs.

Not willing to take the time to read the entire file, Cole snapped photos of the documents and replaced them.

He finished his search of the filing cabinet without any other significant finds.

The chime of an elevator rang out. Whether it was a guard or an occupant didn’t matter. Cole was out of time.

He hurried across the room as footsteps approached. The telltale jangle of keys followed.

Cole quickly clipped his harness to his primary and secondary lines and stepped out onto the railing.

The lock in Wade’s door turned as Cole pulled the windows shut. Without hesitation, he hit the button to start the motor, his body lifting into the air, and he zipped upward to the roof.

The moment he reached the top of the building, he climbed over the ledge and pulled his line upward.

“That was close.” He shook his head. Why would Peter Wade be in his office at three thirty in the morning?

It didn’t matter. It was time to get back to his room and get some sleep.

Cole packed his gear into his backpack and headed back the way he’d come. He had just landed on the roof of the building next door when his phone buzzed with an incoming text.

He thought he had silenced it.

Based on the late hour, it had to be either his grandfather or a friend who was Stateside. Continuing steadily forward, he pulled his phone free of his pocket. He glanced down at the screen. Not a text message. An alarm.