Chapter Eight

October 7

Lucien Kite Estate

A hint of autumn was in the Connecticut night air; a chill edged the breeze, and a crescent moon hung low in the sky. The beautiful weather did nothing to improve Lucien Kite’s mood. He emerged from the back of the Maybach without waiting for his driver and marched up the marble steps to the massive double doors. They opened before Kite broke stride.

The kindest word his neighbors used to describe the house was garish—not that he had many neighbors. The estate, built by an eccentric toy manufacturer a century ago, sat on twenty acres just north of Darien, Connecticut. Kite had purchased the famed Versailles-inspired mansion, then proceeded to gild, extend, overdecorate, and ornament every square foot of the already ornate home. From the gold leaf capitals of the columns lining the front portico to the elaborate hedge maze at the rear of the property, the residence was a tribute to conspicuous consumption.

Lucien Kite was, without exception, the most polarizing man on Wall Street. After spending a decade as the number two man at finance king, Anton Zorba’s fund, a now infamous multi-billion dollar Ponzi scheme, Kite was -enjoying the fruits of his labors. He hid vast sums of money everywhere from Belize to Singapore, then Kite turned FBI informant. Two years later, Anton Zorba was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, the investors had lost millions, and Lucien Kite was living like a king.

The media was torn on their depiction of Lucien Kite; some called him a crusader, others a criminal. Most people in the know suspected the latter. Some even speculated Kite had a hand in his boss’s suspicious suicide.

That didn’t stop people from attending his parties.

Kite’s autumn masquerade was in two weeks. It was a highlight of his year. Kite always looked forward to shouting his success to the whispered wealth of Old Money.

Today, however, Kite was far from celebratory.

Storming into the house, he strode across the marble tile of the soaring entry and flew up the left side of the split grand staircase. Kite slammed the office double doors behind him and dropped into the desk chair.

Two weeks had passed since the debacle at the restoration facility, and The Lynx had vanished like a rumor. Kite had been outsmarted. He’d had the bastard dead to rights, but The Lynx had a failsafe Kite hadn’t anticipated. What’s worse, Kite had played his hand; he doubted he’d ever be able to lure The Lynx into another trap. Best-case scenario now was that Kite had forced the thief into early retirement.

Well, Kite hadn’t exhausted every option. At this very moment, he had a team of investigators combing the restoration warehouse looking for any clue to The Lynx’s identity. Perhaps the man had left something behind in the chaos of his escape.

Tapping the keyboard of his computer, Kite brought up the security footage of their encounter. He watched and rewatched the silent interaction, unable to pinpoint what bothered him. The Lynx obviously understood English, but was he American? At one point, the thief’s eyes darted to his right. Kite -remembered one of his guards had said something in his native German before shooting the rappelling line. Kite couldn’t remember his exact words, but it was something along the lines of I’ll shoot that fucker next . Pausing the video, Kite zoomed in on the masked face. The Lynx’s eyes had widened, indicating the thief understood what the guard had said. Kite squinted at the screen. The video was black and white, but suddenly, he remembered what had struck him—those eyes. They were a vibrant shade—the electric blue of a Siamese fighting fish. The thief tried to hide it, but Kite saw the fear in those unusual eyes. Kite played the footage on a loop, toggling between camera angles, trying to force the niggling thought in his head to the surface. Something about The Lynx was… off . And Lucien Kite was going to figure out what it was.