Page 35 of Over Her Dead Body

“Three.”

“His phone?”

“Off.”

“Since when?”

“Shortly before Calloway left the apartment.”

I let the silence have him for a moment.

Then I ask, “Who was the man she was with?”

“We’re still working on that.”

“What happened inside the apartment?”

“We don’t know.”

“And the man you assigned to this—is just missing?”

He shifts his weight. “We’re looking for him.”

Three questions. Three failures. Efficient, in its way.

He swallows. “We had someone at the Lisbon airport. She arrived alone and boarded without issue.”

“Which tells me she can navigate an airport. A relief.”

“I understand you are disappointed. The report is not what you hoped for. But until now, the man in Lisbon had been reliable.”

“Reliable men are generally easier to locate.”

“I should have sent someone with him.”

“Yes. Instead, you have brought me three pages explaining how little you know.”

His eyes drop to the folder on my desk.

There are gaps in his report.

Not the sort created by missing times or incomplete addresses. Those can be corrected. These are hours in which Emma Calloway did something important enough to abandon Vienna, follow an unidentified man across an ocean, and remain inside his apartment until morning.

The only person paid to watch her has not been heard from since.

That interests me.

Emma Calloway is not difficult to read. This is not an insult. Most people are readable because they are dull. Emma is readable because she is consistent.

The same cream blouses. The same earrings most days, except on date nights, when she wears the gold ones with the small green stones because she believes they are lucky.

This is one of Emma’s more charming flaws.

Luck is a superstition kept alive by people who would rather not examine the machinery beneath their lives.

Coffee. Work. Wine. Terrible dating habits. Lucky earrings. A collection of small occupations Emma has mistaken for a life.

Ordinary things are useful that way. They keep people occupied. Predictable.