CHAPTER ONE

I was hiding in the third floor ladies room when my cell
phone began to jangle. Struggling with the oh-so-cute clasp
of the Kate Spade evening bag, I cursed the weakness for
fashion that made me choose an accessory that was almost as
useless as it was expensive.

“Yes?” I snapped when at last I pried open the handbag.
I had been congratulating myself for getting my boss an
appointment with a gold-plated venture capitalist after
listening to him tell me more than I wanted to know about
his collection of Oceanic art. If it led to a donation for
the Devor Museum of Arts and Antiquities, I might get a
nice raise. Right now, all I wanted was a few minutes to
repair my lipstick and recharge my batteries.

My business is convincing wealthy people to give away
large sums of money or precious objects, and it can be hard
work. It’s an honorable profession, for the most part,
although some folks see us more as thieves, car salesmen,
or carrion crows. When I was married to Money, and I
certainly was for a short time, my mother-in-law made it
clear that’s how she saw me.

I learned a lot about money during my four years as Mrs.
Richard Argetter III, consort of one of San Francisco’s
wealthiest young social lions. For one thing, all those
clichés about money not making you happy? I now know
they’re mostly true. I’m awed on a regular basis, though,
by wealthy people with good hearts and generous instincts
who do great deeds.

“Better get down here, Dani,” a voice barked in my
ear. “All hell’s breaking loose.”

“Len?” Len Hightower’s our security chief, much given to
drama. “What are you talking about?”

But I could already hear a change in the tone of
conversation outside the restroom door. As gregarious as an
open bar and the presence of their peers rendered San
Francisco’s social butterflies at a party like this, the
anxious quality of this particular hum set it apart.

“Get down here. Peter needs you.”

“I’m on my way.” Peter Lindsey is my boss. He’s also the
director of the Devor Museum. I may be a senior executive,
too, but when he says jump, I do.

Snapping the phone shut, I quick-checked my reflection.
The new green eye shadow did nice things for my hazel eyes
but the flame lipstick had to go. On my large mouth, it
looked like clown makeup. I swiped it off and settled for
lip gloss.

Nudging the door open with my shoulder, I reached for
the pager. The display showed Peter’s cell phone number. I
speed-dialed while easing my way past guests, a few of whom
were looking over the railings of the central staircase
that ran up the spine of the handsome old Edwardian
building to the glassed roof atrium.

Something was wrong, but I couldn’t see what it was when
I peered over the heads of the shifting, murmuring crowd.
Was there a fire? I sniffed, but didn’t smell smoke.

Squeezing past the outstretched arms of the two Museum
guards standing at the third floor landing after getting a
nod of recognition from one of them, I hurried down the
carpeted stairs. It looked as though the guards’ orders
were to keep people from coming down, which surely meant it
wasn’t a fire. But what the hell was it?

The bar had been set up in the large first floor lobby
for tonight’s preview of Matthew Barney’s multimedia
installation, so, naturally, that’s where the biggest crowd
was. I paused at the second floor landing and looked toward
the two-story, glass entrance doors installed a few years
ago over the howls of architectural purists. Strangely,
because our liquor license from the city forbids Devor
Museum guests from loitering outside the entrance, there
seemed to be as big a crowd on the sidewalk as inside the
building.

An elevator opened into the lobby as I peered down,
disgorging a score of black-clad, dot com types and a
security guard, a temp brought in for the evening by the
look of him. They merely added to the crush. I made it down
to the first floor, maneuvering past a flock of twenty-
somethings in Prada and Jimmy Choos who were chattering
about guys with cute butts, while craning their pretty
necks and sniffing the tension in the room.

Even though I’m tall, I couldn’t spot Peter over the
heads of the crowd. Len is short, a matter of some
sensitivity to him. I worried he’d need one of those
bicyclers’ flags to stand out right now.

“What happened?” I asked a portly man blocking my path
to the information desk, where I guessed staff might be
gathering.

“Someone said a body just landed outside,” he replied
without taking his eyes off the glass doors.