The Lady Has a Past (Burning Cove #5) - Amanda Quick Page 0,17

She was dressed for a long drive—trousers, comfortable shoes, a scarf for her hair. She seemed in a great hurry, but when I offered her coffee she said she had already had some with breakfast. Also, I know she took the time to read the morning paper.”

“How did you figure that out?”

Lyra glanced at the copy of the Burning Cove Herald on her desk. “She mentioned that the Adlington case was in the headlines and said something about how fortunate it was that the Herald’s crime reporter, Irene Ward, covered the story, because she got the details right and she even managed to insert Kirk Investigations into the piece. Good publicity for the firm.”

“Your point is that Raina breakfasted, had coffee, and read at least the front page of the paper, but something happened soon after that which caused her to pack a bag, dress for a long drive, and rush here to leave a note for me.”

“Yes,” Lyra said. She tapped one polished fingernail on the desktop and focused very intently on Luther. “Raina mentioned that you operate a rather exclusive investigation business of your own and that you did intelligence work during the Great War and for a few years afterward. You’ve obviously had a lot more experience in this sort of thing than I have, but I can think of only a couple of things that could have turned Raina’s world upside down between breakfast and approximately eight a.m.”

“A telephone call or a telegram.”

“Precisely.”

“Damn. Raina’s right. You do have the instincts for this work.”

The remark, coming from a man who knew a lot about investigating, infused Lyra with a dose of self-confidence.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think we should take a look around Raina’s house. Perhaps we will find something that will reassure us or give us some idea of where she went. I don’t suppose you have—?”

“A key?” Luther said. “Yes, I do.”

“Great.”

“Not that we’d need one,” Luther added. “Breaking into a house is child’s play.”

“I see.”

Picking locks was apparently another job skill she needed to learn if she stayed in the private investigation business.

Luther moved to Raina’s desk and picked up the phone.

“Who are you calling?” Lyra asked.

“I’ve got a very personal stake in this situation. That means I’m too close to it to be sure that I’m thinking logically, and you’re good but you’re an amateur.”

“I prefer the term apprentice.”

Luther ignored that. “We need an expert, someone with a talent for picking up the feel of a scene.”

“The feel? I’m not sure I understand.”

“We also need someone who can look at things with an objective eye. Someone who won’t get emotionally involved.”

“Sounds like you’re talking about a robot,” Lyra said.

“Close enough.” Luther spoke into the phone. “Burning Cove Hotel? Please ring Simon Cage’s room.”

Chapter 9

Luther Pell had been right about one thing, Lyra decided. The expert, clear-eyed investigator who never got emotionally involved was definitely not a robot, but there was a lot of steel under the quiet, self-contained surface of the man.

The gold-rimmed spectacles didn’t fool her for a second. Everyone has a few secrets, but something about Simon Cage told her he either had a lot of them or else the ones he harbored were big. She was also very certain that he was quite capable of taking his to the grave. Those who tried to force those secrets from him might find themselves digging their own graves.

That, of course, made him fascinating. And unaccountably unnerving. She was still trying to decide how to interpret the unfamiliar chill of awareness that had jolted her senses when Luther had introduced him a few minutes ago. She had a feeling her intuition was sounding the alarm, but she wasn’t sure why she should be worried. Cage was, after all, a friend of Luther Pell’s.

Okay, maybe that was reason enough to be wary of the man.

Cage had the stoic, intriguing profile of a man who could deal with whatever life threw at him. She knew that, with his slightly rumpled linen jacket, spectacles, and briefcase, he was playing a part he had scripted for himself. He looked exactly as one would expect an antiquarian book dealer to look. His dark hair was cut short in the current style but there was no gleam of oil.

His green eyes were almost unreadable—almost but not entirely. Maybe his eyesight was poor. Maybe he really did need the gold-rimmed spectacles, but she doubted it. She suspected he wore them because he had convinced himself they made it difficult for