Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

on the bare floor.
    No sooner had she realized what was going to happen than Jake moved.
    Nothing hit the floor.
    “My God, you’re quick,” she said, startled. “Thank you. Kyle told me that amber can shatter like glass.”
    Jake didn’t need Honor’s words to know that he was holding amber. Nothing else on earth had quite the same warm, weightless, satiny feel. He shifted the piece into a shaft of sunlight coming through a window and let the light play through the golden resin. Unless he was mistaken—not likely—he was holding an exceptionally fine chunk of Baltic amber.
    “That’s part of a shipment my sister and I just received,” Honor said. “I’ve never worked with amber before, but it’s really fascinating. So old, so enduring, yet so exquisitely fragile.”
    Jake gave her a sideways look. “Are you a dealer?”
    “No. A designer. The Donovan males wouldn’t let mere females go out in the big, bad world and buy rough gems.”
    “Smart of them.”
    “That’s a matter of opinion.”
    “Your brother didn’t go missing in Disneyland.”
    Honor’s mouth flattened.
    The phone rang. She reached for it with a sense of relief. If another reporter was calling, she would enjoy slamming the receiver down in his ear.
    “Donovan residence.”
    “Hi, Honor. How’s it going?”
    Her oldest brother’s deep, impatient voice came through the receiver as though pushed through wet sand.
    “You sound like you’re on another planet,” she said.
    “Petropavlosk/Koryak Autonomous Region.”
    “Say again?”
    “Eastern Russia to folks who don’t live here. The Kamchatka Peninsula.”
    Honor’s hand tightened as she tried to keep hope or dread from thickening her voice. “Have you found Kyle?” she asked starkly.
    “No.”
    “Neither have the police.”
    “The police! Did you call them after I told you not—”
    “I didn’t have to call anyone,” she interrupted. “For the last three days cops have been all over Kyle’s cottage like a bad smell. What’s going on?”
    Static filled the line. She could almost hear Archer thinking fast and hard.
    “What did they want?” he asked.
    “Like you, they don’t answer questions, just ask them.”
    “What questions?”
    “Who am I, what am I doing here, when was the last time I saw Kyle, when was the last time I heard from him, have I received any packages—”
    Very carefully, Jake put the piece of amber back in the box and set it on the desk.
    “—do I know a man with two fingers missing on his left hand and Third World dental work—” Honor said as though reciting a lesson.
    Jake wished he could swear aloud. Every word she said told him more than he wanted to know about Kyle and Honor and amber . . . and not nearly enough. Either she was a hell of an actress hiding knowledge of where Kyle had stashed the amber or she was an innocent sucked into a game only pros should play.
    He hoped she was an actress. But whether innocent or as guilty as her brother, Honor still was Jake’s only chance of finding the missing amber.
    “—am I sure I haven’t seen or heard from Kyle,” she continued in a monotone, “when did he come back, why didn’t he contact me when he landed in Seattle—”
    “What?” Archer demanded. “When did Kyle—?”
    “Ask the cops,” she interrupted curtly. “It’s their story, not mine. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Kyle. Reading between the lines, his passport came through SeaTac. Presumably with him.”
    Her brother let out his breath in a string of Afghani curses.
    “I’m sure I would agree if I spoke the language,” she said. “What’s going on?”
    “Have you checked Kyle’s post office box?”
    Her fingers clenched around the phone. “I repeat. What is going on?”
    “What about his answering machine?”
    Silence and static gathered.
    As always, Archer outwaited his younger sister.
    “Yes and yes,” she said through her teeth.
    “And?”
    “No and no.”
    “Keep trying.”
    “It would help if I knew what I was looking for.”
    “Your brother. You remember him, don’t you? Kyle of the charming smile and strange eyes.”
    “Don’t forget the stolen amber,” she retorted.
    “What?”
    “Stolen. Amber. Am I ringing any bells?”
    “I’d ring your bell if I could get my hands on you. What kind of amber?”
    “Ask the cops.”
    “That was all they said?” Archer asked. “Stolen amber?”
    “Yes.”
    “Raw or worked?”
    “They didn’t say. What was in the shipment that