It’s Lucy, and I put on my earpiece. I tell her I hope she’s found something.

“South Audley Street, Mayfair. Off Grosvenor Square,” she says.

“Elisa Vandersteel’s address?” I sit back down on top of the equipment box, and I look up at Marino.

“A six-thousand-square-foot house valued at around thirty million pounds,” Lucy tells me. “That’s the address on the driver’s license, and one of the reasons her name’s not coming up in ordinary searches is it’s not her or her family who lives there.”

“The address is fake then.”

“It’s not. The owner is the CEO of a tech company, William Portison. British, went to MIT, wife’s name is Diana.” Lucy’s voice sounds in my earpiece. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s who owns the house where Elisa Vandersteel was living as an au pair for the past two years,” Lucy says with no lack of confidence. “It could explain why the Portisons’ ritzy Mayfair address is on her British driver’s license. And being an au pair might be why she’s not on social media. Not every employer wants that if they’re private and careful with their kids.”

“You might be right but it’s odd,” I reply.

“A lot of au pairs work in exchange for room and board,” Lucy says next. “They basically become part of the family.”

“Yes but usually not literally,” I reply. “I wouldn’t think living with a family entitles you to hijack their address and use it as your own. If the South Audley Street house isn’t Elisa Vandersteel’s legal residence, then it really shouldn’t be on her driver’s license or other forms of identification. If nothing else it presents a liability to the Portisons.”

“Well it seems they didn’t stop her from using it when she moved to London two years ago and got the license,” Lucy says. “She lists it on a number of things and got mail there. So I assume they knew what she was doing.”

“Moved from where?” I ask.

“CANADA,” LUCY SAYS IN my earpiece. “She exchanged her driver’s license for a British one. And the obvious reason to do that would be if she planned to drive in the UK for more than twelve months.”

She goes on about it with a certainty that perplexes me, and I’m not going to ask how she’s managed to find out all this. When I searched the Internet for Elisa Vandersteel I came up empty. But I don’t know where Lucy looked. Possibly the Deep Web, the Undernet, and I don’t venture into the Bermuda Triangle of cyberspace, where terrorists and deviants prowl, and unsuspecting people and their property are wrecked and forever lost.