His essence stopped moving. A slither of surprise ran round her. "That is your choice, of course, but can I ask why?"
She tilted her head and contemplated the shadow that was Joe Black. "People seem to like bombing it. You gave it to me, didn't you?"
"Perhaps."
"Why?"
"Because I could."
Annoyance spun around them. Hers, not his. "Why can't you just drop the riddles and give me a direct answer?"
"Why are you so afraid to seek the answers?"
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I gave you a clue, Samantha. A key that will unlock some answers and solve at least one riddle. You have not yet sought the lock."
"The pin," she said, remembering it.
"The pin. Seek its image and you will find your murderer. You will also find the first stepping stone to your past."
"If you know so damn much, why don't you tell me?"
"Because you will never believe. Some things we must find for ourselves."
His presence faded. With it went the bright room. She woke with a start. She rubbed a hand across her eyes and glanced at the clock. Eight forty-five. She hadn't even been asleep an hour. Sighing softly, she reached down to her bag and searched around until she found the pin. It was an abstract man and woman, standing side by side, one dark, one light. A gift from her hirsute friend when he'd saved her life about three months ago.
She leaned forward. "Iz, scan this for me." She held the pin up to the electronic eye on the upper corner of the com-screen.
Izzy reappeared, boa whirling lightly. "Scanning, sweetness." A blue light ran the length of the pin.
"Run a search on the image. I want the name and address of every company who uses it."
"Will do."
"Thanks. Can you get me personal file for Michael Sanders?"
The file appeared on screen almost instantly. She raised her eyebrows. "That was fast, Iz."
The pink fuzz ball reappeared, somehow managing to look mighty pleased with himself. "Put in a request for the file when you asked for the search results to be sent to A.D. Stern. Just in case."
Sometimes, the artificial intelligence they'd installed in these things was scary. "Good thinking, Iz."
"Thanks, sweetie."
Michael Sanders was a baby-faced man with a slender build and thinning brown hair. It was only when you looked at his eyes that you realized he was not as young as he first appeared. Those eyes, a brilliant, unfathomable green, were the eyes of a man who'd seen, and done, too much to be merely twenty-five years old.
He had a clean slate, both as a police officer and in his private life. Good arrest record, lived alone, no wife. His parents were killed when he was a baby, but there was no mention on file about who had raised him after that. Relatives, presumably, though there was no next of kin listed.
So why didn't something feel right?
"Iz, don't suppose you could dig up whatever info and photos we have on Sanders' parents?"
"Looking for needles again, are we?"
"Could be." She frowned and stared at his photo. Those eyes just didn't belong in that face. "And dig up anything you can find on the accident that killed them."
"I may have to search through insurance reports. Might take a while."