Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

have a visual memory so precise that you could match new pearls to remembered ones without ever comparing them except in your mind.
    If he had any doubts about her statement that she would recognize individual pearls from the Black Trinity no matter where she found them, he had no doubts now.
    “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” Fred said in a hushed voice. “She never even looked back at the first group.”
    “Dear, any time you want a job, come to us,” Becky said. “We’d pay twice the going rate—three times—for someone with your skill.”
    Hannah made an absent sound. Her attention was on the unopened boxes of pearls. “I love matching them. It’s like an endless, beautiful puzzle. The only thing I enjoy as much is carving wood, but all my tools are in Broome.”
    “Well, in that case,” Becky said, heading for the unopened boxes, “why don’t we dive into a few more of these lots?”
    Archer started to object, but decided not to. The haunted look was gone from Hannah’s eyes. For now she wasn’t thinking of Len and death and the Black Trinity. If sorting pearls gave her that much pleasure, then the rest of the world could just stay on hold for a while longer.
    “Wait,” Fred said. “Do you remember all pearl colors that well, or just white?”
    “My husband and I farmed South Seas pearls,” Hannah said. “We had every color.”
    “Then maybe you can settle an argument my wife and I have been having. That’s why we asked Archer to come here. I bought some pearls I think are abalone, even though they’re big and round. She says they’re from cultured saltwater oysters.”
    “I don’t know if I could tell the difference,” Hannah said. “I’ve only worked with saltwater oyster pearls.”
    “I might be able to,” Archer said. “Let’s see what you have.”
    Fred went to an electronic wall safe, entered the combination on a number pad whose keys were capped with mother-of-pearl, and pulled out a velvet jeweler’s case.
    “If they’re abalone,” he said, walking back to Hannah and Archer, “then they’re basically museum goods. The chance of finding enough for commercial use would be slim, because abalone pearls are nearly always baroque.”
    “But if they’re cultured oyster pearls,” Becky said, “there are more where they came from.”
    “These are too colorful to come from oysters,” Fred objected as he opened the case.
    Rainbows swirled and smoldered beneath clear black ice. The pearls were perhaps fourteen millimeters, spherical, and had superb orient.
    “Oyster,” Hannah said huskily. “Cultured. Australian.”
    “But—” Fred began.
    “She’s right,” Archer said flatly. “If you cut one of them open, you’d find a bead of American pigtoe mussel. In fact, Hannah could have seeded the oyster that produced that pearl herself.”
    “Told you,” Becky said. “If you would ever listen to me, you wouldn’t have to bother other people with your problems.”
    Fred shot her a look. She smiled serenely.
    “May I look at the pearls more closely?” Hannah asked.
    Grumbling at having lost an argument to his wife, Fred handed the box to Hannah. Silently she turned toward better light and studied the pearls. After a time she carefully closed the box and gave it back to Fred.
    “Hannah?” Archer asked softly.
    She shook her head. However beautiful the pearls were, however valuable, they weren’t from the Black Trinity. “A different group.”
    “Where can I get more of these?” Fred asked.
    “Wherever you got those,” Archer said before Hannah could answer.
    “He said these were all he had.”
    “Who was he?” Archer asked.
    Fred hesitated, then sighed. “They’re stolen, aren’t they.” It wasn’t really a question.
    “Yes,” Hannah said simply.
    “From you?”
    “Yes. And from Archer. We’re partners in an Australian periculture operation.”
    Fred looked at Archer, who nodded.
    “You’ve been sitting on pearls like this all these years and never told me?” Fred demanded, angry and more than a little hurt.
    “My partner’s husband was sitting on them,” Archer said. “I saw one about seven years ago, then never saw another until last week. Who sold them to you?”
    Fred opened the box and stared at the pearls, frowning. He wasn’t happy about any of it, especially the knowledge that he had bought stolen goods from a long-standing source. He snapped the box closed. “Teddy Yamagata.”

Twenty-two
    I