Stu came back on the line. “Got it, T.C.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s using the name Ayars,” Stu said. “She left two days ago on a Qantas Airlines flight from Los Angeles to Cairns.”

T.C. rubbed his eyes. “Stu, thanks a lot.”

“I’ll just put it on your bill.”

LAURA and Graham were back at the cocktail lounge. This time, they chose to sit in a quiet corner rather than at the bar. Laura studied the big man in front of her as he stroked his beard, his eyes fixed in concentration. What did she really know about Graham Rowe? How could she be so sure he wasn’t involved in all this? After all, he had been the police officer in charge of the investigation. If Laura could not even trust T.C., how could she rely on this stranger?

“Well, what have we got so far?” Graham asked, speaking as much to himself as Laura. “Number one: David did not just go swimming like he wrote in his note.”

Laura remembered that note. I will love you forever. Always remember that. So serious for David. So foreboding. Had he somehow suspected that it would be the last note he would ever write? Had he somehow known that death was awaiting his imminent arrival?

Graham continued. “Number two: the time of death estimated by the coroner was way off. We have an eyewitness who swore he saw David Baskin several hours after he supposedly drowned.” The sheriff flipped through his notebook, jotted something on a sheet of paper, and then he continued. “Number three: we know David took an elevator ride in this hotel. He was upstairs for approximately one hour. We can assume he visited someone during that time.”

Laura nodded. “But who?”

“That’s the question,” Graham agreed. “But there are a few other things we should look into.”

“Like?”

“Like why was the coroner so far off with his estimation of David’s death? And did he miss something else, like signs of foul play or . . . ?”

“Or?”

Graham’s piercing eyes locked onto hers. “Sorry, Laura, but we have to look into the possibility of suicide.”

Laura’s tone remained even. “Like I said before, I want all possibilities explored—no matter where they lead.”

Graham nodded. “Okay, let’s get started.”

“What do we do first?”

The sheriff let a small laugh pass his lips. “We?” he repeated. “There’s no chance I’m going to convince you to let me do this on my own, is there?”

“None.”

Graham shrugged. “Well, I always wanted a beautiful partner,” he said. “Okay, the first thing we should do is find Gina Cassler.”

“Who’s she?”

“An old friend of mine,” Graham replied, “and the owner and manager of this hotel.”

GINA Cassler was a stately-looking woman in her early sixties. Her neatly bunned hair was gray, her posture straight, her head held high in the air. She wore a gray business suit and her personal appearance was perfectly groomed and manicured. It made a shocking contrast with the cluttered desk she sat behind. Files and loose sheets of paper formed three-foot alps over what Laura assumed was a nice wood finish. Occasionally, papers floated onto the floor but Mrs. Cassler didn’t seem to mind.

“Jeez, Gina,” Graham said with a shake of his head, “how can such a beautiful dame be such a slob?”

Gina waved her hand as if to dismiss him. “Still a charmer, eh, Graham?”

“Trying.”

“And who is this lovely lady with you?”

Graham turned toward Laura. “This is Laura Baskin.”

“Ah, yes, the founder of Svengali,” Gina said, gently shaking Laura’s hand. “I bought one of your suits last time I was in San Francisco. I understand you’re going to start marketing here in Australia.”

“Yes.”

“It’ll be a big hit, I’m sure,” Gina said with a smile. “Now what can I do for you, Graham?”

“We’re investigating the death of Mrs. Baskin’s husband. Did you hear about it?”

“Of course,” Gina replied. “It was all over the papers and telly. Such a terrible thing. We haven’t had a drowning in this region in what? Three years, Graham?”

“Two and a half,” he corrected.

“Whatever. And I read he was a good swimmer.” She shook her head. “I’m very sorry. Really I am.”

“Thank you,” Laura said.

Graham cleared his throat. “Gina, we need to see a list of your clientele for the time period surrounding Mr. Baskin’s death.”

Gina looked puzzled. “A guest list, you mean?”

“Right.”

“From June?”

“June seventeenth.”

“That’s almost six months ago.”

“Five and a half,” Graham corrected.

“We don’t have them.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have them?”

“We don’t save daily rooming lists,” she explained. “Sure, we have a customer list in the basement but it’s not done by the dates they stayed here.”

“There’s no way we can find out who stayed in the hotel on June seventeenth?”

“None. Unless . . . Wait a sec.” Gina looked up, her face scrunched in concentration. A few moments later, her eyes widened and she snapped her fingers. “Are you looking for a foreigner?”

“What does that have to do—”

“Just answer my question, Graham,” she interrupted impatiently. “Are you looking for a foreigner?”

“Probably. Why?”

“The passport cards.”

“The what?”

“Each foreigner has to leave his passport at the front desk so we can fill out a passport card for them. Immigration collects them and keeps them at town hall.”

“Can you get the ones filled out on June seventeenth?”

“It would probably be faster if you made the request, Graham.”

The big sheriff shook his head. He did not want the government involved in this case yet. “I’d appreciate it if you took care of it. Just say you need it for tax purposes or something.”

Gina shrugged. “No worries. It’ll probably take a couple of days. Red tape and all that, you know.”

“It’s important,” Graham stressed. “I also need to see your long-distance phone bills for that month.”