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Thomas nods. “Many times.”

“When Ivy published this photograph, she unknowingly showed everyone what the telescope contained,” Ben says.

“And gave the person searching for it the title,” Ward adds.

Ivy’s voice trembles. “I thought I made up that title.”

“Maybe you remembered hearing Grandpa say it,” I tell her.

“The telescope isn’t at the beach house,” she says suddenly.

Everyone goes still.

“You said it was in your closet,” Storm replies.

“I thought it was, but I used it during that photo session. I never took it home.”

“Where is it now?” Keating asks.

“My studio.”

“Where in San Francisco?”

“South of Market. Near Bryant Street.”

Keating motions to the officer beside him. “Notify San Francisco police. Have them secure the building and wait for federal agents.”

“Ivy, who has access to your studio?” Ben asks.

“My assistant. The building manager. The cleaning company.”

“Anyone else?”

Ivy doesn’t answer.

“Ivy?” I press.

“I loan the studio to other photographers when I’m traveling.”

“How many people have used it since you took that photograph?”

“I don’t know. Dozens.”

Keating’s jaw tightens.

His phone rings again.

This time, he puts it on speaker.

“Keating.”

“Commander, this is Agent Marquez. We’re inside Willow Sinclair’s restaurant.”

Willow inhales sharply.

“Did you locate the pocket watch?” Keating asks.

“Yes. It was still inside the desk.”