Page 102 of Homeport

“She’ll go straight to the lab.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. That should give us a nice window to search her place.”

“We’re going to break into my mother’s home?”

“Unless she leaves a spare key under the mat. Put this on.” He pulled a ball cap out of the saddlebags. “The neighbors will spot that hair of yours a mile away.”

“I don’t see the point in this,” Miranda said an hour later, sitting on the bike behind him half a block down from her mother’s home. “I can’t justify breaking into my mother’s home, rummaging through her things.”

“Any paperwork dealing with your tests that was kept at the lab is a loss. There’s a chance she might have copies here.”

“Why would she?”

“Because you’re her daughter.”

“It wouldn’t matter to her.”

But it matters to you, Ryan thought. “Maybe, maybe not. Is that her?”

Miranda looked back at the house, caught herself ducking behind Ryan like a schoolgirl playing hooky. “Yes, I guess you called this part of it.”

“Attractive woman. You don’t look much like her.”

“Thank you so much.”

He only chuckled and watched Elizabeth, ruthlessly groomed in a dark suit, unlock her car. “Keeps her cool,” he noted. “You wouldn’t know to look at her that she’s just been told her business has been broken into, and one of her employees is dead.”

“My mother isn’t given to outward displays of emotion.”

“Like I said, you’re not much like her. Okay, we’ll walk down from here. She won’t be back for a couple of hours, but we’ll do this in one to keep it simple.”

“There’s nothing simple here.” She watched him sling his bag over his shoulder. Oh yes, she decided, her life would never be the same. She was a criminal now.

He walked right up to the front door and rang the bell. “She have a staff? A dog? A lover?”

“She has a housekeeper, I believe, but not a live-in. She doesn’t care for pets.” She tugged the ball cap more securely over her hair. “I don’t know anything about her sex life.”

He rang the bell again. There wasn’t much more embarrassing to his mind than stepping into what you believed was an empty home to do your job, and discovering the owner was home sick with the flu.

He slipped out his picks and defeated the locks in little more time than if he’d used a key. “Alarm system?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Okay, we’ll deal with it.” He stepped in, saw the panel on the wall, and the light indicating the system required a code. He had a minute, he concluded, and pulling out a screwdriver, removed the facing, snipped a couple of wires, and put it to rest.

Because the scientist in her couldn’t help but admire his quick, economic efficiency, she made her voice bland. “You make me wonder why anyone bothers with this sort of thing. Why not just leave the doors and windows open?”

“My sentiments exactly.” He winked at her, then scanned the foyer. “Nice place. Very appealing art—a bit on the static side but attractive. Where’s her office?”

She only stared at him a moment, wondering why she found his casual critique of her mother’s taste amusing. She should have been appalled. “Second floor, to the left I think. I haven’t spent a great deal of time here.”

“Let’s try it.” He climbed up a graceful set of stairs. Place could have done with a bit more color, he thought, a few surprises. Everything was as perfect as a model home and had the same unoccupied feel. It was certainly classy, but he much preferred his own apartment in New York or Miranda’s elegantly shabby house in Maine.

He found the office feminine but not fussy, polished but efficient, cool but not quite brittle. He wondered if it reflected the occupant, and thought it likely.

“Safe?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

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