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  Momi was asleep, rolled onto her side, the handmade quilt her grandmother Esther had made for her scrunched up in a corner of the crib. Even in a video feed rendered grainy by the dim light, Sophie could see how flushed her daughter’s cheeks were. Damp hair was plastered to her head with sweat, and her breathing was harsh and loud. Sophie watched helplessly as Armita’s slender hand touched Momi’s brow, smoothing black curls off of her face. “You are getting better already, my darling,” the nanny crooned. “Sleep well. Rest will aid your healing.”

  Sophie shut her eyes, swallowing a rush of emotion as Armita carried the phone back into her own bedroom and shut the door. She let that breath out as soon as the door was closed. “I can’t do this, Armita. I have to see her. Be with her. My daughter is sick!”

  “She is fine, Sophie Malee.” Only Armita and her mother, Pim Wat, ever called her that. “Momi has a little flu bug. She is under the care of myself, her father, and a doctor. There is nothing that you could add to this that is meaningful. You just want to be here for yourself.”

  “That was cruel of you to say,” Sophie breathed. Her hands curled tight around the edges of the tablet.

  “I’m sorry. I’m tired.” Armita shook her head, yawned. “Sometimes the truth hurts, Sophie Malee. Perhaps I could have said it differently. But now, I need rest as well. Call in the morning. I’m sure she will be fine.” The tablet went black as Armita cut the connection.

  “Daughter of a poxy whore!” Sophie resisted the urge to throw the tablet.

  She shut her eyes and breathed deeply.

  She was overreacting.

  Armita was right; her daughter was in good hands. What she’d said was true: Sophie could add nothing important to the care Momi was getting. But that didn’t stanch the pain of being separated from her child.

  She set the tablet down as the doorbell chimed with her room service meal. Sophie checked first, admitted the delivery, tipped the man, and relocked the door. She carried her tray of food to a small table that overlooked the sparkling lights of Marin County on the other side of the iconic red struts of the Golden Gate Bridge. “Nothing to be done about it in this moment,” she said aloud. “I will call in the morning.”

  If only things had worked out with Jake . . . if only Connor wasn’t half a world away, a wanted man . . . if only she’d said yes to Raveaux’s dinner invitation and skipped this deeply lonely moment.

  Sophie uncovered the pasta and ate, fighting the dark pull of her old demon, depression. Halfway through her dinner, her phone buzzed. She picked it up, eager for some distraction.

  Connor.

  Her heart picked up speed as she took the call. “Connor. What are you calling me for?”

  “Hello to you, too, Sophie.” She thought she could hear a hint of the Australian accent he used to use. “I think we got cut off, last time.”

  “We didn’t get cut off. I hung up on you.” She sat back and pushed her plate away. “I haven’t decided what to do about your company. About any of it.”

  “You sound upset.”

  “I am.” She stood up, paced, pushed a hand into her dense curls. “My baby is sick on Kaua`i, and I’m in San Francisco. Working.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry, darling.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She tugged at her hair, welcoming the prickling pain. “I feel fragmented by all of this. Pulled in too many directions. I don’t like my life right now.”

  Silence. Then, “That must be so difficult. I hurt for you.” His voice was sincere and quiet.

  Her stress began to ebb. He wasn’t trying to talk her out of it, or argue, or deflect, or justify the part he’d played in her current situation. The emotion in his voice melted the tension knotting her muscles. “I’m so mad at you for not coming back. I thought . . .”

  “You thought I’d come back, and that we’d be together.”

  “I . . . suppose. It helped me get over Jake leaving, to imagine us together.”

  “But you know that I stayed here in Thailand so you and Jake could be together without my coming between you.”

  “I do know that. But that’s not what happened.”

  “No. It isn’t. And in the end . . . it was better that I completed my training. I’ve learned so much.”

  “Better for you, maybe.” She didn’t intend to sound so bitter.

  “It is what it is,” Connor said imperturbably. “We are where we are.”

  “I don’t like the zen monk act, Connor.” Sophie began pacing again. “You’re pissing me off again.”

  “Speaking like a true American now, I see.” He chuckled. “I have a proposal for you.”

  “I’m listening.” She paused, pressing her fingers against her eyes.

  His words came out in a rush. “Come to Phi Ni. Meet with me. Let’s talk over what’s happened, what to do about the company, how to . . . be together—if we can be together. I know we can figure something out.” He drew a breath, blew it out. “The Master called. He said he is with your mother, that he is working with some healers to restore her mind, body, and spirit. He has hopes that Pim Wat will be healed from this, and from that part of her that was so . . .”

  “Evil? Sadistic?” Sophie snorted. “Pim Wat is not like other people. She told me that herself.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you or I think. The Master loves her and is trying to heal her, and I’ve seen him do incredible things. What we think about what he’s doing doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I told him I wanted time away from the compound to meet with you, and he granted it.”

  “Connor.” Sophie shook her head. “A week on Phi Ni is not a solution.”

  “But it’s something. Please. Just say you will meet with me. I will make sure you don’t regret it.” His voice was silky seduction, melting her defenses. “Give me a weekend, at least. We’ll walk on that beach below my house. You loved that beach.”

  Ah, that half-moon of silky white sand fringed with palms, the turquoise water of the bay, the tall cliffs crowned by his gorgeous house . . . Her lady bits woke up and cast a vote—say yes! She’d done nothing but work and be a mother for the last two years. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Good. I’ll arrange to be there in a week. Goodbye, Sophie.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Raveaux: Day Six

  The diner where Detective Pellman had asked them to meet him for breakfast was almost a cliché: battered red plastic booths, checked tablecloths, paper napkins in silver holders, and greasy laminated menus. They’d arrived early, having discovered that the diner was only a few blocks away from their hotel.

  Raveaux sneaked a glance at Sophie, seated across from him. She looked like she hadn’t slept well; strain showed in the tightness of her mouth and smudges under her eyes. She had not bothered, as others might have, to hide those signs of stress with makeup or extra grooming.

  He appreciated the truthfulness of how she presented herself. Sophie had a mask, an inscrutable blankness of expression, but he could always see beyond that to the emotion of the moment. She carried secrets, and though he’d never know what they were, the weight of them was apparent. Her transparency felt refreshing after knowing his wife.

  Gita had been a mystery he never quite unraveled. She would never have appeared in public with no makeup on and circles under her eyes from sleeplessness; her hair would have been shiny and sleek, her manner exactly how she chose to present herself at any given moment.

  The glimpses Gita had allowed him of her inner soul, made those moments all the sweeter for their rarity.

  Detective Pellman arrived, shoving open the door with a tinkle of its bell. He was sensibly dressed for the chill and damp in a heavy waterproof coat, gloves, and a black wool beanie. He slid into the booth next to Raveaux, before the other man could get out to greet him.

  “Detective Pellman.” He extended a hand to Sophie. The man’s eyes were rheumy, with a quarter-inch of white visible above damp-looking lower lids, giving him the visage of a sad ho
und dog. That impression was reinforced by pouches of saggy flesh beneath his chin, and long fleshy ears.

  Sophie shook his gloved hand, smiling warmly. “Sophie Smithson. Thank you for meeting us, and working with us on this case.”

  The men greeted each other, and Pellman turned back to Sophie. “Was pleased to get the call from Raveaux. Frankly, I’m glad to have a chance to have another look at the case.” The older man shrugged out of his padded slicker and flagged down the waitress. “Hey, Alice. Mind hanging this up for me?”

  “No problem, Deke.” The sixty-ish woman, packed tightly into a flowered polyester knit uniform, took the coat from Pellman. “Can I get anyone coffee?”

  They ordered. Raveaux waited to hear what Sophie would disclose about her discovery of Bell’s address, but when the waitress returned with coffee and Sophie’s hot water, his partner merely dunked the cheap teabag in the thick white mug, a pucker of distaste on her mouth.

  “We have some new information since I talked to you last night,” Raveaux told Pellman. “We’ve found a connection at the Lambert Building to our main suspect. You know of her since she did the assessment portion of your case, too. Her name is Mel Samson.”

  “I remember the videos of Samson. Weird headdress.” He patted his beanie.

  “She was sick. Terminal cancer. That was her motive to steal—to get money for her treatment,” Sophie said. “She committed suicide a couple of days ago.”

  “A shame,” Pellman said. “Was her suicide connected to the case?”

  “Most definitely. Finding out we were onto her triggered her suicide,” Sophie said. “Samson was the actual thief in both cases we’ve studied closely. But she said she’d been working with someone else, someone who set up the theft, doctored the surveillance video, and disposed of the gems once Samson turned them over. We’ve been calling that unsub the master thief.” Sophie gave up the teabag dunking and took a sip of the pale brew. “I must remember to bring my own teabags when traveling.”

  Pellman’s gaze turned to Raveaux. “You said there was a connection to the Lambert Building.”

  “Yes. Sophie discovered that Samson’s heir, Elisa Bell, lives in the building,” Raveaux said. “We’d like to get in and meet her. Notify her of Samson’s death, if no one else has, and see what her response is.”

  Their breakfast arrived. Raveaux eyed his runny eggs Benedict with dismay. Sophie, across from him, pointed with her fork to her own scrambled eggs and bacon. “Sometimes you have to manage your expectations, Raveaux.”

  “Just like you enjoyed your tea?” He raised his brows.

  She laughed. “You have a point.”

  Pellman took a bite of his eggs and coughed, which turned into a fit. Raveaux pounded the man’s bony back and he hacked into a wad of paper napkins Sophie handed him. “You seem unwell. You should get that checked out.”

  Pellman laughed, and it sounded as hopeless as his cough. “I did have it checked out, and it’s killing me. Don’t ever smoke.”

  “I’m sorry.” Raveaux looked down at his coffee, wishing it was something stronger. He was surprised to see Sophie’s slender hand reach out to squeeze the older detective’s arm.

  “I hope you are making plans to enjoy your life as much as you can.”

  Pellman gave that harsh, painful chuckle again. “Closing cases fulfills my life, such as it is.” The man placed his gnarled fingers over Sophie’s hand and patted it. “But if my cancer gets me a smile and a touch on the arm from a pretty girl, I’ll still take it.”

  Raveaux scraped the dubious sauce off of his eggs, and ate them plain.

  The detective’s cancer didn’t seem to inhibit his appetite, and the man shoveled in his breakfast vigorously. Sophie, however, ate sparingly and pushed her plate away half finished. She picked up the thread of their conversation, holding her mug. “When I discovered Samson’s will, Elisa Bell was named in it as her heir. Bell is thirty-seven, single, and a graphic designer. There must be some relationship to Samson, but I have not been able to identify exactly what it is.”

  “I think that should be enough for us to get in, introduce ourselves, and see where it goes,” Pellman said. “I’ll flash my badge and that’ll do it with the building super.”

  Soon they were on their way to the Lambert Building, riding in style in Detective Pellman’s vintage Chevrolet Impala. Raveaux sank into the rich leather upholstery of the wide bench seat as he slid in beside Pellman in front. Sophie, in the back, laughed aloud in delight as she bounced on the roomy back seat of the late 1950’s-era vehicle with fins on the rear. “Where do you park a vehicle of this size in the city? This is not the usual ride for a place like San Francisco.”

  “Got this old girl from my grandma. She drove it about three times in her entire life, so it’s in good shape, and I was lucky enough to inherit her house with a garage, too.” Pellman stroked the large, gleaming steering wheel.

  The Impala navigated the city just fine, floating over the steep streets in style. They soon pulled up in front of the Lambert Building, where Pellman skillfully maneuvered the boat of a car into a handicap space and hung a placard from his rearview mirror. “Let’s do this.”

  At the door, Pellman rang for the building’s manager. A tinny voice inquired their business through a grille. “This is Detective Pellman of the San Francisco Police. We are here to interview one of your residents.” Pellman spoke with authority, succumbing to a fit of coughing as soon as the building supervisor buzzed them into a small foyer. A steep set of stairs switchbacked upward, leading to interior landings on each floor. “I’m not going up those stairs. There must be an elevator,” Pellman rasped.

  Sophie pointed to a small, narrow contraption with a brass door hidden behind the potted palm. “I’ll take the stairs. Elisa’s apartment is 4B. I’ll meet you two there.” She headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Raveaux and Pellman watched her until she was out of sight as the elevator rumbled down slowly. “She’s a looker,” the older man mused.

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Raveaux said, and Pellman coughed a feeble laugh.

  Sophie was standing outside of the apartment when they got off the elevator, frowning. “I knocked. No one is answering.”

  “Let me try.” Pellman used the side of his fist to pound on the glossy black wood of the apartment door. “Open up! San Francisco Police!”

  No answer.

  No sound of a barking dog or rustle of footsteps.

  Raveaux applied his eye to the spy hole, but there was no shadow of movement on the other side of it.

  Pellman bent to slide his card under the door. Sophie stopped him, snatching it from his fingers. “No. Not yet. I want to see if she’s heard the news that she is Samson’s heir, and see what she says. I’m willing to bet that her lawyer has not yet contacted her. In effect, we can be doing the death notification. And I’m eager to see what her reaction is. I still haven’t found a connection between the two women, and I want to know if Samson’s legacy comes as a surprise or not.”

  Raveaux nodded. “Let’s find out from the super what her habits are, then intercept her in person.”

  “Catch her off guard, you mean,” Pellman said. “I like it.” He tapped the door lightly with his knuckles. “Knock wood.”

  Raveaux shook his contact’s hand, slipping a thousand dollars in tightly rolled hundreds into the man’s palm as he did so. “Appreciate this, Hoo.”

  Kim Hoo was a short tubby man dressed in motorcycle leathers marked with the bold insignia of a San Francisco club. They’d ridden across Europe many years ago, and Hoo had been a valuable confidential informant of Raveaux’s for those many years.

  Hoo bounced his brows suggestively at Raveaux as he slid his hand into his pocket, disappearing the cash. “Anything for you, Raveaux. This guy is cagey, so I’m glad you dressed the part. Did you leave your weapon at the hotel?”

  “I did.” Raveaux patted his chest reflexively. Hoo had insisted that he leave his Sig and any ID at the hotel in
case the fence searched him, and it left him feeling naked. He missed the weight of his ankle piece, and the Sig’s weight in his shoulder holster was familiar from his police days. Posing as a buyer, Raveaux had dressed in a tailored bespoke suit Gita had commissioned for him in Paris years ago. It hung on him a bit, but that wasn’t entirely a bad thing— he had plenty of room to move, should he need to. “Lead on, Kim.”

  Hoo checked that his Harley was secured, and touched the gleaming handlebars as if for luck as they headed out. “We won’t be long, I hope.”

  He set off, Raveaux following, and they walked down the sidewalk of the fairly decent street. Raveaux was prepared to go down some dark alley, but instead, after a couple of blocks Hoo stopped in front of a well-lit, well-maintained office building. He pressed an apartment building number on the call box, and the entry gate buzzed open for them.

  Raveaux shifted his messenger bag to his other hand. He glanced down at the leather bag, picturing the interior of the main compartment, where his investigation equipment had been cleaned out and packs of cut paper with cash rubber banded on each side filled the bottom. Not fancy, just enough to pass a cursory inspection to verify he was able to pay. But he didn’t intend any transactions to go further than that.

  They couldn’t, or he’d been in trouble.

  The three of them had parted ways after Pellman left them off at their hotel. Sophie had excused herself after the visit to the Lambert Building, telling him that she needed to dig deeper into Elisa Bell’s background, and planned to work at her computer. He and Sophie had arranged to reconnect over dinner in the evening to compare notes from the day—but he hadn’t told her his agenda.

  He’d had the feeling that she could hardly wait to be alone; that she had some plan up her sleeve. Was she meeting someone? But he was hardly one to question her; he’d neither told her what he was doing nor invited her, and there was a reason for that: these people could be dangerous.

  They entered a narrow, shiny brass elevator in the building’s lobby. Hoo glanced over at Raveaux. “Something on your mind?”