Going through the gate and up the drive lined by those roses that appeared dead, he knocked on the front door. The woman who opened it was sixty and well preserved, her skin a smooth, unblemished white as a result of a liberal dusting of powder and her eyes an acute blue, her silkily white hair pulled back in an elegant knot. She wore a string of small pearls against a ­long-­sleeved ­knee-­length dress in a dark navy wool. “Yes?”

“Siobhan Genovese?” Will held up his identification.

The woman took his ID, scrutinized it carefully. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she said, “I’ll ask you to wait here while I verify that you are who you say you are.” She shut the door in their faces without waiting for an answer.

“Not the trusting type.” Anahera’s tone was ­bone-­dry.

“If she has the kind of gems I suspect she has in there, that she even opened her door is surprising. As is the fact she doesn’t have a security grille. On the other hand, not many people know she exists.”

One minute, two, before the door opened again.

“Thank you for waiting,” Siobhan Genovese said. “Please do come in, Detective Gallagher.” A questioning glance at Anahera. “I assume you can vouch for this young woman?”

“Yes.”

Apparently satisfied with that, Siobhan Genovese led them into a beautifully appointed living room, the colors shades of blue and gray. It was the kind of tasteful and quietly wealthy arrangement with which Anahera had become intimately familiar in Edward’s London home and in the homes of his friends.

To be fair to her gifted liar of a husband, he’d told her she could redeco­rate as she liked, but Anahera had hesitated over even the heavy damask curtains she’d hated.

God, she’d been so young.

So conscious of her ­poverty-­stricken past and lack of knowledge about the moneyed world in which she found herself, a lone Māori girl far from a thundering turbulent sea that sang a song of home and of grief both.

“Please sit,” Siobhan said, taking a seat of her own in a lush gray armchair with curved edges of a dark gold that bore the patina of age. “How may I help you?”

Will told her why they were there before handing over the watch. “I know this is one of yours,” he said quietly in that way he had, so that you felt as if you were the entire focus of his attention. “What I need from you is the name of the buyer.”

Siobhan Genovese examined the watch with care, running her fingertips over the glittering hardness of the blue stones that edged the face, then flipping it over and brushing her thumb across the tiny ruby embedded in the back. “Very few people recognize my signature,” she said as the much larger ruby on her right ring finger shone bright as fresh blood. “I handmake all of my pieces, which means there aren’t many around for people to compare.”

Will shook his head, the action gentle. “My sources are mine, but I will tell you that you do stunning work.”

Frost in her responding words. “Part of the reason I’m still in business despite my astronomical prices and slow production rate is that I value my clients’ privacy.”

Taking the watch back, Will said, “A young woman is missing.” He held those searing blue eyes. “Someone you know gave her this watch. You need to tell me the identity of that person.”

“If I ask you to get a warrant?” was the soft rejoinder that held a steely will.

“I’ll do ­it—­but such things have a way of going public. I’ll need to list your address and why I’m seeking the warrant.”

“That could be counted as a threat, Detective.” Siobhan crossed one leg over the other.

Watch now safely stored in the inner pocket of his jacket, Will leaned forward with his forearms braced on his thighs. “I have no desire to play a game of ­one-­upmanship, but I’m looking for a young woman who doesn’t deserve to be gone. If you get in the way of that, I won’t hesitate to take whatever steps are necessary, no matter how messy.”

Siobhan’s expression didn’t change. “You realize most of my business is by word of mouth?”

“I’m sure you’ve earned more than enough by now to buffer you against any momentary ­dip—­we both know that, as good as you are, the clients will come back even if it gets out that you shared one of their names with the police.”

An amused smile from the older woman. “People always want the best.” Her eyes went to Anahera. “And who is she?”

“Her identity doesn’t matter to you. Give me a name, Ms. Genovese.” There was something so unbending in his tone that Anahera’s back muscles tightened.

This man, she realized, could be ruthless.

Siobhan didn’t seem to have come to the same realization. “William Gallagher,” she murmured, “why do I know that name?”

“I was accused of beating a suspect.” No change in Will’s tone or expression. “There was an inquiry.”

“Ah.” Siobhan gave a small nod. “The fallen hero. Yes, I remember.”

Anahera had no idea what the two were talking ­about—­whatever the inquiry had been, it hadn’t appeared as one of the top hits when she typed Will’s name into a search engine. She’d read only about his heroism.

“And do you have the support of your superiors for this investigation?” Siobhan asked, reaching to the small table beside her to pick up a tiny porcelain cup that seemed to hold tea. She didn’t offer any to either Anahera or Will. “I have people I can call, ask.”

“You might not have noticed,” Will said, “but the police department doesn’t like having inquiries. Especially not corruption inquiries dealing with wealthy and connected people who might’ve gotten away with murder.”

The slightest tinkle of porcelain on porcelain. “Murder?” Siobhan put aside her tea. “You didn’t say anything about murder.”

“How many young women do you know who’ve disappeared mysteriously while going about their everyday lives, and then have been found alive?”

His words hit Anahera in the gut. She knew he was right; part of her had always known the most likely outcome, but she’d hoped. And she continued to hope. Maybe Miriama was being kept captive. A horrific thing to wish, but at least it would mean she was alive, that they could rescue her.

“I see.” Siobhan placed her hands very carefully on the wool of her dress. “Well, I will likely lose a rather significant client because of this, but murder is where I draw the line.”

Then she told them the name of the man who’d commissioned the watch.

39

“What will you do?” Anahera asked Will an hour later, after they finally broke free of the gridlock caused by a ­three-­car accident. No fatalities, thankfully, but the tow trucks had taken their time getting there and hauling the wrecks off the road.

Now, they drove through the autumnal darkness. It had fallen with quicksilver speed, a black curtain sweeping across the world. With the lack of light had come a call from Nikau confirming the day’s searchers had found no signs of Miriama.

“Talk to him again,” Will answered, “try to get the truth.”