Page 65 of Homeport

“His wife’s a lawyer, and likely makes more than he does. Money isn’t a problem for them.”

“Money’s always a problem. What kind of car does he drive?”

“I don’t have any idea.”

“How does he dress?”

She started to sigh, but thought she saw what he was getting at. “Old jackets and silly ties,” she began, closing her eyes to try to bring her lab manager into focus. “No flash—though his wife bought him a Rolex for their twentieth anniversary.” She stifled a yawn and snuggled down a little farther into the cushions. “He wears the same shoes every day. Hush Puppies. When they’re ready to fall off his feet, he buys another pair.”

“Take a nap, Miranda.”

“I’m all right. Who’s next?” She forced her eyes open. “Oh, Elise. My brother’s ex-wife.”

“Ugly divorce?”

“I don’t imagine they’re ever pretty, but she was very gentle with him. She was John’s assistant here, then transferred to Florence. She’s lab manager for my mother. She and Andrew met at the Institute—in fact, I introduced them. He fell like a tree. They were married six months later.” She yawned again, and didn’t bother to stifle it.

“How long did it last?”

“A couple of years. They seemed very happy for most of it, then it just started to fall apart.”

“What did she want? Snazzy clothes, European vacations, a big, fancy house?”

“She wanted his attention,” Miranda mumbled, and pillowed her head on her hands. “She wanted him to stay sober and focused on their marriage. It’s the Jones curse. We just can’t do it. We’re relationship-jinxed. I have to rest my eyes a minute.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

He went back to studying the list. Right now they were just names on a page to him. He intended for them to be a great deal more. Before it was done, he would know the intimate details. Bank balances. Vices. Habits.

And to that list he added three names: Andrew Jones, Charles Jones, and Elizabeth Standford-Jones.

He rose, then bent down to slip her glasses off, lay them on the table beside her. She didn’t look like an innocent young girl in sleep, he decided. But like an exhausted woman.

Moving quietly, he took the chenille throw from the back of the love seat and tossed it over her. He’d let her sleep an hour or two, recharge her mind and her body.

Somewhere inside her were the answers, he was sure of it. She was the link.

While she slept he made a call to New York. There was no point in having a brother who was a genius with computers if you didn’t use him once in a while.

“Patrick? It’s Ryan.” He eased back in the chair and watched Miranda sleep. “I’ve got several things on my plate here, and a little hacker job I don’t have time to deal with. Interested?” He laughed. “Yeah, it pays.”

Church bells were ringing. The music of them echoed over the red-tiled roofs and out to the distant hills. The air was warm, the sky as blue as the inside of a wish.

But in the dank basement of the villa, the shadows were thick. She shivered once as she pried off the stair tread. It was there, she knew it was there.

Waiting for her.

Wood splintered as she hacked at it. Hurry. Hurry. Her breath began to wheeze in her lungs, sweat dripped nastily down her back. And her hands trembled as she reached for it, drew it out of the dark and played her flashlight over the features.

Uplifted arms, generous breasts, a seductive tumble of hair. The bronze was glossy, without the blue-green patina of age. She could trace her fingers over it and feel the chill of the metal.

Then there was harpsong and the light laughter of a woman. The eyes of the statue took on life and luster, the bronze mouth smiled and said her name.

Miranda.

She awoke with a jolt, her heart galloping. For a moment she would have sworn she smelled perfume—floral and strong. And could hear the faint echo of harp strings.

But it was the buzzer on the front door that sounded, repeatedly and with some impatience. Shaken, Miranda tossed back the throw and hurried out of the room.

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