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and softly that Kat doubted her feet even made an impression in the carpet.
    “How much time do we have?” Kat asked.
    “They just went in with their lawyer, so let’s call it forty minutes.”
    “Let’s call it thirty,” Kat countered, and Gabrielle shrugged—the universal signal for Have it your way .
    It didn’t really matter. They could have done what they needed to do in ten. There was only the bedroom and bathroom, after all. The closet held two suitcases that had probably been quite expensive fifty years before but were now faded and beaten; three pairs of shoes and an assortment clothes that were worn but neatly mended—all with London labels.
    “Found the safe,” Gabrielle called from the cabinet that held the minibar. Inside was a small box that was standard issue for hotel chains around the world, so it only took a minute for Kat to crack it. A moment later, she was pulling out two passports in the names of Marshall and Constance Miller. Two hundred dollars in traveler’s checks. A family locket. And a beaten, weathered file about a very famous emerald and an almost-as-notorious court case.
    Kat watched her cousin flip through page after page—black-and-white images of a family in the desert; photocopies of ancient ledgers written in a woman’s elegant hand. And countless letters from Oliver Kelly the Third, urging Constance Miller to “move on,” “give up,” and finally, “get a real hobby.”
    “Oh,” Gabrielle said slowly, “I really don’t like this guy.”
    But it was the last page that made them stop—because it was the last page where someone had taped a plain white business card with simple black letters that spelled the name Visily Romani .

CHAPTER 8
    A n hour later, Kat was alone in the middle of Madison Square Park, watching the fat white flakes that floated between the gray sky and the Kelly building—a nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her that something was about to go terribly wrong.
    Maybe it was the location: high-security buildings are hard. High-security high-rises are suicide. Perhaps it was because the Kelly Corporation’s cameras were state-of-the-art, and their security consultants used to cash paychecks from places like the CIA.
    It was not because of curses. It was not because of Hale. It was certainly not because Visily Romani—no matter how noble his motives—was developing an annoying habit of pulling Kat into jobs that far older and experienced (and some might even say sane ) thieves would never dare attempt.
    No—Kat shook her head against the thought, blinked away the snow that landed on her dark lashes—that wasn’t it.
    “If I didn’t know any better,” a strong voice said from behind her, “I’d say you were casing that joint.”
    Hale was there. Kat turned to see Gabrielle punch his arm and say, “Told you we’d find her here.”
    But there was nothing playful in the way Hale was looking at her as he said, “I should probably warn you that Oliver Kelly isn’t messing around.”
    And that was when Kat knew there was no single part of this job that worried her—it was everything together. From the building, to the target, to the way Hale crossed his arms and studied her through the falling snow. But most of all, there was…
    “Romani.” Kat looked up at the gray sky. “They had Romani’s card.” She stood waiting for an answer of some kind, but got nothing. “So it’s legit. So I think I’ve got to do this.” She studied Hale through the falling snow. “So…say something.”
    “That place is a fortress, Kat.”
    “Romani wouldn’t have sent Constance Miller to me if he didn’t think I could—”
    “We,” Hale snapped.
    “Of course. If he didn’t think we could do it.”
    “I don’t like it, Kat,” Hale said, and just that quickly, Kat knew he was right.
    “I don’t like it either, but I think…I think I’ve got to try. You don’t have to come with me if you—”
    “No.” Hale shook his head. “No