It sat on the edge of the river, looking down on the city like a fortress.

When we arrived, three federal vehicles were already parked in the semi-circular driveway.

Security guards in black uniforms stood near the revolving glass doors, looking bewildered.

Vance walked past them without stopping, flashing her gold badge.

“Federal agents,” she said. “We have a warrant to seize all electronic storage devices on the executive floor.”

I walked behind her, my chest tight.

We took the express elevator to the penthouse suite.

The doors opened to a spacious lobby decorated with abstract oil paintings and leather sofas.

Barbara Hayes was standing near the receptionist’s desk, her voice echoing off the marble floor.

“You cannot be in here!” she shrieked at a young agent who was unplugging a computer terminal. “Do you know who my husband is?”

She turned and saw me standing next to Vance.

Her face flushed a deep, ugly red.

“You,” Barbara spat, stepping toward me. “You ungrateful little street rat.”

“Step back, Mrs. Hayes,” Vance said, placing a firm hand on Barbara’s shoulder.