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“It’s still a burp, but the records have him in his cage. But the records also show that thirty minutes before the burp he was enjoying his daily hygiene privilege. Solitary shower, under full security. I’ve ordered A and V of that record, and the wheel’s grinding slowly.”

“He could’ve sent the trans on delay, or paid someone else to send it for him. Do you have the name of the guard or guards who took him from the cage to hygiene?”

“Yeah. We did a standard run—clear. I figured we’d go deeper if the burp turns into a really juicy belch.” Callendar swigged down something pink from a clear bottle. “You want them?”

“Yeah.” Eve noted down the names. “Good. Keep digging.”

Eve signed off, sat back, and considered. It was the green light from Ricker to his New York hitter. It had to be. “Computer, full run, priority authorized.” She read off the names and ID numbers of the guard and com officer. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

An hour later, Roarke walked in. “Eve” was all he said.

“I’ve got something. Callendar heard a burp, and I’ve got something. Rouche, Cecil, cage guard on Omega—six years in. Assigned to max security wing. Ricker’s wing. Divorced. But, oddly, his ex-wife’s financials have had a serious increase in the last year. Well, not her financials so much as her insurance coverage. She’s increased it to five mil. Now what does the ex-wife of an Omega guard, who also quit her mid-level drone job eight months ago, when she also relocated from a rental in Danville, Illinois, to a twenty-room villa in the south of France, have that’s worth five mil?”

“Art, jewelry. Liquidating cash into solid investments.”

“You got it. Plus the real estate. She paid cash for the house, which is in both her name and the ex’s. Callendar’s having him pulled in for interview once things click. And they will. I haven’t been able to track the money yet. Can’t track it back from the ex-wife to Ricker. You could probably—”

“No, I’m going to Vegas.”

She goggled at him, jaw dropped, eyes bugging. “But, Jesus.”

“Callendar, who is more than qualified, has the guard, is on the search. You have your connection, your link to Ricker—who isn’t going anywhere. The manhunt continues for Sandy, who you believe is probably dead anyway.”

“But—”

Roarke didn’t give an inch. “Knowing Ricker’s methods, it’s highly unlikely this guard has the names of the New York contact. You’ve narrowed it down to the squad, which was your instinct all along. And on Monday, you’ll push forward on that. Whoever this cop is, you’re smarter, and by God, more tenacious. But right now, you have a houseful of women, I have a limo waiting outside, and a group of men who are anxious to get very drunk and lose their money. It’s life.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “It’s our life. We’re going to live it for the next twenty-four hours.”

“When you put it like that,” she muttered.

“Morris has gone home.”

“Oh. Damn it.”

“He said to tell you he wanted to think about you enjoying yourself for a few hours. That he felt lighter leaving here than he did when he came. I think he did, and I know he spoke to Mira for a short time before he left.”

“I guess that’s good. I guess that’s something.”

“Come on then, walk me out. Kiss me good-bye.”

Trapped, she rose. “How’d you find me in here? House scan,” she realized. “Didn’t think about that. What’s this room for anyway?”

“A guest office. You never know, obviously, when someone might need it. Good work, by the way, on the financials.”

“I don’t suppose, on the shuttle, you could—”

“No, I couldn’t,” he said, very firmly. “Tomorrow, after I get home and your guests have gone, is soon enough. We’re going to enjoy ourselves.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Yes.” He gave her a full-out, and completely unsympathetic smile. “It is.”

“There you are!” Mavis, in full party gear of a bride-white mini and knee-high skin-boots of screaming red, skipped down the hall. Her hair, the same screaming red as the boots, bounced as it tumbled to her waist. “Everyone’s asking. I was just checking on Bella. You are the maggest