Chapter 2
When he was sure it was safe, Lincoln got dressed in his work uniform—a pair of tan pants and matching shirt provided by the resort—and ventured outside.
Another bright and sunny day, as most were here in Kona.
He put on his Armani sunglasses, which were much too expensive for a gardener.
No one had commented about them so far, and he wasn’t going to risk his vision by wearing nonprescription sunglasses.
He hunched his shoulders as he strolled past the private bungalows, known here as hales, toward the main hacienda-type building, where a breakfast buffet was set out for the guests.
The staff wasn’t allowed to eat from it, but they were permitted to help themselves to kitchen leftovers.
Better yet, there was always coffee perking in the kitchen.
Coffee and day-old pastries for breakfast…he’d take it. Especially because the pastries were guava Danishes made from fruit grown in the resort’s private orchard. Nothing but the best for the resort’s guests. He knew, because he’d stayed here three years ago, under very different circumstances.
The kitchen staff was busy with the breakfast service. Even though the buffet offered everything from fruit to pastries to scrambled eggs, waffles, and bacon, a substantial portion of the guests had special dietary requests.
“Someone from hale twelve wants a sourdough English muffin with a poached egg on a bed of watercress,” announced Kiki, one of the young servers. When she wasn’t working, she was either sunbathing or recovering from her latest tattoo session.
“We don’t have any fucking watercress,” the chef swore. At first, Lincoln had been surprised by how freely the kitchen staff cursed, until the sous-chef told him that was standard practice in professional kitchens.
Which had made him rethink everything he’d assumed about his own kitchen and his staff of five. Had they been swearing up a storm the whole time, while he’d been calmly consuming forkfuls of New Zealand veal?
The thought made him remember his weird dream, and he shivered.
“What should I tell them?” Kiki asked.
The chef blew out a breath. “Tell them we’ll have some flown in and tomorrow they can have a fucking poached egg with some motherfucking watercress.”
Correct answer, Lincoln could have told him, minus the cursing. It was acceptable to not have a particular item. It would be unacceptable to not make any effort to acquire it.
“I don’t know,” Kiki said doubtfully. “I think they might be checking out today.”
Lincoln’s ears perked up. Finally! That hale had been occupied ever since he’d been working here, and it was number one on his list to search.
Hale twelve was the last known location of the item he was seeking, the thing so valuable to him that he’d gone deep undercover to find it.
So far, he’d managed to search the hale’s private terrace, the swimming pool, and the bedrooms. He hadn’t been able to inspect the kitchen yet because that took more time.
He hadn’t wanted to take a chance on the guests reappearing early from their surf lessons or flightseeing trips.
“If they’re leaving, they should have asked me yesterday,” the chef grumbled.
“Is that what I should tell them?”
“Fuck no! Tell them what I said. Maybe they’ll extend their stay. You.” The chef wheeled on Lincoln as soon as Kiki had left. “Can we grow watercress here?”
“Um, sure, why not?”
“Thought it was too hot here.”
Crap. His knowledge of gardening was essentially zero, except for what he’d learned over the past few weeks. “We can get almost anything to grow here. I’ll see to it.” Fortunately, he wouldn’t be around long enough to worry about keeping that promise.
Before he could get quizzed about more gardening issues, Lincoln downed his coffee, grabbed another guava pastry, and hurried in the direction of hale number twelve.
He nearly did a fist pump when he saw the suitcases piled on the golf cart parked out front.
The guests were checking out early, probably leaving as soon as they finished their non-watercress breakfast. The cleaning staff wouldn’t start on this hale until at least ten.
That gave him a clear window of time in which to scour the kitchen.
Metaphorically, of course. He’d never actually scoured anything in his life.
An hour later, he was crouched under the sink, swearing more than the chef.
He’d waited, posing with a leaf-blower, as a staff member had driven the suitcase-loaded golf cart away.
He’d given it more time in case someone forgot something.
When the coast seemed to be clear, he’d slipped through the hale’s front door, using one of the key cards belonging to the housekeeping staff.
Now he was searching the space under the sink. He’d set all the cleaning products to the side and was using his phone to shine a light into the corners.
The CHUM—short for Crystalline Harmonic Universal Magnifier—would catch the light, so all he had to do was flash his phone around and look for a reflection.
Nothing.
What if the CHUM was covered up with something, a rag or a rubber glove? Since strange things happened when it was exposed to light, he had to consider that possibility.
He squirmed in farther and felt around with his hand. Something was back there, but it wasn’t hard like a crystal. It was furry. And it was moving.
A mouse.
He jerked back so hard that his shoulder hit the drainpipe under the sink. Water dripped onto him. Crap, he’d broken the damn thing. No, maybe he’d just dislodged it. He tried to pull himself out, but his upper body was wedged so tightly between the pipe and the cabinet frame that he couldn’t move.
He cursed under his breath. If the cleaning staff found him like this, he’d definitely get fired. What excuse could he possibly have? The gardeners weren’t supposed to go into the hales. Possible excuses raced through his mind.
I was thirsty.
Use the hose.
I thought someone was trespassing.
Under the sink?
I saw a mouse.
Okay, that one might work. He’d seen the mouse go in from outside, and felt a duty to chase it down and capture it. Maybe he’d even get a raise.
If they didn’t have to dismantle this entire cabinet to extract him.
A child’s voice floated from outside the window. “It’s not fair! You said we could go swimming.”
“We can. Just not here. Or at least not now, there’s too many people around.” That throaty voice sounded familiar. Was it the same one he’d heard earlier? The pretty concierge?
“Please, Zara! I’m sooooo hot.”
“Tell you what. You can watch TV inside while your sister does her homework. Then we’ll go swimming at that little beach by the marina when I’m done. Deal?”
“That’s a bad deal,” the child grumbled. “I want a lawyer.”
“I’m the closest thing you’re going to get, and I say take the deal.”
“I suppose that means I’m babysitting again.” A girl spoke for the first time in an unhappy teenage whine.
“Of course you’re babysitting again. It’s either that or school.”
“You shouldn’t use school as a threat, that’s just mean. You know why I can’t go to school.”
“Sorry,” said Zara in that throaty voice. “Low blow. Let me put it another way. I’d be grateful if you’d watch Eddie for the morning. In fact, I’d be so grateful that I’d be willing to consider a sleepover this weekend.”
“Like I have any friends left,” the girl said gloomily. “But whatever.”
“Get to it, then. I have to get to work. Text me for any reason whatsoever, within our previously agreed-upon boundaries.”
A moment later, Lincoln heard the sound of a door opening and footsteps running into the hale. Desperately, he worked to pry his body out from under the sink. Something cracked. Moisture dripped onto him and now a jagged piece of plastic dug into his neck every time he tried to move.
He closed his eyes. Just my luck. Why did everything he tried lately go so disastrously wrong? Ever since that first plane crash, nothing had gone the way he’d planned.
Footsteps raced into the kitchen, then stopped.
“Zara!” the child screamed. “There’s a man’s butt in here!”