It Takes an Archaeologist

by Edward Kendrick

  It Takes an Archaeologist

  By Edward Kendrick

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2021 Edward Kendrick

  ISBN 9781646567249

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  It Takes an Archaeologist

  By Edward Kendrick

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Gideon congratulated Lou and Rory one more time on their marriage, said his goodbyes to them and to Quint and Clay, then left the restaurant. As he walked to where he’d parked his car, he turned up his coat collar against the chill, late February weather, before turning his phone back on. Seeing he had some voicemails, he decided to put off checking them until he returned to the hotel.

  I’ll be glad to get back home. Back to work. Not that I wasn’t working while I was here, but I need to get away from…from all the happy couples. Back to concentrating on what I do best.

  What he did best was recovering stolen art. It was his passion. The one thing that had made his life bearable since…No. I’m not going there. Not again. It happened twenty years ago. Robin died because of me. He clenched his jaw against the soul-numbing pain, trying to push the memories away.

  His phone rang, which helped. Checking the caller ID, he saw his assistant’s name come up.

  “Evening, Alex. You’re up late,” Gideon said. It was the truth, as it was almost eight, Denver time, making it ten in New York City—where his business was headquartered.

  “If you’d keep your phone on…”

  “Sorry. I was attending Rory’s wedding, so—”

  “I can’t believe he actually found someone who’d put up with him,” Alex replied with a laugh. “However, that’s not why I’m calling. We received an email from a Doctor Colten Newell. He’s an archaeologist based out of Denver, where he also owns an antiquities gallery. He asked for our help, and since you’re still in the city—”

  “With a ticket to fly home in the morning,” Gideon replied tartly.

  “I know. Still…Gideon, since you’re there, why don’t you reschedule and talk with him?”

  “Did he say what he wants?”

  “Something to do with thefts from a dig he was working and wanting to find out who was responsible, as well as locating the people selling and buying the artifacts. He didn’t go into details.”

  “That does not come under our—” Gideon started to reply.

  “It’s art, Gideon. Sure, not canvases or what have you, but Native American artifacts are still art and you know it.”

  With a sigh, Gideon agreed. “Email him back. Set up an appointment for some time tomorrow.”

  “At the hotel?”

  “Yes. Let me know when, then have him call me when he gets there.”

  “Will do.”

  After hanging up, Gideon headed back to the hotel. He was not at all happy with the turn of events, but, business was business, so to speak. He’d hear what Dr. Newell had to say, then…

  Then what? None of my operatives have any archaeology creds, so turning him over to one of them won’t work—if I decide the man has a valid problem that we can help him with. At least I know a little something about the subject. Very little, but…He shrugged, mentally, then went up to his room.

  * * * *

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” Cole Newell said under his breath as he waited—just after nine-thirty A.M.—for the elevator at ART hotel. He knew he needed help. He wasn’t certain he’d get it from Gideon Monahan, however. He recovers stolen art, and while I know what’s gone missing is art, he might not agree.

  The elevator arrived, Cole stepped in, then pressed the button for Mr. Monahan’s floor. A few moments later, he rapped on the door to Monahan’s suite. When it opened, Cole saw a man who was perhaps six or seven years older than his own thirty-eight. He had dark blond, well-styled hair and light-blue eyes. There was sadness in them, despite the smile on Mr. Monahan’s face as he said, “Doctor Newell? Welcome. Come in.”

  “Please call me Cole, Mr. Monahan,” Cole replied.

  “Only if you call me Gideon. Let me take your coat, then have a seat.” Gideon gestured toward the sofa and chairs in the suite’s living room. “Would you care for something to drink? Coffee? Or something stronger?”

  “Coffee would be great,” Cole said, handing Gideon his coat. He sat in one of the armchairs, putting his messenger bag down beside it.

  Gideon went to the refreshment bar, pouring already brewed coffee for both of them. “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black is fine. Thank you.” When Gideon handed him his coffee, Cole tasted it before setting the cup on the side table.

  Gideon took the other chair. “Shall we get down to business, Cole?”

  “Direct and to the point,” Cole said with a small smile. “All right. For starters, I own a gallery here in the city—Newell’s Southwest Antiquities. I buy and sell legally acquired Native American collectibles. I also do appraisals on items someone might bring in. People want to know what they have and if it has any real or historical value.”

  “Wouldn’t that be one and the same?” Gideon asked.

  “An item, say an Anasazi bowl, could be a poly-chrome one from around twelve-seventy-five AD, with no restoration, valued at between two-fifty and three-fifty—dollars, that is, not thousands of dollars. Or it could be a poly-chrome bowl from fourteen to sixteen AD that, even with some minimal restoration, is valued at four-thousand or more. The rarity of the item counts for more than the condition or age.”

  “Makes sense. What makes something legally acquired?”

  “That’s a complicated issue,” Cole replied. “Is the item from public lands or private? Are they grave goods or made from an endangered species? Does the seller have good title to the item? Is it stolen?” Cole paused to take a drink of coffee. “When it comes to grave goods—objects from burial sites—or sacred items, then legally the items must be returned to the tribe or Native American group they came from. That’s call cultural patrimony.”

  As he talked, Cole watched Gideon. From his expression, Cole had the distinct feeling Gideon knew most of what he’d told him, so he asked if he did.

  “I’m far from an expert,” Gideon told him. “But while I was in school—way too many years ago
—I took a couple of courses in archaeology. For one of them, we spent a month on a dig. It was definitely edifying. I knew about grave robbing, of course, but to have it happen there…” He shook his head. “Do they still call them pothunters?”

  “We do, although ‘looters’ is the preferred description.”

  Gideon nodded. “Whoever did it at the site destroyed it, looking for marketable artifacts. We found a shovel, some screens, and a rake they left behind in their hurry to get out of there before anyone caught them. Unfortunately, what they left wouldn’t have covered the sale price of a potsherd.”

  “I’m sure.” Cole shook his head. “That’s what I face on every dig I work.”

  “You’re an active archaeologist, as well as running your gallery?”

  “You bet. That’s where my training is. That and appraisals. The gallery…Well, it’s not a hobby, per se, since I’m there when I’m not off on a dig. But my primary focus is on the digs themselves.”

  “All right,” Gideon said. “Now that we’ve covered the generalities, what is the problem?”

  Cole opened his bag, took out a box, and handed it to Gideon. In it, wrapped in cotton batting, was a black and white bowl with a red design on the interior. “Anasazi-Four Mile Poly-chrome,” Cole told him. “Circa thirteen-twenty-five.”

  “Stolen?” Gideon asked.

  “Yes. From a dig I was on last summer. Looters hit it twice in three days.”

  “How do you know this is one of the items?”

  “I recognize it. Or I should say, I saw part of it. We were in the process of unearthing it, and several other pottery items, as well as shards, when it got too dark to continue.”

  “You didn’t have anyone guarding the site?” Gideon asked in surprise.

  “Of course we did. But it was a large area, approximately twelve acres, with perimeter fencing. The looters obviously knew what they were doing, since they were able to get inside through one of the gates, without the two guards patrolling the site seeing them.”

  “If they used a gate, doesn’t that presuppose they had an inside contact among the people working the dig?”

  Cole nodded. “Unfortunately, it does. The problem, of course, was determining who.” His expression tightened. “While we narrowed it down to five people, we couldn’t get any further than that.”

  “How did you acquire this?” Gideon asked, tapping the bowl.

  “A man brought it in on Friday to be appraised. He said he found it in his grandmother’s attic, after she died. I knew better.”

  “When is he supposed to return for it?”

  “Tomorrow morning, at eleven,” Cole replied.

  Gideon drummed his fingers on the box. “Since you know it was stolen from the site, why come to me and not the Bureau of Land Management? Shouldn’t they be handing this?”

  “I have no proof, other than that I know I saw part of this particular bowl in the spot we were working. I figured bringing them in would take time, and I’m aware of your reputation for recovering stolen art. I’ll admit that I didn’t expect to find out you were here in the city. I just hoped you’d have someone you could send to be at the gallery when the man returns for the bowl and my appraisal.”

  Gideon smiled. “Well, I am here, and I’d willing to join you tomorrow when he shows up.”

  “Thank you. What will you do, when he does?”

  “I can’t arrest him, obviously. However, I can try to put the fear of God into him, to find out where he has the rest of the stolen items. Or, who has them, if it comes down to that.” Gideon chucked. “I’ve been known to impersonate peace officers when the situation warrants.”

  “Probably fairly well,” Cole said, eyeing him. “You have that commanding look.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes. Like you won’t take shit from anyone.”

  Gideon laughed. “According to my people, that’s sometimes the truth. All right. What time do you open your gallery?”

  “At ten.”

  “I’ll be there by ten-fifteen, to be on the safe side. It wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to sell you the bowl, once he gets your appraisal. Did he have whatever verification papers he needs to prove legal ownership?”

  “Not that he said, but then, as I told you, he claimed he found it in his grandmother’s attic, so it’s unlikely he would.”

  “A good cover story for not having them.” Gideon handed Cole the box with the bowl. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  After putting the box back in his bag and then giving Gideon one of his business cards, Cole stood. “Thank you for being willing to help. I hope…” He shook his head. “It would be nice if you really can convince him to give up the rest of what was stolen.”

  “I can be very persuasive, when I have to be.”

  “I’m sure you can,” Cole replied with a smile before getting his coat and leaving Gideon’s suite.

  Chapter 2

  Gideon arrived at the gallery at ten-fifteen, as promised. Cole greeted him, escorting him into his office. On one wall there were shelves holding a variety of Native American artifacts—from bowls to arrowheads to what appeared to be tools and axe heads. Bookshelves lined the second wall. A quick perusal showed Gideon that most of them related to Cole’s line of work. No surprise there.

  Cole’s desk took up most of the third wall—a state-of-the-art computer setup in the center. Next to the doorway was a small seating area with two chairs and a coffee table, as well as a low chest with a coffeemaker on top. After Cole offered Gideon coffee, which he declined, they sat.

  “I hope he shows up,” Cole said.

  “Why wouldn’t he? Especially if the bowl is valuable.”

  “If I were to buy it from him, I’d offer somewhere in the neighborhood of five hundred dollars.”

  “And sell it for?” Gideon asked.

  “Nine-fifty to a thousand, minimum.”

  Gideon smiled. “So you’d both make out like bandits. I’m kidding,” he added, when Cole frowned. “If the rest of what was stolen was as valuable, the man…What is his name, by the way?”

  “Oscar Ellis. Or at least that’s what was on his driver’s license and how he signed the contract for the appraisal.”

  “You doubt it’s his real name?”

  Cole shrugged. “Let’s just say that since he was giving me a stolen bowl to appraise, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was an alias.”

  “Good point. Do you mind if I take a look around the gallery while we’re waiting for him?”

  “Not at all, after you tell me what you have planned.”

  “Probably a good idea,” Gideon agreed. “I presume you’ll bring him in here? I’ll join you a few minutes after I see that happen. I’m debating on being official, but understanding—or the opposite.”

  “Like a crook who wants his cut?” Cole asked, sounding appalled.

  “Good heavens, no. Official and stern, like I’ve got him dead to rights and plan on arresting him, if he doesn’t come clean on where he’s stashed the rest of the items.”

  “Whew. I don’t think I could pull off being your criminal accomplice.”

  Gideon laughed, then took his leave, going out to the gallery. In many ways, the main room was set up like a museum, with cases holding the various artifacts. There were paintings—which he realized were done by modern tribal artists—on the walls, as well two intricately woven textiles. There were also, he discovered, more recent pottery pieces. He suspected that was to catch the interest of the casual walk-in visitor.

  He was examining the intricate beadwork on a pair of leggings in one of the cases when he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Detective Quint Hawk standing there. Almost at the same time, they said, “What are you doing here?”

  “You first,” Gideon replied, fearing the worst.

  “I’m here to talk to Mister, no, Doctor Newell. And you?”

  Gideon puffed out a breath. “Helping Doctor Newell deal with a man he believes looted a dig he, Newell, w
orked at last summer.”

  Quint frowned. “That wouldn’t by chance be Owen Elliot?”

  “No. Cole…Doctor Newell, said his name is Oscar Ellis.”

  “One and the same, according to what we found in Mr. Elliot’s wallet. Is Doctor Newell around?”

  “Yes. Come on. I’ll take you to his office.” Gideon slanted Quint a look. “I take it, since you’re here, Mister Elliot is dead?”

  “Very.”

  When they got to the office, Cole looked up from what he was doing, then Gideon introduced the two men.

  “A detective?” Cole said worriedly. “Believe me, everything we have here has been authenticated.”

  Quint nodded. “I’m sure it has been, Doctor Newell.”

  “Please call me Cole. Then why…”

  “We found your card in Owen Elliot’s wallet—or as you apparently knew him, Oscar Ellis’ wallet—with a notation, Monday—eleven A.M.”

  “I wrote that to remind him of our appointment today.” Cole frowned. “He’s been arrested?”

  “No. He was murdered last night.”

  “Damn.” Cole sank back in his chair. “You’re sure it was him?”

  “Yes. From his fingerprints and some of the ID in his wallet.”

  “How?” Gideon asked.

  “He was bludgeoned to death, sometime around one A.M., in the parking lot behind a fast-food restaurant. No witnesses, although an employee who was getting ready to close for the night heard some shouting. He called 911. By the time the officers arrived, Elliot was dead.”

  “Why come to me?” Cole asked. “Okay, dumb question. My business card.”

  “Exactly. Gideon says you believe he stole something?”

  “He had a stolen item in his possession that came from a dig I worked last summer,” Cole replied. “He wanted me to appraise it. I suspect either he was one of the looters, or he knew them.”

  “I gather the bowl wasn’t the only item taken.”

  “No. They looted the site twice and got away with who knows how much, as well as damaging the area in their hunt for whatever they could get their hands on. Before you ask, which he already did—” Cole nodded at Gideon, “—the site was fenced in, but it was large, with only a couple of guards patrolling the perimeter at night. As far as we could figure at the time, the looters got in through one of the gates.”