“What are you doing?” Lizzie asked. “Didn’t you see him at that guard gate?”

“Hang on. I’m getting us in,” he said, taking out his cell phone and dialing. Lucy said use the resources, and he intended to.

Avery Cole, Lucy’s assistant, answered on the first ring. “Hello, Con, what do you need?”

“Information.”

“Name it.”

Seriously, he could get used to this. “St. Richard’s Island, a private development about ten miles south of Vero Beach. Need a resident with a close relative named Elizabeth.”

“Hang on,” she said.

Behind him, Lizzie released a dismayed breath. “You’re kidding, right?”

“The guards to these places are trained to let family members in.”

“Family members usually have the same last name,” she said. “If they don’t, don’t you think they’ll call the resident and confirm?”

He’d broken into so many ultraposh Florida gated developments, he’d lost count. This technique never failed.

“All right, Con,” Avery said. “There’s a David Rollins at 546 River Run Road, in St. Richard’s. His sister is Elizabeth Fournier, and she lives in Madison, Wisconsin.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Thanks, Avery. Does Mr. Rollins have kids?”

“Two. Ten and twelve. Jessica and Gabriel. Wife’s name is Sarah.”

“Perfect. That’s all I need, thank you.” He revved up the bike, then paused at the intersection for a passing car.

“Aunt Liz,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a surprise visit to your brother and his wife, David and Sarah Rollins. You’re in from Wisconsin.”

“What? How the heck do you know they live there?”

“Just work with me and I’ll explain later.”

He pulled up to the guardhouse and slowed the engine, earning a wary look from an older, balding man who wore a badge with “Mike” on it.

“This is Elizabeth Fournier, here to see the Rollins family at 546 River Run.”

He frowned and read his clipboard. “No one called you in, sir. I’ll have to call the house.”

“No, wait.” Lizzie leaned forward to speak over the engine. “If my brother answers, then the whole surprise is ruined.”

The guard looked dubious.

“How about if we showed you some ID, Mike?” Con suggested with a smile. “Liz, do you have your license? It has your maiden name on it, right?”

Behind him, another car pulled up. And behind that, a furniture delivery truck. The guard glanced at the growing line and waved them in. “Go ahead. Hate to ruin a surprise.”

Con thanked him and rolled the bike respectfully through the gate as it rose. Luckily, St. Richard’s was one big circle, so he headed right and slowly made his way down River Run, looking for the SUV.

“Who did you call?” Lizzie demanded into his ear. “How did you get the names of residents in that place?”

“I have some great connections.”

She nudged his shoulder. “No kidding. Who, the CIA?”

“Actually,” he said with a smile, “you’re not too far off. Look for Flynn’s vehicle.”

“Is that it?” She indicated a silver Highlander parked in front of the furthermost house.

“I’d say so.” He passed slowly, taking in the towering front windows and stately columns at the end of a long drive. He got the address and took one more pass around the circle, but there wasn’t much more they could do, unless he wanted to follow Flynn when he left.

What he wanted to do was call Avery with the address, but maybe he’d just text it to her so he didn’t invite more questions about his CIA connections.

“He might not come out for hours,” she said, impatience in her tone.

“I’d like to see if he even goes to the Paxton Labs.”

“If we hurry up and get to my sister, there’s still time to go up there before we need to be back at the marina. Please.” She gave the bag a gentle nudge. “Riding around with this is making me nervous.”

“All right.” He pulled out, taking one more look at the entrance to St. Richard’s Island, then headed back to the beach highway.

They zipped onto A1A and he opened up the bike, weaving through the little bit of traffic, glimpses of the cobalt blue Atlantic Ocean on their left.

In Vero Beach, she led him to a simple, established neighborhood of ranch homes, mostly built in the fifties and sixties.

“Your younger sister lives here, alone?” Seemed like an awfully quiet street for a twentysomething single girl.

“Oh, she’ll tell you how much she hates it. And she’ll be moving soon. But she lived here with my dad, and now she’s in the process of emptying out his office and organizing all his papers so we can sell both places.”

“Both?”

“My dad had another place right on the beach, where he worked,” she told him as he slowed down on the street. “That’s the house. The blue one on the right.”

He pulled into the driveway. “Does your sister dive, too?”

“God, yes. And she’s really unhappy that she’s not on this dive with me.”

“So why isn’t she?”

As he brought the bike to a stop in the driveway, Lizzie pulled off her helmet and shook out her curls. “Long story.” She scanned the outside of the house. “Boy, she really is holed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“No windows open in November? All the blinds closed?” She frowned and took a few steps up the driveway, squinting at the small front porch of the stucco home. “Is that a flyer on the door? That’s not like her.”

He took her helmet and attached it with his to the bike. “You sure she’s here? Maybe she went away for a few days.”

“She’d have told me if she were leaving.” She slid the advertising flyer from the handle, then pulled out her keys and unlocked the door.

“Hey, Bree,” she called out. “It’s me.”

Con followed her into a dimly lit living area in the front of the house. The shutters were closed tight and the house was warm, as if neither fresh nor conditioned air had been blowing through for a day or two.

Lizzie breezed through the tiny front room/dining area, popping out to a covered patio, then went down the hall to what he assumed were bedrooms. On the other side of the dining room, a tiny kitchen opened up to the lanai and a small pool area decorated with a Tahitian theme, including a thatched roof hanging over a two-person outdoor bar and a kitschy totem pool.

Surprisingly, not a lot of money for a treasure-hunting family. And not a lot of real treasures on display, unless he counted Lizzie’s high school graduation picture on the dining-room wall. Next to it was a darker-haired version of Lizzie with similar features and a devilish smile. That must be Bree.

Lizzie headed to the other side of the house. “I’m going to go back into the office and look around.”

“What about this?” He unshouldered the backpack and set it on the diningroom table.

“I have a place in the spare bedroom. But let me see if I can figure out where she is, first.”

He followed her into a small office, and there the orderliness of the house ended.

“My dad was a mess,” she said apologetically. “But this is nothing-you should see his beach house. It’s tiny and packed to the gills with crap he’s collected over the years. Maybe Bree is over there, getting more stuff.”

“She ought to get through this pile first.” The floor-to-ceiling shelves bowed under the weight of reference books, files stuffed with papers, journals, magazines, yellowed newspaper clippings, crammed shoeboxes, and pictures on every inch of wall.

“I know, right? That’s why she’s here and not on the dive. We have to get through all this.”

The floor was full of packing boxes, crates, and plastic storage bins, all of it in disarray. On every wall were pictures of boats and coins and jewels and chipped porcelain and dark bronze utensils. Images of dozens of happy faces, almost all with diving masks pulled up, hands stretched out, beaming victorious smiles to show off a recovered treasure. Many were obviously Lizzie’s father, flanked by two girls with matching grins.