Donovans 03 - Pearl Cove

undrilled—no dye could penetrate the nacre,” Paul said. “Therefore the color would have to be natural.”
    Archer rolled the pearl lightly on his palm, proving that there were no drill holes.
    “Virgin,” Paul said reverently. “Where did you get it?”
    “Card game,” Archer drawled.
    “Where?”
    “Vegas.”
    “Who had it before you?”
    “A guy called Stan who wasn’t as good at five-card stud as he thought.”
    “What is his last name? Where did he—”
    “Look,” Archer cut in. “I don’t know how y’all play poker in Hong Kong, but when I sit down for a game, we don’t pass around last names and life histories. You put your cash on the table and you play until you’re busted or everyone else quits.”
    “I’ve heard of such pearls, but I’ve never seen one before now.” Paul looked hungrily at it. “May I?”
    Archer acted reluctant, but finally passed the pearl over.
    Paul weighed it in his narrow palm. It was an old test and still a good one; true pearls felt cool and heavier than their size would indicate. Pearls made of fish-scale paste, or plastic, or ceramic—or some unholy combination of all three—felt light and took on the temperature of whatever room they were kept in. Just to be certain that the pearl wasn’t fraudulent, he lightly ran the edge of his front teeth over the surface. It had the gently gritty texture that was the hallmark of a true pearl.
    “Hey, you said a pearl was delicate,” Hannah objected, “and now you’re chewing on it.”
    Wholly intent on the iridescent bit of midnight on his palm, Paul ignored her.
    “That’s okay, darlin’,” Archer said. “The jeweler in Vegas did the same thing and didn’t leave a mark.”
    She made a grumpy sound, even though she knew as well as either man that the tooth test was one of the most ancient ways to determine a pearl’s validity.
    Paul went to the nearby table, set the pearl down, and simply looked at it from all angles. After a time he opened a drawer in the table and picked up what looked like an ivory chopstick. He laid it very close to the pearl and looked for a reflection on the pearl’s shiny surface. It was there, and it was deep. The nacre on this pearl was thick. Gem quality.
    “Superbe,” he said simply.
    Archer scooped the pearl up and put it back in the box. “My darlin’ likes it, and that’s good enough for me. So where can I find more like it?”
    “Impossible. I have heard rumors, but never have I seen a pearl such as this.”
    “Well, shoot.” Archer tucked the box in his pocket. “C’mon, babe. Looks like we’ll have to go to Australia after all.”
    An instant after the front door closed behind them, Paul was on the phone.
    “Mr. Samuel Chang, please. It is urgent.”

Sixteen
    S eattle lay beneath a thick lid of clouds. The moonlight that had kept the airplane company from Hawaii vanished into seamless night. It was seventy degrees colder than Hong Kong. By the time Hannah had gone the twenty feet from the airplane to the car waiting by the apron, she was shivering and wishing for the warmth of the wig she had ripped off and stuffed into the trash as soon as Archer handed her a passport in her own name.
    Despite being cold, she was exhilarated. The air was fresh enough to cut into squares and eat like candy. The streets were dark and glistening with what Archer called rain, but what was merely an invigorating mist by Broome’s tropical standards. It reminded her of her early childhood in Maine. She hadn’t known how much she missed the climate until right now.
    “Turn the heat up, Amy,” Archer said to the driver. “This one is a hothouse flower.”
    “Not too hot,” Hannah said, sliding into the sleek black car. “I like this wake-up-and-conquer-the-world temperature.”
    “Right,” he said dryly. “That’s why your teeth are chattering. Heat, Amy.”
    “Yessir,” the chauffeur said, and cranked the heat to the max. As she turned to check on traffic, her short silver hair glinted in the airport lights. Like her haircut, her clothes were smart and casually chic—peach silk blouse, unstructured black jacket, black slacks, and low-heeled shoes. The Donovans didn’t require a uniform, but Amy felt that it added a certain panache to her job. Sanity, too. Driving for a canny old entrepreneur and his unpredictable, highly artistic wife called for a level head and unflappable nerves. Amy Crow had both.
    “Are The Donovan and Susa at the condo?” Archer