It sat idling in the shadows, its exhaust pipe sending plumes of white steam into the cold air.

I tapped Adrian’s arm and pointed toward the vehicle.

He didn’t look up immediately, his attention still fixed on the ringing phone.

“Come on, Julian,” Adrian muttered under his breath.

The phone rang three more times before someone picked up.

“Adrian?” a deep, sleepy voice came through the speaker.

“Julian,” Adrian said, his tone urgent. “I need a favor. It’s about the Hudson marina.”

I kept my eyes on the dark SUV across the street.

The driver’s side window rolled down an inch.

A pale face was visible in the gap, watching us.

“What about the marina?” Julian asked over the line.

“There is a yacht in Slip 14,” Adrian said. “It’s preparing to depart for international waters.”

“At this hour?” Julian asked. “That’s highly unusual.”

“It’s carrying stolen cargo,” Adrian said. “My family’s painting. The one that went missing from the estate.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

The only sound was the distant horn of a tugboat out on the river.