Chapter 3

Sloane Ashford had been floor director at the Bellamy & Voss Fifth Avenue flagship for six years, and for six straight months her mystery-shop scores had come back failed. Ned knew that from the file in his coat, not from gossip. He knew the regional office had flagged her twice. He knew the store president had been told to fix it quietly before the holidays.

He also knew that a woman with six failed months and a regional team on her floor does not want a report. She wants a win. She wants forty cardholders to watch her catch someone.

Ned had watched her catch someone at 7:58 that evening, and it hadn't looked like a win.

The woman's name was Alma Reyes. She was seventy-one and she used a wheelchair, and she had come up to the main floor to buy a candle for her sister. She'd asked a floor associate where the customer elevator was. Sloane had overheard, walked over, and explained - beautifully, warmly, in that same room-aimed voice - that the customer elevator "isn't for that, ma'am," and that the freight elevator at the back of the store was "more comfortable anyway."

Mrs. Reyes had sat very still for a moment. Then she'd turned her chair around and gone the long way, past the stock doors, past the trash compactor, to buy a candle.

Reggie had stepped behind a pillar and written two lines.

Ned had written three.

Now, at the cashmere counter, Sloane was holding a receipt she had folded in half, and Ned decided to give her one clean chance.

"The scarf has a register tag," he said. "Look at the number printed on it. That's register four. The tape from register four will show the sale at 8:47."

"So you know about registers."

"I'm sixty-seven years old. I've bought things before."

A few cardholders laughed. It was the wrong thing to happen to Sloane - a small, human laugh at her expense - and Ned saw the exact instant she decided to stop negotiating.

"Fine," she said. She reached up and touched her earpiece. "This is Ashford. I need a bag search at the cashmere counter, main floor, and I need two associates here now."

"Ms. Ashford." Nadia Berenger had moved closer, close enough to lower her voice. "Slow down."

"No."

The word hung there. The president of the store had spoken, and the floor director had answered her in front of the regional team, in front of the cardholders, in front of the garlands and the champagne and the two men in gray suits who were suddenly very interested in their shoes.

Ned felt the badge against his chest and thought: there it is.

Not the theft. Not the scarf. The thing the parent company had hired him to find.