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Carrying it out, he locked the lab using one of the keys she’d obviously stolen, and headed up to the quarters deck to her cabin.
    He knew where every one of the crew slept; Lucy’s file had a full layout of the boat. Lizzie’s cabin was between the brother divers, Kenny and Walt Brubaker, who shared a double bunk, and the conservator and diver couple, Charlotte and Sam Gorman.
    Would he even have to interview the other divers, or did he already have the person he’d come to find? She certainly hated Judd Paxton, and every excuse she gave was riddled with guilt and lies.
    If things kept going his way, he’d be signing a contract with Lucy by the end of the week.
    He slipped the key in and entered her cabin, far more spacious than his. The bed was unmade, the room just disheveled enough that he wouldn’t leave any evidence that he’d searched it.
    Dropping the plastic bag, he headed straight to the small built-in dresser next to the bed. The drawers were a jumble of bathing suits and underwear and tank tops, but nothing incriminating. Maybe the small work desk.
    On top, a few paperbacks with two dive magazines, all well read. He flipped open each drawer, one with odds and ends, the next, a little makeup, some simple jewelry. The third, a deep file drawer, was locked.
    Promising.
    With a penknife, he opened it easily. Inside was a photograph of an older man on the deck of a boat, a gold trinket hanging from his hand, and another photo of the same man on another boat with two little girls about ten and twelve, each displaying huge smiles and shiny gold coins.
    Either girl could have been Lizzie, especially the one with lighter hair, more curls, and the sweetheart face. Beneath the pictures were a few pages of computer printouts about treasure hunting. Then an article about Judd Paxton, torn from Time magazine.
    And the flimsiest piece of cheap pressboard at the bottom of the drawer, not even close to the wood stain of the desk. A pathetically bad false bottom. It snapped right out of place, and under it he found a brown leather notebook.
    He fluttered the pages, full of sketches of jewelry, brass buckles, a porcelain jar, some hand-drawn charts, notes in the margins in scratchy, shaky handwriting, and then, on the last pages, the large block-letter heading: El Falcone .
    Gotcha, Lizzie.
    Although it wasn’t irrefutable proof that she was leaking the information. He studied the last few pages of sketches: a cross with jewels, a religious pendant, and an elaborate cup encrusted with gems. On the next page, no pictures, just three words. The Bombay Blues .
    Oh, man. He definitely had his target.
    He toyed with the idea of taking the notebook, but that would alert her and she was smart enough to know he had to have taken it. He returned it, feeling around for anything else and touched something hard, plastic, and thin.
    A cell phone.
    This really was ridiculously easy. He’d caught her red-handed and found the phone she wasn’t supposed to have. How long it took her to discover it was missing would tell him just how badly she wanted it. He pocketed the phone, then replaced the false bottom.
    He didn’t have absolute proof that she was the thief, though. No treasure was hidden in her room.
    He grabbed the first pair of shorts he saw, a top like the strappy one he’d stripped from her, and hustled back to his cabin, opening the door just in time to find her rifling through his backpack.
    “Still looking for treasure, Lizzie?”
    Not that it mattered. He’d hidden the Bullet Catcher dossier on the assignment the minute he got in the room, and nothing in that bag could incriminate him.
    “Just trying to figure out who you are.” She held up a book. “Besides a guy who reads-and annotates- The Odyssey. ”
    “Greeks are brilliant.”
    “Exactly what I would expect a man named Constantine Xenakis to respond.” She fluttered his passport. “You’ve been a lot of places, Mr. X.”
    “Here you go.” He tossed the