A pause. The sound of papers shuffling. “The Fiji–Sydney group? They checked in about an hour ago. All the luggage was distributed to rooms.”
“Any way to figure out who has which bag?”
“We use a tag system. Numbers, not names—privacy reasons. The bags go to rooms based on the tags, but I couldn’t tell you which guest has which number without going through the whole manifest.” Another pause. “If there’s a mix-up, someone will report it. They always do.”
“And if we wanted to wait for that report?”
“The hotel can put you on a notification list. Cairns Harbourside—tell them Maxi sent you.”
Dakota thanked her and ended the call. Jayden was still reading the brochure, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“The bags are distributed by number directly to the rooms. We have to just wait until someone reports a wrong bag. I think we should go to the hotel.”
She held up the brochure, tapping the itinerary. “Great Barrier Reef diving. Hunter Valley wine country. Melbourne and the penguin parade. Sydney Opera House with backstage access.” She glanced at him. “Sounds like fun.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You want to join a tour group to find a bag?”
“Just long enough to get my bag back. At the very least, we see some sights.”
It wasn’t a bad plan. It also meant more close proximity with a woman he was still trying to clear of suspicion.
“Let’s start with the hotel,” he said. “See what they can tell us. If we need to join the tour, we can decide tonight.”
“Practical.” She tucked the brochure into her messenger bag. “I like it.”
They found a taxi outside. The driver was a sunburned man with a Queensland accent thick enough to cut, full of opinions about the reef, the weather, and the “tourists clogging up the whole coast.” Dakota tuned him out and watched Cairns slide past the windows—palm trees, harbor glimpses, the worst of the squall already pushing east.
Beside him, Jayden was quiet. Reading the tour brochure again, or pretending to.
He should be planning. Maybe figuring out how to investigate the rifle components without tipping his hand.
Instead, he was noticing the way the light caught her profile. The slight furrow between her brows when she concentrated.
Focus.
The Cairns Harbourside Hotel rose into view—a white multistory building with stacked balconies and arched windows on the ground floor. Palm trees framed the entrance. Blue accent lights were just starting to glow in the fading afternoon, puddles still shimmering on the terra-cotta paths from the afternoon squall. A yellow sail-shade canopy stretched over an outdoor seating area where a few guests lingered with drinks.
“Nice,” Jayden murmured, and Dakota caught her doing that thing she did—cataloging details, assessing, the hotel inspector evaluating a property.
Or the operative assessing a location?
He pushed the thought aside and paid the driver.
The lobby was all tropical elegance—high ceilings, natural light streaming through skylights, cream walls warming to honey at the curved reception desk with its navy-blue accent. Green dominated the seating area—deep forest armchairs with blond wood frames, big-leafed plants in white ceramic pots, a painting of water lilies catching the last of the afternoon sun.
The front-desk attendant, a young blonde with a name tag reading AVERY, smiled with professional warmth. “Checking in?”
“Actually,” Dakota said, “we’re hoping to connect with someone from the Aussie Adventures tour. I was told to tell you that Maxi sent us.”
Avery’s smile brightened. “Oh, the luggage situation! Yes, she rang. Give me just a moment—” She picked up the phone, spoke quietly, then nodded. “Maxi’s actually here. She’ll be right out.”
Maxi turned out to be a weathered woman in her forties with a practical ponytail, a deep tan, and the kind of competent energy that suggested she’d been herding tourists through tropical adventures for decades.
“The bag people.” She shook their hands with firm enthusiasm. “Maxi. Coordinator for Aussie Adventures. So sorry about the mix-up—Fiji was a nightmare for everyone. Half the Pacific rerouting through that little airport.”
“We’re hoping to track down whoever ended up with my friend’s luggage,” Dakota said. “Any way to figure out which room?”
Maxi’s expression turned apologetic. “The tag system, I’m afraid. Numbers correspond to rooms but not to names. Privacy protocols—we can’t just go through everyone’s bags looking for yours.” She spread her hands. “Best option is to wait. Someone will notice they’ve got the wrong things and report it. Always happens within a day or two.”
