Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

was heavy with brine. The temperature was as close to cool as it got in Broome in late November. “Anything else?”
    “If she ever saw a doctor, it was the kind who kept old-fashioned handwritten files. Len’s doctor was modern. Kept his files electronically and used the virtual diagnostic sites all the time. Len’s spine was slowly deteriorating. His doctor had him on morphine. If the local bottle shop is any indication, Len had himself on booze. Or is it Hannah who’s heavy on the sauce?”
    “If she is, you can’t smell it on her breath or her skin.”
    “That close, huh? Fast work, bro.”
    “Shove it.”
    “Ah, there’s the Archer we all know and love.”
    “Shove that, too,” he said without heat. “I’m e-mailing a list of Pearl Cove’s employees for the past year. See what you can get on them.” He yawned wide enough to make his jaw crack.
    Kyle snickered. It wasn’t often he had his oldest brother at a disadvantage. “Bet you’re not going to be a chirpy little camper at dawn tomorrow the way you usually are.”
    “No bet.” Archer rubbed eyes that felt like they had gone skinny-dipping in sand. “Anything else?”
    “Nope. Her name never appeared on any of the singles sites or the sexual chat rooms, so virtual sex isn’t her thing.”
    “She could have used an alias,” Archer pointed out.
    “Hello, this is Kyle, the brother who can spin rings around you on a computer. Remember me? I can track an alias faster than you can think.”
    “Good thing I can’t reach you, runt.”
    “Runt? I’ll runt you the next time I get you on a gym mat.”
    “Yeahyeahyeah. Lianne can dump you on your ass without breaking a sweat.”
    “Lianne can put me on my ass any time, anywhere, and any way she wants. Naked is her favorite.”
    The smug, utterly male note in Kyle’s voice made Archer feel a lot more than thirty-seven, going on thirty-eight. He felt ancient, desolate, a ruin on top of a stony hill with nothing but the empty sky for company.
    “I left a list of Len’s phone calls for the last six months in your coded e-mail,” Kyle continued.
    “Cellular or land phone?”
    “Both.”
    “Right. Thanks.”
    “Right, huh? Less than a day and you’re sounding like an Aussie.”
    “It’s called camouflage,” Archer said dryly.
    “You’ll need it. Be careful, bro. Very, very careful. My gut wants you the hell out of Australia.”
    “I’m always careful. ’Bye, Kyle. And thanks.”
    Archer turned off the cell phone, opened his own computer, accessed the e-mail, and studied the lists of phone calls Len had made. Often the names were familiar. Pearl players, for the most part. Many were honest. More were honest only when they had to be. The rest were strangers. All in all, Len had known—and dealt with—some unsavory-to-dangerous men. Smugglers, government fixers, triad “interfaces,” people who lived well outside the law and liked it that way.
    Nothing in the lists reassured Archer that the job of finding Len’s killer would be easy. Nor did he dismiss Kyle’s gut feeling that there was danger. His brother’s hunches were better than most men’s solid facts.
    Another day here, at most. After that, the word would be out that Archer Donovan was at Pearl Cove. Isolated. Working alone. The predators would descend and it would simply be too dangerous for him to stay on.
    Unless Len had been working for Uncle. That would give Archer more time, more leverage to use against whoever had wanted Len dead.
    Uncle.
    Archer stared at his cell phone as if it was a grenade with the pin out and the spoon held down by a frayed thread. Then he picked the phone up and punched in the number he hated to use.
    Because as long as he used that number, Uncle Sam would have his number, too.
    “What did you say?” Archer asked, turning suddenly toward Hannah. She had come into the kitchen a few minutes ago and silently fixed a pot of coffee. Her nap had left creases on the right side of her face, as though she had fallen into bed and not moved once. Her shorts and tank top were a silvery gray that reminded him of pearls.
    “I asked how you liked our computer,” she repeated.
    “ ‘Our’ as in Len’s and yours?”
    She swallowed a yawn and rubbed the right side of her face where sweaty skin itched. “Right.”
    Archer stared at the computer like it was a loaded gun. Knowing Len, it could easily be just that. Yet it had seemed very innocent sitting on a rattan table in an alcove off the