Shaw returned to his room to unpack. Nearing the door, he heard the bolt unlock automatically, a trick of the magic wand in his pocket. As an experiment he backed away. After a count of three, the door locked again. Convenient.
Room 8 looked out on the courtyard with its bare rosebushes. He felt exposed, like being in a first-floor motel room next to the parking lot. Shaw switched on the lamps and pulled the curtains.
Anders’s obstruction had pissed him off. But more than that, the chief of staff’s attitude had been perplexing. Showing Shaw the art collection and then all but threatening to fire him if he took reasonable steps to protect it.
Before he left the room again, Shaw made some subtle adjustments to the clothes in the dresser and the gear inside the duffel. A T-shirt had the top position on the pile. Shaw pinched the left side to create a single shallow divot in the fabric. Then two more divots on the right. In the duffel he overlapped the coils of a light extension cord so that the third loop was slightly higher than the others. He moved two power tools apart exactly the width of his thumb.
Tiny changes, but effective. Even if someone searching his things were careful to replace everything how they found it, at least one crease or loop would be out of place, if only by a few millimeters. As good as a neon sign.
He had decided to walk the island’s boundary before the guests arrived. He left the south wing to cross the courtyard and enter its twin. A wide hall running down the center made the north wing simple to navigate. The long building had been divided into three distinct parts. Kitchens at the end nearest the passage to the main house, dining areas at the center—Shaw noted that the walls between areas could be removed, to make a single space large enough for a basketball team to play half-court—and guest suites and conference rooms on both floors at the end. The Rohners had enlivened the wing with art reminiscent of Northwest Coast tribes, including a life-size orca in carved relief, hung as an archway above the doors to the suites.
Shaw walked past an unattended housekeeper’s cart in the corridor, then backtracked for a second look. A clipboard hung below the cart’s push handle. The top sheet on the clipboard was a checklist of supplies and cleaning steps for each room. Down the left-hand side of the sheet was a list of guest names and their room assignments.
A door opened down the hall. It was one of the household staff in the unofficial uniform of robin’s-egg blue, exiting a guest room carrying a stack of magazines and newspapers. Before she could turn in his direction, Shaw snatched the sheet out of the clipboard and escaped down a side hall.
Outside, he walked the length of the estate. The flagstone path followed the natural dips and rises of the land and curved to avoid humps and rocks, closer to a trail than a sidewalk.
He passed the art gallery and the main house. When the path ended, he cut down the steep slope and kept walking. The beach of the north shore was craggy and strewn with mussels and sea kelp. Twice Shaw had to jump over deep fissures. Though the water was low, the power behind each wave signaled that the tide was flowing. Before dark the crevices in the rock would fill again, bringing fresh food for crabs and other creatures.
The beach gave way to dirt and grass as the land rose in height from the water. Here the tide lapped directly against a ten-foot vertical bluff. The forest trees, as if making a stand against the sea, grew as far as the lip. Shaw had to stomp through a low blackberry thicket along the forest’s edge to create a path into the evergreens. Fewer brambles and ferns grew beneath the thick forest canopy—less sun, less abundance—and he was able to continue hiking westward without many sidetracks. Insects buzzed and rattled in a constant symphony. The forest floor was almost like carpet, softened by decomposing leaves and pine needles and dirt that may have never felt human tread.
It took him half an hour to reach the far side of the woods. The western terminus of the island was the tip of the curved knife, the farthest point from Rohner’s showpiece pavilion. To Shaw’s right he saw the last few trees of the forest. To his left the beginning of the long, barren shore on the island’s southern edge.
At the island’s tip, the vertical drop to the beach was only five feet high. Shaw jumped down and headed back along the southern shore toward the estate. The height of the bluff increased rapidly until it leveled off at about thirty feet above the beach. A few hardy scrub trees grew from splits in the cliff face, their lean trunks curving upward toward the light.
It was faster going on the bare bedrock. The only hindrance was the wind pushing against him. Within ten minutes of walking, he saw the gray dots of the first maintenance sheds and the toothpick-slim line of the floating dock. The seaplane was gone. C.J. must have flown to pick up the guests.
He passed the solar panels and the flagpole to arrive at the square concrete slab. His guess had been right about its being a helipad, and a work in progress. Eight stainless-steel lights had been placed around the landing pad’s border, looking like small cooking pots around a table. The lights weren’t bolted to the concrete slab, not yet. They sat loose on the ground, sharing a single power cable, a string of cheerless Christmas lights. The cable snaked off through the grass toward the nearest maintenance shed.
Shaw wondered if the landing lights had been hastily placed, in the event that the Rohners or their guests decided to travel by helicopter at the last minute. Nice to have options.
As he came abreast of the main house, he saw Sofia Rohner walking past one of the grand picture windows. She looked up, and their eyes met. As smoothly as if she’d been expecting his visit, she motioned for him to approach.
She came out onto the veranda at the front of the house and waited by the railing while he walked up the grassy slope. He stopped on the narrow strip of manicured lawn at the side of the house.
“Good evening,” said Shaw.
“Mr. Shaw,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were on the island.”
“I came in to get acclimated before the guests arrive. It’s quite a place.”
“Thank you. We’re not the first to live on Briar Bay. There was a settlement here briefly in the nineteenth century, searching for limestone deposits as on the larger islands. Their speculation wasn’t rewarded, unfortunately.”
“I hope you’ll have better luck.”
“What has my father asked of you this week?”
“Asked of me?”
“Your duties. As a . . . facilities manager, being so new to the grounds.”
On the porch her feet were level with Shaw’s head. He wondered if that had been an intentional choice of the architect, elevating the masters of the estate.
“Mostly to see if the guests require anything that isn’t already here,” he said. “Looking for possible improvements.”
“Do those improvements include our art collection? I noticed Olen taking you inside.”
Shaw paused. “I have some background in security systems. Part of why Mr. Rohner hired me.”
“To evaluate whether the gallery is safe.”
“Yes.”
“And is it?” Sofia said.
“Your alarm setup is very good.”
“But not impregnable.”
“No system is. Are you concerned someone might break in?” he said. Perhaps Sofia Rohner knew more about her father’s little contest of acquisitions than she’d let on.
“No. I don’t imagine we’re at risk of burglary. But when it comes to our artwork, I am personally invested.”
Shaw looked at her. “You curated the collection.”
“Yes.”
“Your father didn’t mention that.”
“I don’t imagine he would. The family’s achievements are shared victories.”
Unless they’re his, was the message Shaw took from that. He realized how few of the articles about Droma International had mentioned the company’s VP of client development.
“I’ll keep watch,” said Shaw. “Just in case.”
“I appreciate that,” Sofia said, perhaps humoring him. “We’ll be offering tours of the estate, including the collection. Not that I expect anyone to slip a figurine into their pocket.”
“Mr. Anders implied this was an important week. A business deal, along with the first visitors to the island.”
“Indeed.” She glanced to her left. Shaw followed her look. A broad-shouldered man in a gray pinstripe suit and a black tie was striding down the courtyard in their direction.
“This conference has been a long time in coming,” Sofia continued, “and our guests have come a long way. We’ve had hopes of establishing a partnership within the Chinese market for years. You can understand our desire that they enjoy their stay.”
“Everything all right here, Ms. Rohner?” said the man, stopping alongside Shaw on the lawn.
“I’m fine, Warren. Mr. Shaw, this is Warren Kilbane, our head of security.”
Kilbane looked Shaw up and down. He was younger than the retired cop or former MP that Shaw had expected the Rohners to have as a security chief. Not much more than Shaw’s own thirty years. His sandy brown hair had been recently barbered and his dress shirt was unblemished by creases. Ready for his official corporate photo, though imagining Kilbane smiling was a stretch. He stared at Shaw with a blank expression.
“I imagine you two have much to talk about,” Sofia said. A dismissal.
“Nice meeting you,” Shaw said to her.
Kilbane fell into step beside him as he walked to the south wing.
“Mr. Anders told you to stick to your room,” the security man said quietly.
“Just stretching my legs before the guests arrive.”
“From now on you’ll clear all movement with me.”
“Relax, Warren. I’m not here to take your job. Three days and I’ll be a memory.”
Kilbane moved in front of him, forcing Shaw to stop. “Your job is what I say it is. Write your report. Stay away from the guests and the family.”
Shaw grinned. People giving him orders often struck him as funny. He’d been commanded by professionals, most of whom could eat Kilbane on toast.
“It’s Rohner’s initials on my hiring papers,” he said. “The way I see it, he’s the only one who can tell me to shove off.”
Kilbane stared back. Shaw revised his earlier opinion. Anders was inexpressive. Kilbane seemed more like a fucking robot.
A big enough robot to take seriously. An inch taller than Shaw and maybe two-twenty. Kilbane’s neck came straight down from his ears. Lots of barbell shrugs and weighted neck curls had gone into building those bulky tendons.
“Mr. Rohner might have hired you,” Kilbane said, “but it’s Anders who signs off on your fee. Be smart. Have dinner tonight, make some polite conversation, and then get lost. The less we see you this week, the better.”
He stalked away.
Shaw exhaled. Carrying out his assignment was looking more difficult by the hour. Anders and Kilbane had both taken what seemed to be an instant dislike to him. If he kept up this streak, the Rohners would force him to swim home before nightfall.