DeVane stood with her hand in his. Behind her, a glimpse of a high-walled entry parlor of palatial dimensions. He was struck by the burnished gold chandelier that hung from its vaulted ceiling, clean white candles in its curved, graceful arms.

She noticed him looking in through the halfway open door, and glanced over her shoulder to see what had caught his attention.

DeVane was quick; he had worked hard at perfecting the cheat.

“I apologize for becoming distracted, but the chandelier is magnificent,” he said. “Gilded wood, isn’t it? I’d imagine it must date back to the English Restoration.”

Melissa Phillips faced him again, impressed.

“Very close,” she said, and opened her door wide to admit him. “It’s British. From the early eighteenth century, though. You’ll find it even more beautiful at night with the candles lighted.”

He had nodded and entered.

As DeVane followed her into the parlor, he had felt almost like a treasure hunter who had unearthed a trove of wealth he had sought for a lifetime—struggling, digging, boring past endless layers of dirt and stone to expose it—and now that he had broken through, now that it was within reach, had discovered it contained an even greater hoard than he had allowed himself to envision.

He wanted to see every prize, take it all in at once . . .

But here Harlan DeVane’s string of memories broke off like a film reel that had run out inside a vacated projection booth.

In his cabin on board the Chimera, his body had finally released its tension and let him plunge into dreamless sleep.

“I gotta admit, Petey, you were a hundred percent right about the Gabonese having a knack for entertaining their visitors,” Scull said cheerfully, his voice raised above the piano-accompanied singing from the club’s round central stage. “If I’d realized how, you wouldn’t have heard me complain.”

“Great,” Nimec said.

“Also, you should’ve told me the cooking was Senegalese. Didn’t I hear you mention that you been wanting to try African food for the longest time?”

“Could be you did.”

“Well, that goes double for me, believe it or not. Which is why—”

“I would have told you,” Nimec said. “If I’d known.”

“But what about that ad you read?”

Nimec snapped a look at him.

“I suppose I missed the part about the cuisine,” he said. “I had other priorities on my mind.”

“Hey, don’t get defensive on me, I’m just saying it’s too bad you didn’t know.” Scull slurped from his spoon. “Anyway, this fish soup’s delicious. The spices, boy, they’ve got a sneaky kick. The heat kind of creeps over your tongue, front to back. Then wham!”

“Glad you’re enjoying it.”

“I’ll have to remember its name. Better yet, I should ask the waiter to scribble it on a piece of paper for me, tiébou dienn, right?”

“I think so.”