Donovans 02 - Jade Island

heritage.”
    “They still are. Just the name of the family has changed.”
    “That’s a very Western point of view.”
    “That’s because I’m a very Western guy,” Kyle said, opening the door. “Come in and sit down.”
    In the course of her work appraising jades, Lianne had been in many expensive rooms. None had appealed to her quite so much as this one, with its high ceiling, colorful rugs scattered over an oak floor, and walls of windows overlooking a shimmering, rain-drenched city.
    “How odd,” she murmured, looking around.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I like it.”
    “That’s a shock?”
    “I’ve always been drawn to a more Oriental approach to living spaces.”
    “Mahogany screens, low tables, floor cushions, inward facing rather than outward, that sort of thing?” Kyle asked, turning on lights.
    “Oh, I admit to liking chairs. It’s just that a room of this size, this height, all this glass and space…” Lianne paused. “Usually the result is impersonal. Like a palace or big hotel lobby. But this is lovely, very welcoming.”
    “It’s my parents’ home away from home. One of them, anyway. The Donovan and Susa live a lot of the year near Cortez, Colorado. Unless they’re traveling. We’re all holding our breath on that subject. My mother is determined to paint the Silk Road.”
    “Paint it?”
    In answer, Kyle touched another light switch. Impressionistic landscapes hung like muted thunder on the only wall that wasn’t glass.
    Lianne’s breath caught. She felt herself sucked into the paintings, through them, a feeling like dizziness, the top of her head lifting off and worries flying out to make room for the incredible energy of mountains and distance, desert and silence, rain and renewal, endurance and storm.
    “Who?” she demanded. “Who did these?”
    Kyle looked over her head at the wall of paintings. “Susa.”
    “Your mother?”
    “Yeah. Good, aren’t they?”
    “Good? They should be in a museum!”
    “Some of them are. These are Dad’s favorites. Go ahead, you can get closer. The paintings change into pure abstraction, but they don’t lose their power.”
    Lianne drifted away, drawn by the silent explosions of color.
    “I’ll check out my closet,” Kyle said, “unless you want me to fix you a drink first.”
    She shook her head without looking back at him. “Nothing, thanks. These are enough. More than enough.”
    Kyle walked past her, stepped around a freestanding bookshelf and into a slate-floored corridor that was invisible from the front entrance. Six widely spaced doors opened off the corridor. Each door led to a separate suite. There were no locks on the doors except from the inside. Only family stayed here. If someone was feeling a need for privacy, he or she locked the suite door from the inside and enjoyed as much peace as was possible in the presence of a large family.
    The door to Archer’s suite wasn’t locked, which meant he probably had stayed for the end of the auction. He rarely missed a chance to check out the Pacific Rim gem market.
    Kyle locked the door behind him and went straight to the safe. It was the old-fashioned tumbler-and-dial kind that Archer could open even if The Donovan changed the combination without telling anyone. It had happened more than once. Kyle was forced to rely on more conventional methods to get in.
    “Hope the old man didn’t play with the numbers,” he muttered, spinning the dial.
    After a few turns, the door swung open. Inside lay a wad of money, a shoulder holster, a nine-millimeter pistol, and four spare magazines. Archer took after The Donovan—cash, carry, and shut up. After Kaliningrad, Kyle understood the wisdom of that approach to life.
    He peeled off his tuxedo jacket, strapped on the shoulder holster, slid the pistol in place, and put one of the cold, heavy magazines in his pants pocket. The jacket went on over the holster without a wrinkle or a bulge.
    As usual, Archer was right. The tux fit better this way.
    Kyle went to the closet and looked at the various shoes lined up in regimental perfection on the floor. Not Archer’s doing, but the housekeeper’s. One of the pairs of shoes was black and much better worn than the dress shoes that were presently making Kyle’s feet miserable. He kickedoff the shoes without hesitation and put on the other pair. They didn’t fit as well as the tux, but at least they pinched in different places than the dress shoes had.
    Silently Kyle unbolted the hall