“A key?” Luther said. “Yes, I do.”
“Great.”
“Not that we’d need one,” Luther added. “Breaking into a house is child’s play.”
“I see.”
Picking locks was apparently another job skill she needed to learn if she stayed in the private investigation business.
Luther moved to Raina’s desk and picked up the phone.
“Who are you calling?” Lyra asked.
“I’ve got a very personal stake in this situation. That means I’m too close to it to be sure that I’m thinking logically, and you’re good but you’re an amateur.”
“I prefer the termapprentice.”
Luther ignored that. “We need an expert, someone with a talent for picking up the feel of a scene.”
“The feel? I’m not sure I understand.”
“We also need someone who can look at things with an objective eye. Someone who won’t get emotionally involved.”
“Sounds like you’re talking about a robot,” Lyra said.
“Close enough.” Luther spoke into the phone. “Burning Cove Hotel? Please ring Simon Cage’s room.”
Chapter 9
Luther Pell had been right about one thing, Lyra decided. The expert, clear-eyed investigator who never got emotionally involved was definitely not a robot, but there was a lot of steel under the quiet, self-contained surface of the man.
The gold-rimmed spectacles didn’t fool her for a second. Everyone has a few secrets, but something about Simon Cage told her he either had a lot of them or else the ones he harbored were big. She was also very certain that he was quite capable of taking his to the grave. Those who tried to force those secrets from him might find themselves digging their own graves.
That, of course, made him fascinating. And unaccountably unnerving. She was still trying to decide how to interpret the unfamiliar chill of awareness that had jolted her senses when Luther had introduced him a few minutes ago. She had a feeling her intuition was sounding the alarm, but she wasn’t sure why she should be worried. Cage was, after all, a friend of Luther Pell’s.
Okay, maybe that was reason enough to be wary of the man.
Cage had the stoic, intriguing profile of a man who could deal with whatever life threw at him. She knew that, with his slightly rumpled linen jacket, spectacles, and briefcase, he was playing a part he had scripted for himself. He looked exactly as one would expect an antiquarian book dealer to look. His dark hair was cut short in the current style but there was no gleam of oil.
His green eyes were almost unreadable—almost but not entirely. Maybe his eyesight was poor. Maybe he really did need the gold-rimmed spectacles, but she doubted it. She suspected he wore them because he had convinced himself they made it difficult for people to see the man behind the glasses.
She glanced at the scars on his right hand. Yet another mystery.
He was watching her now with cool speculation. Suddenly she knew what he was thinking.
“No,” she said. “I had nothing to do with Raina’s disappearance.”
Luther was about to insert his key into the front door lock of Raina’s pretty little Spanish Colonial–style villa. He paused and looked at her.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Lyra angled her chin at Simon, who was standing quietly to one side, the briefcase at his feet.
“Your so-called expert here is analyzing the situation, no doubt trying to figure out what might have changed recently in Raina’s life,” she said. “That’s what real investigators do, right? Look for anomalies? Breaks in the pattern? It has dawned on Mr. Cage that I am the biggest anomaly around. Raina hired me four days ago, and yesterday a man involved in my very first case died—probably because of me. When it comes to ripples in the timeline, those two things do stand out.”
Luther frowned. He looked as if he was about to argue with her observation. Instead he eyed Simon.
“Well?” he asked.
