“Payton’s divorced, with a teenaged son. Bradley’s single. The next of kin listed on her employment record is a sister in New Mexico.”

“And Scarborough?”

“No wife. No children. No siblings. Parents deceased.”

Nimec looked at him.

“Sort of makes us his only family.”

“Yes.”

They sat without speaking. Gordian stared at the picture in his hands for a long time, holding its frame by the edges with particular gentleness, almost as if it was fragile to the touch. Then he turned it so the photo behind the glass was facing Nimec.

Nimec recognized the sixtyish couple in it immediately. The man had thick, wavy silver hair, an intelligent face, and wore wireless spectacles perched high on his nose. The woman next to him was a slender, fine-boned beauty that age had transformed without diminution. They wore elegant formal clothing, and stood posed before a shimmery portrait backdrop the color of rose petals.

“The Steiners,” Nimec said. His voice was low. “Jesus, they made a good-looking pair.”

“Yes.”

More silence.

Arthur and Elaine Steiner had been maintenance technicians at the UpLink compound in Russia when it was attacked by hired terrorists some years back. Hours before the strike they drove out into the countryside to investigate a power failure and never returned. Their bloody bodies and wrecked jeep were found once the offensive was repelled, in a blast crater torn into the ground by a rocket grenade. They had come to a bad place at the worst possible time, crossing paths with the hit squad, who’d knocked out the electrical lines as they rolled on toward the compound.

“This photo was mailed to guests who’d attended their fortieth wedding anniversary dinner,” Gordian said at length. “Their Ruby Anniversary. Did you know that? The traditional symbol, I mean.”

Nimec shook his head. “Being single . . . it isn’t something I’ve thought about much.”

Gordian looked at him. “For the first fifteen years of marriage, each one is considered a small milestone. The first is Paper. The second Cotton. Then Leather, Flowers . . . and so forth.” He sighed. “After that stretch, the special anniversaries are marked every five years. I’m not sure of the reason. But I know the magic number becomes five. I’ve been married to Ashley for thirty-two years. In another three we’ll be celebrating our Coral Anniversary. Then, a half decade later, knock wood, our Ruby. Next comes Sapphire, Gold, and Emerald. Diamond would be our sixtieth. It’s an interesting question whether etiquette’s caught up with present-day longevity statistics and gone past that. Ash could probably tell us. Women know. Sometimes, I think they know everything the instant they’re born.”

“A head start like that’s kind of hard to beat,” Nimec said.