“This is Martha Whitaker in Seattle, Washington. I’m an attorney representing the estate of Hewitt Wilcox. I’m trying to reach June Povich regarding a job he did last summer for Dr. Wilcox. I cannot find any accompanying Letters of Authenticity. I was wondering if Dr. Povich could reissue them. Without the letters, the documents in question have little value to Dr. Wilcox’s heirs.”
Another prolonged silence. “Dr. Lewis?” she said.
“I’m here. I’m Dr. Povich’s assistant. He sent the letters out some time ago. I can verify the dates if you’d like.”
“Thank you, but somehow the letters have been lost, and I need Dr. Povich to reissue them so the heirs of Mr. Wilcox’s estate may put them on the market if—”
The woman interrupted her with the blunt, “I’m sorry, but Dr. Povich is dead.”
Alarms clanged inside Martha’s head. “May I ask what happened?” She remembered to breathe. “I ask because Mr. Wilcox has disappeared under suspicious circumstances, and it may involve the documents in question.”
The hesitation on the other end of the line informed Martha that Lewis was either reluctant to discuss the matter or had been advised not to. “It looked like suicide, but now the police are questioning . . . school wasn’t in session. He . . . he often worked from home so we didn’t think anything of not seeing him for a few days. . . . His housecleaner found him.” Her voice started to break. There was an audible sob. “But something wasn’t right. Things were missing, little things, but things I knew he had in his desk, in his home safe.”
“Such as?” Martha wondered. “Money, jewelry, valuables?”
“No, no, he kept a log at his desk to track the work he was doing from home. That was missing. Work papers were gone and an old diary he was analyzing for ASU.”
“When did all of this happen, Dr. Lewis?”
“Right after New Year’s.”
“So sometime in the past three or four weeks. I assume they did an autopsy?”
“Death by strangulation, consistent with hanging.”
“But nothing else?”
“My God, there didn’t have to be anything else,” she wailed. “June was seventy-one and didn’t weigh a hundred and fifty pounds. I could have hung him from a light fixture if I had caught him by surprise.”
“I’m sorry,” Martha said, her voice quiet. “I know this is difficult. I’m just concerned about some of the similarities between the death of Dr. Povich and my client, Dr. Wilcox.”
The sobbing was faint, as if the professor had covered the receiver with her hand. Martha waited, then asked quietly, “Did you know Dr. Wilcox?”
“I’ve met him a few times over the years. June introduced us at a conference.”
“Did you work with Dr. Povich on the documents from Dr. Wilcox? It would have been sometime last year. There were at least eight of them and they were all from the middle of the nineteenth century. Letters or journal entries from the Mormons living in Utah at the time.”
“No, I didn’t. I was doing field research when Dr. Wilcox brought them down. June told me about them, but I didn’t see them. I don’t think there were eight of them, unless Dr. Wilcox sent them in different batches.”
“Why’s that?”
“June said he was working on a couple of letters for Dr. Wilcox. He wouldn’t say ‘a couple of letters’ if there were eight. But I know he received documents from Dr. Wilcox on a pretty regular basis, so they could have come in over a period of time.”
“You say Dr. Wilcox brought the letters down. Did he usually deliver the documents in person to Dr. Povich?”
“Not always, but on occasion. It was an excuse to get together and talk shop and maybe go out. They enjoyed each other’s company.”
Martha flashed on the image of Ralph Hargrove, dead, his genitals stuffed in his mouth. “Were they lovers?”
“It was none of my business.”
“I understand. Do you know anything about the Letters of Authenticity?”
“I could find the dates they were issued, get you copies, but I can’t reissue the originals. The documents would have to be analyzed all over again.”
“But they were issued?”
“I’m sure of it.”
Martha had one last question. “When was the last time you remember seeing or talking to Dr. Wilcox?”
“I called him a couple of weeks ago with the news of June’s death. As a courtesy, mainly, because I knew they were friends. But, also, because he had another couple of documents with the IFA that June hadn’t authenticated yet. I wondered if he wanted me to finish the job for him.”
“What did he say?”
“He was pretty shaken by the news of June’s death and said he’d get back to me, but not to do anything for the moment. God, now you say he’s dead, too?”
“Missing,” Martha said. “Presumed dead. Under suspicious circumstances.”
When she rang off, Martha hit Callison on her speed dial. The police officer picked up on the second ring. She informed him of the checks written to the Institute of Forensic Anthropology and the Quaternary Research Center, and how he might want to expand his investigation to include the recent death of Dr. June Povich, a professor of forensic anthropology at Arizona State.
Sitting back in the chair, Martha tried to calm her pounding heart. Now, at least, she knew what had scared Hewitt so much. He had seen the Death Angels coming for him next.
TWENTY-THREE
The afternoon daylight had nearly disappeared when Martha closed her umbrella outside the main entrance to Johnson Hall, a four-story brick building on the University of Washington’s old campus. To the west, clouds towered black and ominous. She shivered, but not from cold.
From the direction of Red Square, a tall, lanky figure strode toward her in the now-familiar yellow rain jacket. Each step splashed water against his worn jeans. No one seemed to be following him, no shadows lurked in doorways. He bounded up the steps, two at a time, and wrapped her in a tight hug.
“You okay?” Dark eyes widened with concern. Water dripped off his hood and onto his nose. Gaunt and unshaven, Trammell looked like a refugee.
She remembered her text: “Found nother body. If still at U, meet Johnson Hll 4pm.” She said, “I’m fine. I should’ve been more clear.”
Trammell pulled open the heavy wooden door to Johnson Hall. “Why are we here?”
Scanning Red Square, Martha didn’t answer. A student in a hoodie sprinted through the rain toward the Suzzallo Library. A man in a trench coat strode up the main path from Drumheller Fountain, his face hidden by a black umbrella. He carried a briefcase and wore black boots. High-top boots, well polished. Military boots. A hard shove propelled Trammell through the open door. She jumped in behind him. Military Boots kept marching toward Red Square, his pace chewing up the rain-soaked path.
She turned and saw Trammell pressed against the wall, ready to move at her signal. To his unspoken question, she said, “Probably just jitters. You okay?”
His shoulders relaxed. “Fine. I trust your instincts.” Trammell smiled. “And you didn’t knock me out this time.”
More than the smile, Martha saw the intensity of his gaze. Without questions or bravado, he had reacted to her actions, he had followed her lead. Trust was such a precious gift. She didn’t know if she had earned it or deserved it.
They moved up the steps together and started down the empty hall. “I still don’t get why we’re here,” Trammell said.
“In the past eighteen months, Hewitt wrote four checks, two to the Institute of Forensic Anthropology and two to the Quaternary Research Center, here in Johnson Hall.” Martha stopped at a building directory. “Third floor.”
On the elevator, she continued, “I don’t know if they’re related. The check memo said ‘donation,’ but each time there was a check written to the IFA in Tempe, there was a second check written to this research facility. Right after New Year’s, the professor Hewitt was working with in Tempe was found dead. A suicid
e. Only his closet colleague doesn’t believe it for an instant. I only hope we don’t find the same here.”
After a half hour wait, Martha explained the situation for the third time, this time to the Center’s director, a large, slovenly man with the sartorial discretion of a dirty laundry basket. Through thick glasses, he gave her a look of bewilderment. But he didn’t get to be the director by being entirely clueless. Pressing a button, he said, “Gladys, would you join us for a moment?”
A petite woman with a shocking mane of short, snow-white hair listened to Martha’s fourth explanation about the check donated to the Quaternary Research Center. Gladys didn’t even glance at the check. “Of course. It’s a gift from Dr. Wilcox for work that Dr. Martoni did for him. It’s funny you should ask. I just talked to a guy named Metcalf from the Seattle Police Department. He was asking about the same thing.”
“Metcalf?” Martha managed to remain calm. “Could you tell us where Dr. Martoni’s office is?”
“He said he was following up a lead.”
“Maxine Martoni?” the director asked.
“Yeah, Max,” Gladys said. “Do you know another Martoni? Dr. Wilcox worked frequently with her.” She turned back to Martha. “Her office is over at the Burke Museum, but she uses our labs, mostly for carbon dating and spectral analysis. If payment for those services comes in under a donation it’s easier to keep the money in the program without upsetting our budget.” She glanced at her watch. “They don’t close for another fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.” Martha hurried toward the door.
“You said they worked together a lot over the years,” Trammell said, turning back. “How many times, would you guess?”
“Oh, ten to twelve, maybe more,” Gladys said. “Professor Wilcox was always generous with his donations.”
Martha and Trammell jogged across Red Square and past the towering west façade of the Suzzallo Library. The tall stained-glass windows cast multicolored hues into the dark evening. Martha ignored the rain. Trammell pulled up the hood of his rain jacket. “Christ, I’m tired of this shit,” he said, the breaths coming easily as he stayed beside her. “I’ve got moss growing down my back.”
“Some sunshine would be nice,” Martha replied. “And I would love to go snorkeling in warm water.”
She pulled up to a fast walk. Her legs felt like lead. God, how could she sustain a half hour workout with Yamamoto but not a five-minute jog? Streetlights made pale halos of the drizzle. Nothing seemed more appealing and more remote than sunshine. Hawaii maybe. Cabo San Lucas. Anywhere but here. Would she invite Trammell to join her? The fact she even entertained the thought surprised her. Together, on a vacation?
Of course. A vacation. It had been right in front of her the whole time and she hadn’t seen it. She stopped short.
Trammell turned on his heels, his eyes darting from building to building. “What?”
“I think Hewitt had a new boyfriend,” Martha announced. “A guy named Mitch Adair. Money went back and forth between them on several occasions, as if each had to pay his own way on a vacation, on a date to the symphony. It was right in front of me, but I didn’t see it until now. Who’s Mitch Adair?”
Lights from the Burke Museum of Natural History and Culture were visible ahead. In the distance, headlights zoomed in and out of view along the arterial that ran through the U District. Trammell and Martha climbed the steps two at a time toward the museum’s main entrance. Halfway up, they were greeted by a carved orca whose proportions were life-size, except for an exaggerated dorsal fin. A movement behind it brought Martha to an abrupt halt. Trammell froze. Someone who hadn’t been there seconds ago was hurrying off in the opposite direction. Trench coat, black umbrella, briefcase. Martha didn’t need to check for the black military boots.
“That guy—either he’s following us or is one step ahead,” she said.
The man vanished behind a giant Douglas fir in a grove of trees. Trammell broke into a run. His silhouette popped out of the trees at the street. Without hesitation, Military Boots darted between oncoming cars. Horns blared. Trammell hit the street right behind him. A long, loud squeal of brakes followed.
Racing to catch up, Martha saw Trammell tumble over the hood of a car and drop out of sight. She had nearly reached the street when he popped up on the far side of the car. Traffic came to a screeching halt. The driver of the car came out shouting and waving his arms. They ignored him. The night had swallowed Military Boots whole.
Martha glanced back at the well-lit museum. “Lance, come on,” she yelled, gesturing at him. She ran back and together they charged up the steps.
“You okay?” she shouted, though he was right beside her.
“Yeah,” he gasped.
The lobby was empty except for the tall skeleton of a hooked-beak raptor. The tiny gift store was deserted. A sign on the front counter listed the rates for entry, but no one was there to take payment.
“Hello,” Trammell called out, his voice booming. “Anyone here?”
The echo bounced back off walls and glass. Martha peeked over the counter, half afraid of finding another Ralph Hargrove sprawled out on the floor. Nothing. No signs of a struggle. Papers were neatly stacked, the cash register was closed, and a padded chair was tucked under the counter as if the last person had left for the day.
“Check the basement,” she whispered. “Be sure to check the bathrooms. I’ll check the main floor. Yell if you find something.”
Trammell split off. Martha dashed across the lobby to the Burke Room. With chairs neatly stacked against the walls, the conference room was deserted. She threw open closet doors and looked behind a lectern.
Returning to the lobby, Martha stood motionless beside the “Terror Bird of Brazil.” An eerie stillness pervaded the place. Museums were never completely empty. There were always clerks and docents and maintenance people, even when no patrons filled the floors, but no noise filtered through to the lobby, no footsteps coming or going, no distant voices. The place was a mausoleum.
The floor sparkled from the overhead lights and it took her a moment to realize the glass on the Northwest Native Treasures display case had been shattered. An empty hole glared at her like a witch’s eye. A placard indicated a Gwasila tribal mask was missing. A second empty space caught her attention. A Tlingit knife was gone. Was this a robbery? A dozen other items remained untouched. The mask and dagger could have fit into Military Boots’ briefcase.
Martha ran into the first room of exhibits. A prehistoric whale skeleton stared at her with its empty eye sockets. She sprinted on, nearly overturning a display case of fossilized crabs. She caught it before it crashed to the floor.
Then she saw the blood. The crimson trail led to an inert body propped up against the leg of a giant mastodon. The Gwasila tribal mask covered the face, and blood gathered in a puddle around the body. The carved bear-head handle was the only visible part of the missing Tlingit dagger—it protruded from the person’s chest.
The person was small and light and completely unresponsive. Martha laid the body flat and flipped the wooden mask off, coming face-to-face with another kind of mask, the death mask of an Asian woman, her eyes closed, her mouth set in the same exaggerated “Ooooh” as the Gwasila carving.
TWENTY-FOUR
The flashing lights turned patches of her bloody suit brown. Martha leaned forward on the lobby bench, rubbing her bloody hands like Lady Macbeth. Trammell sat beside her, but she had shrugged off his attempts at comfort. She had been so close to preventing this murder, so close to discovering what was behind this whole nightmare.
She glanced up. Callison stood at the center of a group of police officers clustered in the lobby—some in uniforms, Metcalf in an expensive suit, many in civilian clothes. Everyone was talking. The flashing lights and din of voices made it feel like a night at the carnival.
Out of the group, the short, squat figure of Bess Corvari chop-stepped her way toward them.
“Hey, guys,” she said. Out
of uniform, she wore a faded University of Washington hoodie with frayed cuffs and a pair of low-riding jeans. “Callison’s undermanned, so he called me in to work with his Homicide team. I need to ask you some questions. I’ll start with you, Martha. Lance, give us some space. Just not too much.”
Martha answered Corvari’s questions in a monotone. She took her through the course of her afternoon—the bank, the conversation with Dr. Lewis, the visit with the director of the Quaternary Research Center, the phone call from Metcalf—not hesitating on details, not offering opinions.
Corvari paused at the mention of Metcalf. “Our Metcalf? From the SPD?”
Martha never looked at the policewoman who had just shared nearly two weeks of her life. She just nodded. Corvari tucked the notebook into the back pocket of her jeans and said, “Let’s get you out of that jacket, honey.”
Corvari removed her hoodie and helped Martha out of her ruined suit jacket and then her blood-soaked blouse, using her bulk as a protective screen. Martha submitted to her ministrations. Corvari pulled Martha’s ebony hair out of the sweatshirt and announced, “Well, you have plenty of room to grow into it.”
Martha peered at Corvari as if seeing her for the first time. Her throat felt like sandpaper as she rasped, “Thank you, Bess.”
The policewoman stood there in a simple white T-shirt, as nonchalant as if it had been the middle of summer instead of winter. For the first time, Martha noticed both arms were completely covered in tattoos that stopped abruptly where the cuffs of a long-sleeve shirt would be buttoned. She wore a gun in a holster in the small of her back.
“Don’t worry a New York second about that,” Corvari said. “I’ve got more UDub hoodies than Trammell has turtlenecks.” She paused. “You’re gonna be okay, honey.”
Dr. Martoni was dead. Dr. Povich was dead. Hewitt was missing, presumed dead. She had blood on her suit and her hands. She could purchase new suits. Blood would wash away with soap and water. She would sleep tonight, and she would wake up in the morning still trying to figure out what was going on. The only sleep left for the good professors and her long-time friend was the final one that awaited everyone.
Out of the Cold Dark Sea Page 22