Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

few years. He pretty much lived out in the main pearl-sorting shed. There’s a small loo, a sink, a hand shower, a bed.” She smiled thinly. “All the comforts of home and none of the drawbacks.”
    “Why didn’t he keep the computer in the shed?”
    “He didn’t want anyone to know that he could use it.”
    Snake tongues of adrenaline flicked through Archer. He looked at the computer and wondered how many of the answers he needed lay inside. “You’re sure of that?”
    “That he wanted his computer use kept a secret?”
    “Yes.”
    “Positive.”
    “Why?”
    She shrugged.
    “Guess,” he said curtly.
    “Guessing implies that Len and I have—had—enough thought processes in common for a guess to be effective. I gave up guessing at Len’s reasons for doing anything years ago. He and I didn’t think alike.” Hannah’s eyes focused on Archer in dark speculation. “You would have a better chance at it.”
    “Are you saying I’m like Len?”
    The bitterness in Archer’s voice caught her by surprise. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
    He let out a soft, hissing curse and reached for another cookie. “I’m not Len. I repeat. Not. Len. If I saw things the way he did, I’d have stayed in the field or gone private with him when he asked me to.”
    Hesitantly, Hannah touched Archer’s hand, where he still held his fourth cookie. Or maybe it was his sixth. A melting chocolate chip touched her fingertip like a tiny, soft tongue. “Right. You’re not Len. But you’re cool, efficient, and merciless. That requires thinking a certain way, doesn’t it?”
    Cool. Efficient. Merciless.
    Archer smiled grimly and looked at his watch. He didn’t know how much time he had left at Pearl Cove. He knew it wouldn’t be enough to get into Len’s computer, unless he got pig-lucky. “I can be all of those things. It hasn’t helped me get into that damned disk. The things that should have been important to him . . . weren’t.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “His wife,” Archer said succinctly. “You should have been important to him.” And so should his unborn child.
    But Archer didn’t say that aloud. For her it had happened seven years ago; she had healed. For him, it was a fresh wound.
    Hannah shrugged off the suggestion that she should have mattered to Len, but her eyes were haunted. “Some things just don’t work out. Only one thing was important to Len. Pearls.”
    Archer’s eyes narrowed. He turned back to the computer. He fed in variations on the theme of pearls, Pearl Cove, black pearls, experimental pearls . . .
    “Wait!” Hannah said, grabbing his shoulder and leaning toward the screen in sudden excitement. “Try the words Black Trinity. Nothing mattered more to him than making that necklace perfect.”
    The keys clicked quickly as Archer fed in the words. Quickly the screen changed, listing various files and applications.
    “Bingo.”
    Hannah sensed the triumph vibrating just beneath his control. She turned toward him. He was focused on the screen as he opened the file that had been used most recently. The screen blinked and filled with . . .
    Gibberish.
    “Shit.” Archer raked his hand through his hair. “More code.”
    He looked outside. In a few hours evening would descend like a purple and orange freight train. Then it would be dark enough to check out Len’s home away from home, his steel shell against the world.
    For a moment Archer wondered if oysters felt secure inside their shells, or simply trapped.
    “Now what?” Hannah asked.
    “Now I tie up my cell phone for a few hours.”
    Mystified, she watched while he plugged his cell phone into the computer, punched in a number, hit some keys, and stood up.
    “That’s it?” she asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Now what?”
    “We wait.”

Seven
    H ours later, Archer unplugged his computer from his cell phone, tossed it on the counter next to Hannah’s phone, and went to the stove for more coffee. Flynn had called in an hour earlier, claiming he was crook—sick. Archer didn’t believe it. Nor did he care enough to do anything about it. He and Hannah weren’t going to be in Australia long enough for Flynn’s report to matter.
    Just as Archer started pouring the thick brown coffee into a mug, his phone rang.
    “I’ll get it,” Hannah said, slipping past him. When she saw that it was his cellular, not hers, that was ringing, she hesitated. With a shrug, she answered it. “G’day.”
    “Archer Donovan.” The