by Toby Neal
“Calling it a kidnapping—that’s nice, considering she was a prisoner,” Sophie said.
“She was removed by persons unknown for a purpose unknown,” McDonald said. “What else would you call it?”
Best not to prolong the conversation; McDonald was irritable enough. “Thank you for the call. Keep me apprised.” Sophie hung up with a punch of a button. She drove on auto pilot, her thoughts whirling, to the Security Solutions building, rode the elevator to her office on the top floor, and greeted Paula at her desk.
Her assistant held up a finger, stopping Sophie. “Check your email and your messages. And Raveaux is already in your office.”
“Can you tell him to wait out here in the future?” Sophie’s brows snapped together in annoyance. “I like to have a little space to do my routine before I go into meetings.”
“I can tell him,” Paula said. “But that doesn’t mean he would listen. Raveaux’s like oil pouring downhill: smooth, slippery, and hard to stop.”
Sophie paused; might as well get a temperature check on what Paula thought of Raveaux. “At least he’s prompt. And smart. Also, he dresses well.”
“Don’t forget easy on the eyes.” Paula handed Sophie an insulated mug of strong Thai tea. “And that accent!” She fanned herself.
“I suppose.” Since she grew up internationally, the accent didn’t do much for her, but she did like Raveaux’s conversational strength and good vocabulary. “Back to work, Paula, and put your fan on if you need it.”
Paula laughed. “I’m a little young for hot flashes, but that man . . .”
Sophie rolled her eyes. She pushed down the lever opening her heavy teak door with her elbow since both hands were occupied with her backpack and the mug.
Raveaux was seated in the chair in front of her desk in his characteristic pose: ankle on knee, paperback open. Midnight blue shirt and black pants, comb tracks in his curling brown hair, a slight scent of cinnamon as she passed. Setting down her items on her desk, Sophie put her hands on her hips. “Raveaux. You’re here already! Coming into my office is becoming a habit.”
“Bonjour, Sophie.”
“I see you finished that other book you were reading.” She hit the encoded fob that turned on her computers.
Raveaux held up a worn copy of the first of the Jack Reacher novels. “I found a used bookstore near my place and picked up this Lee Child first in series. Vigilante justice explains so much about American culture.”
Vigilante justice. She felt a quiver in her belly. The last thing Sophie needed was for Raveaux to get some whiff of the Ghost. “I’m not a fan of vigilante justice, though I concede its usefulness.”
Raveaux narrowed his eyes. “Seems like you’ve given this some thought.”
“You’re early for our meeting. Read your book, Raveaux. And don’t come into my office again without being invited.”
Raveaux went still at her snappishness. “As you wish, Madame,” he murmured, and re-opened his novel.
Sophie studied him from under her lashes as the computer booted up. His skin wasn’t so pale, the darkness under his eyes less pronounced. Perhaps he had slept better.
She dealt with her email—no small amount, but she hacked through it with the triage system she used. She had a message from Bix, and a meeting scheduled with him later in the day to go over employee performance records. She made sure the meeting was logged into her phone and set a reminder alarm.
“Ugh.” She hated those employee performance reviews. Sophie leaned back and ran her fingers into her short, thick hair, closing her eyes for a moment to massage her scalp deeply, sighing out that tension. She carried a lot of stress in her neck and jaw.
Raveaux cleared his throat. Once again, she’d forgotten he was there! The man was a ninja that way.
“It is ten-thirty, time for our meeting,” he said. “Are you ready to discuss our case?”
“Our meeting. Of course.” Sophie refocused, rummaging in the backpack that doubled as a purse. She extracted the silver laptop Samson had given her. “Let me see if the thief has responded.” She got Samson’s computer booting up. “What did you uncover about the diamond assessor?”
“I do not have access to a deep dive program for background checking, but I was able to track Agrippa Polat’s bona fides. He is part of a family-owned diamond dealing consortium, and is one of the main buyers, so he’s certainly seen a few stones in his time. The company has a good reputation. At first glance, he seems to be legitimate. There are no outstanding complaints or legal actions of any kind against him or his company.”
“Good. I didn’t expect that there would be.” Sophie kept her eyes on her screen as she typed rapidly, inputting the security code and pulling up the encrypted email site. A smile tugged at her lips. “The thief did not reply to the email, but it was opened. The tracker was engaged.”
Raveaux leaned forward to look as Sophie pushed the laptop toward him. Her nostrils flared, picking up his scent. Not cinnamon—cloves. And soap. Very pleasant. “See this? It’s a geo positioning algorithm connected to the IP address of the computer receiving the message.” The software worked, a globe spinning in the corner of the screen.
“Ah. Why wasn’t the thief using a VPN to mask his IP?” Raveaux’s black brows had drawn together. “Seems very careless.”
“I agree, and I don’t know. Should we look a gift horse in the mouth?” Sophie smiled. “Sometimes, it’s best not to.”
“Gift horse,” Raveaux muttered. “I don’t know that one.”
“Google it.” Sophie enjoyed throwing out colloquialisms now and again after so many years of struggling with them. “Look at that. The IP is here on Oahu.”
Raveaux straightened up. “Seems very odd. Out of all the world . . .”
“It’s probably someone Samson knows. Or who works for the company. Just because this architect is hiding behind a computer doesn’t mean he isn’t local,” Sophie said, though she too was surprised. “Let’s go check out this address. The software can only track the nearest coordinates, not an address, so I need a few more minutes to cross-reference and come up with an actionable location.” Her fingers flew. A moment later, she looked up to meet Raveaux’s deep brown eyes. “Ready for a field trip?”
Chapter Nineteen
Raveaux: Day Three
Raveaux drove the generic-looking white Security Solutions Ford Escape SUV along the steep elevations of winding, scenic Route 61, more commonly known as the Pali Highway, an important artery connecting Honolulu with the town of Kaneohe on the other side of the Koolau Mountains. He drove more slowly than was strictly necessary, craning his neck to take in stunning views of velvety, crenellated mountains scored from a thousand downpours mounded cumulus clouds caught on their majestic tops. Huge trees trailed vines from the umbrella of branches overhanging tumbling streams in the valleys on either side of the highway. And off in the distance, the ever-present backdrop of the ocean gleamed, crinkled cobalt satin . . .
“So poetic,” Gita would have said, teasing him if he’d described such a scene to her aloud, but she would have loved it. Many of the plants of Hawaii, and the ubiquitous mynahs, would have been familiar to her from her native India.
Sophie, seated beside him, had her tablet propped up on her knees. A video chat with her daughter was open on the screen. “Sing me the ABC song, darling,” she cooed.
He’d never heard that warmth in her tone before. Raveaux, curious about Sophie’s child, flicked a glance away from the road at the screen. The open video chat showed a cherubic little girl whose rosy cheeks were framed by silky black curls.
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G . . .” the toddler chanted, then stopped suddenly, popping a finger into her mouth.
“H, I, J, K . . .” prompted another feminine voice from behind the little girl.
“It’s okay, Armita,” Sophie said. “I don’t want to force this.” She switched languages, speaking Thai. The women spoke rapidly back and forth over the child’s shoulder. Momi leaned h
er head back against her nanny’s shoulder and closed her eyes, still sucking her forefinger.
Raveaux kept his gaze on the road—the route was smooth and beautiful, but commuters were in a hurry and didn’t appreciate his deliberate speed and divided attention. They entered a long tunnel that went through the mountain, and Sophie muttered a foreign curse as the screen went black.
“That’s an unusual custody arrangement you have,” Raveaux said. “I don’t know if I could have done without my child for a month at a time—I’d have missed her too much.”
And now he had to do without her forever. His mouth tasted bitter at the memory of all he’d lost.
“I don’t like it, quite frankly,” Sophie said. They emerged from the tunnel and she stabbed at the tablet with her finger, trying to get the connection back. “But I don’t believe in gender-based parental role stereotyping, and neither does Momi’s father. We share responsibilities and access to Momi equally, because we think that’s best for her. Armita is an exceptional caregiver and provides consistency as Momi goes back and forth between the islands. Her involvement and support makes the arrangement possible.”
“You and her father aren’t a couple?”
“No. Momi was a surprise to both of us—but a wonderful one.” Sophie couldn’t get the connection going again. She slid the tablet back into her bag. “What about your daughter? How did you and your wife handle being working parents?” She switched to French, and Raveaux’s pulse picked up. Speaking his native tongue was such a pleasure.
“We were more traditional, I suppose, in how we handled parenting,” he said. “Gita had her own business assessing antiquities, and she went to a part-time schedule after Lucie was born. My investigations always demanded as much as I could give; we had a parenting leave of several months available, which I took when Lucie was born, but time off meant time away from my cases, and that never sat well with me. Gita and I fought over it; she always said my work was ‘the other woman.’”
He caught Sophie’s eye, and she smiled. “I certainly understand that from my FBI days. The private sector is easier to regulate.”
Raveaux nodded. “It got easier when Lucie began school.”
“I hear France supports working families through quality care and education programs.”
“We have high taxes to pay for that,” Raveaux said. “Always a trade-off there. We’d planned to have a bigger family, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps it was for the best because Gita was always after me about my schedule. At the time my cases seemed so urgent. Matters of life and death, when going home to play at the park or read a story with my daughter . . .”
Just that suddenly, his throat closed. His eyes filled. He clenched his hands on the wheel.
“I’m sorry I asked. I thought it might ease you to speak of them a little,” Sophie said softly. “I can’t imagine your loss.”
Raveaux coughed, trying to clear his throat. Sophie touched his arm, just a stroke on his sleeve, but like the other time she’d touched him, it burned. He pulled his arm in, close against his side.
“I thought I would have more time. I took my beautiful life for granted.” He glanced at Sophie, his eyes hot with emotion. “Don’t make my mistake. Nothing about your work will ever give you back the times you could have been with family.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “I know that.”
Raveaux refocused on the road.
They were descending the mountain range now, curving back and forth toward Kaneohe. He had never been to the utilitarian coastal town before. He tapped his phone, pre-programmed with the IP address, and woke up the GPS. A mechanical female tone, butchering the Hawaiian words, directed them beneath spreading trees to the entrance of Kaneohe.
They angled down into the grid of a planned community, winding along narrow residential streets bordered by sidewalk. Cars parked in driveways indicated a middle-class demographic. Sophie frowned. “I didn’t expect this location for the master thief.”
“What did you expect?” Raveaux was relieved to be back on neutral ground.
“I don’t know. But not this.” Sophie pointed at a couple of children on the sidewalk, the older one pushing the younger on a wheeled toy. The only indication that this generic neighborhood was located in Hawaii was a plethora of decorative palms at every corner.
“Your destination is on the left,” the navigation voice declared.
Raveaux continued past the house, maintaining the same speed. He turned his head to case the dwelling, a nondescript ranch in shades of beige. A short concrete driveway ended in a two-car garage, and the door was down. A short, well-maintained lawn—he could never understand Americans’ obsession with their lawns. Blinds covered the windows.
“Very impersonal,” Sophie said.
“Nothing about that house to draw attention. It could be low profile on purpose. Let’s go take a look.” Raveaux checked the rearview mirror; no one was behind them on the quiet suburban street. He turned right at the next block and found a spot to park, directly across from a well-marked community center where their vehicle wouldn’t stand out.
Raveaux only wore an ankle piece here on Oahu; he was mildly surprised to see Sophie check her weapon, a Glock 19. She rammed the magazine back into the grip after checking the number of rounds, and glanced up to meet his gaze. “Never know what you’ll find on a home visit. Let’s go.” She got out of the SUV, holstering the gun in a shoulder rig concealed by her linen jacket.
Raveaux beeped the SUV locked, and followed as Sophie walked in front of him, her head up and eyes moving. “Let’s explore the exterior of the house, check the premises, before we ring the doorbell,” Sophie said. “We’re insurance investigators, right?” She reached into her pocket and held up a business card and the ID badges they’d already used.
“Reasonable. We could be verifying the value of the place for some kind of claim,” Raveaux said. He clipped the badge onto the pocket of his shirt as Sophie did the same. The streets were empty, to his relief, as they headed for the address. He welcomed the uptick of his pulse for the second time that day.
Chapter Twenty
Sophie: Day Three
She glanced up and down the deserted street. This was the kind of neighborhood where everyone was gone by eight-thirty in the morning, destined for purposeful places like worksites and school. Once they got to the target house, Raveaux walked with casual grace ahead of her across the lawn toward the side of the house.
Sophie followed, moving up the driveway and circling around the enclosed, attached garage. She peeked in the windows, spotting a dark SUV, make and license plate number hidden by the angle of the aperture. She continued on, reaching a metal rack holding trash cans.
She lifted the lid on one of them. A waft of ripe refuse hit her nostrils: someone was living here, and putting the garbage out on a regular basis.
The kitchen window above the cans jutted out from the back of the house, the only uncovered one she’d seen. Sophie rose on her toes and peeked in across the sink.
A lamp shone over an immaculate little dinette set directly across from the bay of the kitchen area. She scanned the room, taking in a sideboard with antique dishes, a watercolor of Kaneohe Bay, and a collection of poi pounders. Whoever lived here knew something about Hawaii art . . .
Sophie moved further to the corner to get a different angle of view into the room.
She sucked in a breath.
Through the doorway into the living room she could see a pair of dangling feet. Anything more was hidden by the angle of the window and the low archway between the rooms. Sophie looked around for Raveaux, and sure enough, he was circling the corner of the house, headed in her direction.
“I think we have a body.” Sophie pointed. “Maybe you can see a little more than I. The toenails are painted, so I’m guessing it’s a woman.”
Raveaux fitted himself tightly against the window, pressed against her body as he craned to see. His mouth tightened grimly, his eyes narrowing. “Yes. I c
an only see from the knee down, but it’s a woman hanging.”
Sophie pulled away from the window, turning her back to the scene. She took her phone out and worked with her thumbs, cross-referencing their address with the employee database at Finewell’s Auction House. “I probably should have done this before . . . Oh my God. This is Mel Samson’s house.”
The jolt of adrenaline generated by their discovery seemed to have sharpened all of Sophie’s senses. She met Raveaux’s intense gaze. She breathed in his clove smell, activated by the heat of exertion and emotion.
Raveaux stepped back. “Do you want to call it in?”
“Let’s take a look first. Once we call it in, we won’t have access to the body or the case.”
“Someone could see us. We might leave trace, and that would be very hard to explain.” Did he ever relax that severe mouth of his and smile? He had a few silver hairs at his temples; he was one of those men that would only get better looking with age.
“We can call it in anonymously, afterwards. I want to see the body, check for foul play.” She turned to look back inside. Those pale feet were so pathetic. “I think it’s Samson.”
In fact, she was sure it was Samson. The mushroom-pale of the woman’s skin, the puffiness of her calves and feet—all of that matched the woman they’d met. Whatever note Samson might have left was information that they would not be privy to in the future without disclosing their client’s investigation. Her mind buzzed with the repercussions, and she spoke them aloud. “If the tracker led us to Samson’s address, there was no master thief.”
“True. The master thief was likely a stratagem employed by Samson to buy time,” Raveaux agreed.
