by Ryk E. Spoor
“Ahkenaten. That’s the Aten, and it’s all over here. And I’ve seen a couple of busts supposedly of him. But I thought they found his mummy.”
He smiled faintly. “I did hear that someone had found something they believed to be Akhenaten’s mummy. Since this has never been out of my, or my people’s, possession since shortly after finding out that the Sun Pharoah’s tomb was being looted, I must incline to doubt that what they found was indeed Akhenaten.”
It was then that the idea finally crystallized. “Good God, Verne, I’ve got it.”
He looked at me. “What is it?”
“Art, of course!” I waved my hands around at the treasures that surrounded us. “The art world can be tolerant of strange hours and stranger habits. You’ve already got stuff to sell or donate—no, wait, hear me out. You speak many languages, you certainly have various connections around the world, and, well, you appear to have taste and style which I don’t have. You could deal in rare artworks, maybe be a patron to newer artists, and so on.”
Verne looked thoughtful. “True. I have in fact been a student of the arts, off and on through the centuries; I could determine authenticity in many ways, not the least being first-hand experience of how many things were actually done. Even though I would not, of course, wish to reveal the source of that information, simply knowing the correct from the incorrect is something that I could justify with the proper scholarly logic.”
“Yep. It’s always easier to write the impeccable logical chain to prove your point if you already know where you’re going.”
“But selling these masterworks…I have kept them safe for thousands of years, Jason. Do not speak lightly of this.”
“I’m not speaking lightly, not at all,” I said earnestly. “Verne, these things would rock the archaeological world—and I haven’t even looked in the rest of this vault; to be honest, I’m almost afraid of what I’ll find. Stuff of this historical and cultural value should be out there for other people to appreciate. Hell, just the aesthetic value would justify putting it out there on the proper market. Okay, it’s impolite at the least to go around breaking into someone’s tomb and ripping off their stuff, but since it was done long ago, shouldn’t the work of those ancient artists at least have the chance to be fully appreciated?”
Verne’s expression was pained; a man listening to someone trying to tell him to give up his children wouldn’t have looked much more upset. Then Morgan spoke:
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I think Master Jason is correct.”
Verne just looked at him, silent but questioning.
“If you truly wish to open yourself up, as you once were, sir, I think this means not keeping everything locked away. Not just your feelings, sir, but those things of beauty which we treasure. We have guarded them long enough, sir.” He gave another look that I had trouble interpreting; it seemed filled with more meaning than I could easily interpret, something from their past. “We already know of someone whose love of beauty and fear for its fate transformed him…in ways that I would not wish to see happen to you.”
Those last words got through to Verne; he gave a momentary shiver, as of a man doused with cold water. “Yes…yes, Morgan. Perhaps you are right.” He turned back to me, speaking in a more normal tone. “Your idea certainly has merit, Jason. I shall consider it carefully, and discuss it with my household. I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to examine the best ways for me to begin on such a course of action.”
“Sure,” I said, wondering if I’d ever quite know what was going on there. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it, then.”
I cast a last, incredulous glance over my shoulder at that vault of wonders, then headed up the stairs.
Chapter 12: Mystery of a Brother
“Sure, Syl—I’d love to go out tomorrow. You want a movie or something else?”
“How about Sabers of Twilight? I’ve heard that one’s a lot of fun and just up your alley, Jason.”
I grinned into the phone. “Because of the pretty girls in interesting costumes? Sounds fine. Odd how you don’t mention the pretty boys in tight leather outfits.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t up my alley too,” she said with a laugh. “All right, after we lock up tomorrow then.”
“See you!”
I turned back to the pictures on my screen. This is a real possibility.
Verne had given me the go-ahead to both start figuring out how to put select pieces of his collection onto the market, and how to start helping him find proper clients that he could patron. The first part was not terribly hard; it was more a matter of deciding how much should be sold and how much should be donated, since a lot of the really valuable stuff was considered national treasure by places like Egypt. While Verne’s possession of these treasures was (obviously) far before the cut-off date at which such possession would be considered theft, it was still a matter of political delicacy and publicity; giving the treasures, at least the most high-profile ones, back to their original owners for display would earn Verne a lot of respect.
If, of course, we could keep people from asking too many of the wrong questions.
Finding clients was somewhat more difficult. In the long run, Verne would probably do the selecting himself—he was, after all, the guy who was supposed to be the patron and knew a lot more about art than I ever would. But he was also busy…rebuilding himself, I guess would be the way to put it. The Verne Domingo I now spoke to was rather different than the one I’d first met, and I knew part of that was through making an effort to reconnect with his older self, and with the people who had followed him through history.
I’d remembered an art show I’d gone to with Syl some time back, and seeing the paintings online confirmed my memory. There was something special there, even to my casual eye. This Sky Hashima was a good candidate, and even better, he was local.
The door chimed, and I glanced at the clock in surprise. It is that time already.
Xavier Ross sat down nervously. “So…did you…”
“You were right, Xavier,” I said without beating around the bush. Taking the laptop from the drawer where I’d kept it, I handed it back to the young man. “There were other entries during that period of time. Someone deliberately erased them, and a large amount of other data too, before the police got their hands on the machine.”
He leaned forward. “Is there…anything that tells us what he was doing?”
I shook my head. “Not much. There were quite a few missing entries—looks like he was on the trail of whatever-it-was for at least three months. A couple of earlier entries had been modified after their apparent date, so probably there were hints even as long as five months ago, but from what you said, your brother knew how to keep a secret.
“What’s in those entries, though…I can’t get much of anything. Whoever did the erasure knew what they were doing. I only got a few cryptic phrases out of dozens of entries. I’ve collected them here.” I handed him an envelope. “And one last interesting point.”
“Well?”
“I managed to get enough out of the most recently tampered-with files to see that they were written in the format he used as a tickler file for travel. He had apparently bought himself a ticket to JFK Airport in New York City—he was supposed to be leaving within a few hours of the time he died. Since the police didn’t seem to look into it, I’d guess he’d purchased the ticket with cash, under another identity.”
“Really? Where do you think he was going?” Xavier blinked. “Wait, another identity?”
“Not entirely unheard of for people looking into dangerous stuff. He probably had used this other ID several times.”
“Can you…find out more about what he was doing? Track him, now that you know something?”
I frowned. “I…guess I could do a little more searching. If I can figure out his alternate ID or IDs, that’d make it a lot easier. But that’s way out of the work we’d already agreed on.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
/> I hesitated. He’s really…obsessing over this. I could tell by the intensity in his gaze that this was desperately important to him. I’d also checked with Renee about the case, so I knew that Xavier simply didn’t agree with their conclusions.
I also was aware that Renee wasn’t entirely happy with the way the Los Angeles police had closed the file, either, but she had no say in the matter. It was their jurisdiction; this was just where the victim’s family lived.
“All right,” I said after a moment. “I’ll see if I can trace where he went and what he did. That’ll be a one-thousand-dollar retainer, though; I have no idea how hard this will be.”
After I ran his card and he left, holding the laptop tightly to him, I stared out the window for a while. I didn’t have whatever weird sense Syl used, but I was very used to trusting my instincts. Most of the time, when the police investigate a case and close it, it’s because they’ve actually found the perpetrator and the case is closed.
But my gut said that in this case, Xavier Ross was right to be uncertain; it wasn’t just what I’d found on that machine, but what Renee had said. If Lieutenant Renee Reisman wasn’t happy with the way a case had been solved, that was enough for me; something wasn’t right. Unfortunately, while the answers the police had given Xavier didn’t take into account this evidence, getting them to reopen the case based on what amounted to stuff that wasn’t there would be a tough, tough call.
Okay, Jason. Let’s see if we can trail someone who didn’t want to be found.
Chapter 13: Interview With the Artist
The apartment door opened in front of me, at least to the limit that the chain on it would permit. Two bright blue eyes looked up at me, framed by blue-black hair and set in a pretty, well-defined face. “Hi. Can I help you?”
“I’m Jason Wood.”
“Oh, right, Dad’s expecting you! Hold on, I’ll get the chain off here.” The door closed. I heard rattling, and “Dad! Your guest’s here!”
When the door opened, I saw Sky Hashima walking towards me, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mr. Wood, please come in.” He shook my hand. “This is my daughter, Star,” he said, and I shook hands with the girl who had greeted me. “Star, we’ll be in my studio—this probably won’t take long, but please don’t disturb us.”
“Okay, Dad. You want anything to drink, Dad, Mr. Wood?”
I smiled at her; she obviously knew my visit was important. “A soda would be nice—ginger ale?”
“We’ve got that. Dad? Water for you?”
“For now, yes. Thank you, Star.”
Sky led the way into his studio; his hair was longer than his daughter’s, but other than traces of silver here and there, was just as night-dark. Their features were also similar enough; there wasn’t any doubt about who his daughter was, and in this case, that was a good thing for Star. “A very polite young lady.”
Sky gave a small chuckle. “Ahh, that’s because she thinks you might be a good thing for her dad. If she thought you were trouble, you’d have needed a crowbar to get inside the house.”
“And when she’s old enough to date, I’m sure you’ll be just as protective.”
“Star will be old enough to date when she’s ninety. I’ve told her that already.” We shared another chuckle at that. “I recall meeting you at that little show I did at one of the libraries, Mr. Wood, but I didn’t think you were really interested in art.”
“I’m not, really,” I confessed. “Thanks, Star,” I said, as she came in, handed us each a glass, and left. “I came to that show with Sylvie, who is interested in art and found some of your pieces quite fascinating. But I do have a few other acquaintances who have more than a passing interest in art.”
“And…?”
“And it so happens that one of them is looking to find people to sponsor—to be a sort of patron of the arts. I remembered you and wanted to see what kind of work you were doing, and (a) if you are serious about it, and (b) if you are willing to meet with him to discuss it.” I studied some of the canvases set around the studio. One thing that impressed me was Sky’s versatility. I saw paintings that were, to my uneducated gaze, random blots of colors, shapes, and streaks; others which were landscapes or scenes of such sharp realism that you almost thought they were windows rather than paintings; and still others that fell somewhere in-between—didn’t follow the accurate shapes or lines yet somehow conveyed the essence of the thing he was depicting.
Sky had an expression that was almost disbelieving; I realized that this must sound like that classic Hollywood myth: working in a restaurant and being discovered by the famous director who stops in for a cup of coffee. “You’re joking.”
“Not at all. Would you like to meet him, then?”
“If he’s ready, I’ll go right now.”
I laughed. “Not quite that fast—I have to let him know, then he’ll either set up the meeting, or have me do it. He’s a bit eccentric—”
“That’s almost a requirement for being a private patron these days. Patronage used to be standard practice, back in Leonardo’s day, but those days…long gone.” He took a gulp from his glass and looked at me. “The answer to the first question is yes, I am serious about it. I make an okay living from my framing work, but if you look around, you must realize that the stuff I’m producing represents a major investment of time and effort. I could do an awful lot of other things with the money I spend on my art, but my art’s worth it to me.” He smiled again. “That doesn’t mean I’m at all averse to start seeing my art make money rather than take money, however.”
I grinned back. “Excellent. Now, why don’t you just show me a few of your favorites here and explain to me what you’re doing, so I can give my friend a capsule overview and he’ll know what to expect.”
Sky was only too pleased to do that, and I spent a good half-hour listening to him describe his intentions and techniques in several of his works. I noticed that he, like almost all artists I’ve ever met, mentioned all the myriad ways in which his works failed to live up to his expectations. It’s always been a source of frustration that someone can produce something that’s clearly amazing, and all they can think about is how it is flawed—often in ways that no one but they themselves can see. It does however seem to be an almost required characteristic for an artist.
Finally, I shook hands with him again and left. “Thank you, Sky. I’ll be getting back to you very soon. Nice meeting you, Star.”
A short time later, I pulled up into the curved driveway which was becoming increasingly familiar to me, and smiled to Morgan as he opened the door. “Good evening, sir. Master Verne is in the study.”
“Morgan, do you ever get tired of playing the butler?”
He gave me a raised eyebrow and slightly miffed expression in reply. “Playing, sir? This is my place in the household, and I assure you it is precisely what I wanted. I have, with some variation in regional standards of propriety, been performing these duties for considerably longer than the Pharaohs endured, sir, and had I found the task overall onerous or distasteful, I assure you I would have asked Master Verne for a change.”
People like Morgan gave the phrase “faithful retainer” an entirely new, and impressive, meaning. “Sorry. It’s just that it sometimes strikes me you’re too good to be true.”
He smiled with a proper level of reserve. “I strive to be good at my job, sir. I feel that a gentleman such as Master Verne deserves to have a household worthy of his age and bloodline, and therefore I shall endeavor to maintain his home at a proper level of respectability.”
“And you succeed admirably, old friend,” Verne said as we entered. “Jason, every member of my household has chosen their lifestyle and I would never hold them to me, if any of them chose to leave. It has been a great pleasure, and immense vindication, that not one of my personal staff has ever made that choice…though on occasion, as of my recent descent into less-than-respectable business, they have made clear some of their personal fears and objections.” He put aw
ay a book that he had been reading and gestured for me to sit down as Morgan left. “I have been taking up some considerable portion of your time, Jason. I hope I am not interfering in your personal life—your friends Sylvia and Renee, for instance, are not suffering your absence overly much?”
I laughed. “No, no. Syl’s off on some kind of convention for people in her line of work and isn’t coming back for something like a week from now, and I only get together with Renee once in a while. Most of my other friends, sad to say, aren’t in this area—they’ve gone off to college, moved, and so on, so I only talk with them via phone or email. Really. So have no fear, I’m at your disposal for at least the next week or so; the only other big job I have at the moment I can work on during the day.”
“Excellent.” Morgan came in with his usual sinfully tempting tray of hors d’oeuvres and snacks. “By the way, Morgan, have there been any further problems from my erstwhile business associates?”
“No, sir. They have found that it is not easy to intrude here and have apparently given up after I was forced to injure the one gentleman at the store.”
“Very good. I shall send another message to Carmichael emphasizing that I will be extremely displeased if any more such incidents happen, but it does appear he has learned something about futility.” He turned back to me. “And how did your meeting go?”
“I think he’d be a great choice, Verne. He’s clearly serious about his work, and with my limited grasp of art I think his stuff is really, really good. If you want to meet with him, he’s willing to meet any time you name.”
“Then let us not keep him waiting overlong. Tomorrow evening, at about seven, let us say.”
“I’ll give him a call now.” Suiting actions to words, I picked up a phone and called Sky Hashima. As he’d implied, he was more than willing to meet then, and assured me that he’d be able to assemble a reasonable portfolio by that time.
“I’m glad you’re going to check him over yourself,” I confessed. “I know just enough about art to know that I really don’t know the difference between ‘illustration’ and ‘art,’ and that the latter is what you are interested in.”