39

Jack smashed his fist into the boxing bag, the sharp slap the only sound that broke the silence in the small workout room in the back of the police station. The gym was utilitarian, nothing but the basics. He didn’t need much. He just needed a place to build his body back.

He lost himself in the rhythm of his punches. He liked it when he was alone in here. He was still on leave—not by his own choice—but he could at least use the gym, part of his physical therapy. Maybe he was doing it a little harder than he was supposed to, but he didn’t have time for a slow recovery.

So he came in, once a day, for the gym, and because he could usually sneak a few minutes at his computer, check on things, ask around about what progress the FBI was making.

None whatsoever.

Pretty much the same as he. His home visit a week ago with Ashley Price had netted more questions than answers.

He’d spent the intervening days with identifying everybody on the paintings he’d taken from her. Other than himself, he