Page 141 of Concealed in Death

“He never traveled alone,” she said, jabbing a finger in the air when Roarke joined her. “Not one time I can find here. Not even to see big sis—and the locals checked her out. Jones didn’t take his passport, so he’s not hiding on a sheep ranch in Australia, but she let him—even insisted—they check all her communications, so we’d know he hasn’t contacted her.”

“Some are what they seem,” he commented. “Law-abiding.”

“Some. When little brother went anywhere, he was either with big brother, big sister, the parents. The father acted as chaperone or whatever they’d call it the single time he went on a mission—a youth group deal. Everything I find has one of them with corresponding travel. So I call a big pile of bullshit on him sailing off to Africa, for Christ’s sake, to break his cherry.”

“One way to put it. You’d already concluded the younger brother didn’t go to Africa.”

“Conclusions aren’t proof, and neither is this. But it adds weight. I travel,” she said. “Now. I travel now. We go places where there aren’t dead bodies.”

“We do, on occasion. And as you’ve mentioned it, I thought we might do just that for a few days after the holidays. Go somewhere without corpses.”

“Oh.”

He flicked a finger down the dent in her chin. “Your usual enthusiastic reaction. I’m thinking warm, blue skies, blue water, white beaches, and foolish drinks with umbrellas stuck in them.”

“Oh,” she said in an entirely different tone.

“I know your weakness, yes.” Now he kissed her lightly. “I thought the island, unless you have some secret desire to see another tropical locale.”

Not everybody had a husband with his own island, she thought. She’d even mostly stopped feeling weird about it. Because white sand, blue water hooked her like a fish.

“I could put in for the time, if I’m not in the middle of a hot one.”

“We’ll imagine us both in several hot ones—on the island. It’s already, tentatively, on your calendar.”

“That damn calendar has a life of its own.”

“Which means so do you.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t.” She gestured to Jones’s photo. “His work’s his life, and I get it. But he struck me as sort of balanced and content on that initial impression thing. Not like little brother. They surrounded him. No solo travel, like I said—at least none that shows. No particular job, and what he did have they ran. No hint of relationships unless we count Shelby and her famous bjs.”

“Let’s not.”

“No one mentions any friends, none of the staff ever had anything but the lightest, vaguest things to say. He never left an impression. He was weightless. What time is it in Zimbabwe?”

“Too late. And here as well. Sleep on it.” He pulled her to her feet. “If Mira’s right, and she most often is, he’ll come back. At the very least he’ll contact his sister. Will she tell you?”

“I think she will. Blood may be thicker, but she’s scared, and she’s sick. People who are scared and sick call the cops.”

“Then sleep on it.”

She stopped on her way out with him, looked back at the board. “The last vic? We can’t find her. No matches, not yet, and we’ve been running the search for hours. Feeney’s doing a global, and no matches. She’s no one.”

“She’s yours.”

For now, Eve thought, that had to be enough.

•••

She had all the faces, and woke with a faint memory of dreaming of them again. But she couldn’t remember what they’d said. She felt as though there was little left for the girls to tell her now.

She had it all in front of her, somehow. If she’d taken the right track, if her beliefs were valid, she would deliver justice, what she could of it, to the victims. She would give answers to those who’d loved and searched for them.

And if she’d gone wrong, if she’d turned the wrong way, she’d go back and start again.

She said as much to Roarke as she dressed for the day.

“You’re not wrong, not about the core of it. I’ve slept on it as well,” he added. “And a man doesn’t leave his work, work he’s devoted to, along with a sister he feels strongly he’s bound to protect for no reason.”