Dante stopped in front of a clustered tomb of crumbling red brick with twelve crypts for coffins. It looked as if it had been abandoned years before. The whitewashed stucco had fallen from three sides, exposing the bricks to the New Orleans sun and rain. The crypts were stacked four across and three high. Only a couple of them had nameplates still attached.
Their guide pointed to one in the middle and waited for Lacey to confirm the number. She read a fading inscription on the nameplate: BERZINS. HERE IT ENDS. She had a small moment of panic. Did she really want to find out what lay behind it? Was she disturbing the peace of the dead? But the dead were only echoes of the past, Lacey told herself, and she had come too far to stop now. Drosmis Berzins had practically dared her to follow him here.
Lacey looked at Vic. He smiled and put his arms around her. “Go on, dragon-slayer,” he whispered in her ear.
“Yes, this is it,” she told Dante. Vic took her hand. It was cold and trembling, and he rubbed it to warm her up. They stepped back to make room for the man to work.
Dante unscrewed the nameplate from the front of the crypt and set it on the ground. The mortar between the bricks was loose and crumbling, and it took only a couple of blows with his hammer to break through. He enlarged the opening, then he stood back to let Lacey peer into the crypt. There was something in there. She nodded to Dante, who reached in and withdrew a dusty and battered metal lockbox, larger than the one she had seen in the coal room in France.
“No bones?” she asked. She wasn’t sure she was disappointed. The man shrugged.
“Ah ain’t surprise by nothin’ this here graveyard. No, ma’am, bones or no bones.” Lacey reached out to take the box from Dante’s hands.
“Not so fast, Smithsonian.”
She turned at the sound of Nigel Griffin’s voice. He was hefting a long, rusty iron bar as if it were a club. It looked like a piece of the railing that surrounded some of the tombs. “Ha. I knew you were holding out on me! I offer a partnership, being the nice chap that I am, but no, you want it all for yourself. No sharing with good old Nigel. All for Little Miss Priss here. Well, I don’t bloody well think so!”
“Put that bar down,” Vic said quietly, “you look like an idiot. Never pick up a weapon you don’t want rammed down your throat.” Griffin swallowed and took a step back. He looked wild-eyed and out of control, swishing his rod at them like a broadsword. Vic seemed very calm, but Lacey could see he was alert and watchful, waiting for the right moment.
“I’ll hurt you, Nigel,” he said. “I mean it. But I’m not going to hurt you unless I have to. Now drop that thing.”
Dante took this advice to heart and dropped the box and his tools on the ground between Vic and Griffin, vaulted a low railing, and disappeared over the cemetery wall. Nigel laughed at his good fortune and reached down to pick up the box. Vic took one step, drop-kicked him in the jaw, and pulled the iron rod from his hands. He rolled Griffin over, slammed him to the ground facedown between two tombs, pulled one arm up behind his back, and planted one knee in Griffin’s back. Griffin sprayed invective into the gravel.
“Blasted bugger! Damn you, Donovan, you bloody—”
“It’s not like I didn’t warn you, Nigel.” Vic shook his head, took a pair of handcuffs from his belt, and swiftly cuffed the cursing Brit. “When are you going to learn? You’re no good at this stuff. You should stick to stealing from Mummy’s purse.”
Lacey looked at Vic. “Where did those handcuffs come from?”
“Just part of the tool kit,” he said. “They come in handy more often than you’d think.”
“Oh, my God, Lacey, did you have to kill him?” Stella wailed, running up the pathway in her faux-leopard high heels. She stopped short at the sight of Griffin on the ground complaining with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Oh. You didn’t kill him. Never mind then. I know he’s a rat, but I kind of like him, and I swear to you, Lacey, I really tried to keep him busy.”
“Fine job you did too, Stella luv,” Griffin leered from the ground. Donovan lifted his knee from the Brit’s back and Stella helped him sit up. His mouth was bleeding a little. “I say, let’s do last night again soon, shall we, doll?”
“Will you just shut up, Nigel?” Vic said.
“Not bloody likely. Free country, you know. You’d have to kill me. Anyone got a smoke?”
Lacey picked up the box and blew the dust from the top. She tried the lid, but it was rusted shut. She was about to take a deep breath and pry it open with Dante’s screwdriver when a gunshot rang out. It echoed through the whitewashed tombs. The entire City of the Dead seemed to freeze for a long moment, then Vic grabbed Lacey and pulled her roughly down to the ground behind the tomb. Lacey in turn grabbed Stella, who reached for the handcuffed Griffin, but she missed him. Vic, Lacey, and Stella crouched behind the crumbling brick wall of the tomb, leaving Griffin lying on the path in front. “We gotta go back for Nigel,” Stella whispered, but Vic hushed her.
“Smithsonian!” A voice boomed out with a faint but familiar Russian accent. “Come out. We must talk. No use running. Difficult to talk while running.”
“It’s Kepelov,” Lacey whispered to Vic. He looked disgusted. “Keep him talking,” Vic whispered to her, pulling out his cell phone. Stella’s eyes were as wide as saucers.
“Kepelov, is that you?” she shouted. “I thought you were supposed to be dead?”
Kepelov laughed. “Not everyone you meet in a cemetery is dead, Smithsonian. Come out.”
“Somebody shot you. In Paris. Griffin said you were dead,” Lacey yelled. Vic nodded encouragement and put his finger to his lips to silence Stella.
“Griffin. Such a liar. It takes more than bullets to kill Gregor Kepelov. Come out, come out, Smithsonian!” His voice was getting closer. “You have something I want. The box. I have something you want. Your freedom.”
“Who shot you?” Lacey demanded. “Your girlfriend? The woman with the perfume?”
“Ha! Who cares? The bitch is not important.” His voice came from right on the other side of the tomb now. “Ah, my friend, the liar Nigel Griffin.” Lacey heard a sound like a boot kicking a body, followed by a grunt. “Poor Nigel. Handcuffed again. Tell me again what it is you are good for?”
“Gregor, old man, lend us your handcuff key?” Griffin whined. “Come on, get me out of this, mate, we’ll work it together, I’ll sell the stuff for you, the two of us can—”
“No, no, sit, Nigel, I like you just the way you are. Hey! Smithsonian!” he shouted. “I have a burning curiosity to know what is in that box you are holding.”
“It’s not a Fabergé egg!” Lacey hugged the box tightly and grabbed Stella’s hand. “Stay right here! Don’t move!” Vic whispered to Lacey and slipped away around the corner of the tomb.
“We shall see. Give it to me,” Kepelov demanded. “Then we will all find out together.”
“Why did Griffin say you’re dead? You two are still partners?” Lacey asked. Where did Vic go? What the hell is he up to?
“So many questions! I have a question. Who will shoot poor Nigel Griffin if you do not come out and give me the box? One guess. Say bye-bye to the nice lady, Nigel.”
“My God, Lacey,” Stella squealed, “he’s gonna shoot poor Nigel!”
“Kepelov! Good God, man, we’re partners! Partners don’t just go around—”
“No one cares for you, poor Nigel,” Kepelov said. “And one less bite out of the Fabergé egg, eh? What do you say, Smithsonian, do I shoot poor Nigel? Up to you!”
“Go ahead and shoot him, Kepelov!” Lacey shouted. “I can’t stand him either!” Please God, Lacey prayed silently, let this be a bluff, not a death warrant. Stella’s jaw dropped.
“Lacey! What’re you doing?! Oh, my God—” Stella pulled loose from Lacey’s hands. She scrambled out from behind the tomb and snarled at Kepelov like a bull terrier.
“You big bald Commie bully! Who said you could go around shooting people? An unarmed man? Look at him! He’s handcuffed f
or pity’s sake! Who the hell do you think you are?!”
Kepelov was laughing. “Smithsonian! You are doing this all backwards! You are sending me more hostages! You want me to shoot both of them? For one little box?”
Lacey looked at the box in her hands and considered it for a moment. It’s not worth it, whatever it is. Sorry, Magda. “Nobody’s shooting anybody, Kepelov, I’m coming out.” She stood up and walked around the edge of the tomb, the box hugged tight to her chest. “Put down the gun.”
“Ah! There she is, the girl reporter, the little solver of mysteries.” Kepelov smiled and leveled his gun at her, a black pistol that almost seemed lost in his big fist. Stella was crouching over Griffin, fuming. Vic was nowhere to be seen. “Much better. I do not want to kill you, Lacey Smithsonian,” he said. “You have spirit. You amuse me. And now the box, please.”
“I amuse you?”
Kepelov gestured expansively. “You amuse me. You try so hard. You and your little game. All over now. I win. Give me the box!”
You amuse me. Somehow that offended Lacey even more than the attack in the coal room, or being robbed at gunpoint. Kepelov took a step toward her. Lacey held the box in both hands and took a deep breath. Kepelov reached for it, keeping the gun pointed at her.
Lacey hurled the metal box as hard as she could right in Kepelov’s face. He had no time to react. The box struck him hard across the forehead with a crack. He stumbled back and waved his gun hand wildly for balance, wiping at a stream of blood from his face with the other hand. Vic stepped out from behind a tomb and swung Griffin’s iron rod down on Kepelov’s gun arm like an ax. The gun went flying over the tomb, Kepelov grunted, and Vic put one fist in the big Russian’s belly, then another. He folded in the middle and went down. Vic landed on him and levered one arm up behind his back until the Russian bellowed in pain.
“Damn it, I’m out of handcuffs!” Vic growled. “So if you even twitch, I’m gonna rip your arm off and beat you with it. You got that, Kepelov?” Kepelov groaned and tried to nod, his mustache jammed hard against the dirt. Lacey snatched up the box, her heart beating wildly.
“Oh, well played, partner,” Griffin said to the downed Russian. “Insult the lady and get your head handed to you. Very smooth. You’re the old master at this spy stuff, aren’t you?” He leaned his head back against the crumbling tomb. Stella dabbed at his cut lip with her handkerchief, making “poor baby” noises.
“So you are partners, you lying skunk,” Lacey said. “Was he actually going to shoot you?”
“We make lousy partners, more’s the pity,” Nigel said. “And I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Shut up, you idiot,” Kepelov gasped, his face contorted in pain. Lacey wondered how many bullets he’d taken in Paris, and yet he’d followed her all the way here. It must have taken superhuman will. But he looked completely subdued now with Vic sitting on him and twisting his arm.
“That wasn’t exactly my plan, sweetheart,” Vic said, his jaw set. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put and don’t move?”
“Well, yeah, but I couldn’t. Stella could have been shot. What was your plan?”
“Look behind you.” Lacey turned around to see the smiling face of a man she knew as Turtledove, his code name among Damon Newhouse’s Conspiracy Clearinghouse crew. He winked at her. Turtledove had family in the bayou country, and Stella had mentioned he was in town to play a gig at the Spotted Cat, the little jazz club in the Faubourg Marigny near the French Quarter. When he wasn’t playing his trumpet, he was in private security. Lacey knew she could trust him with her life, just as she would Vic. He was flanked by two equally large and impressive men who looked quite a lot like Turtledove, as if they might share his family’s diverse ethnic stew. Turtledove whipped out handcuffs of his own, and they took over babysitting Kepelov.
“That was my plan.” Vic stood up. Lacey clung to him and kissed him with all her might.
“Good plan,” Lacey said when she caught her breath. “Turtle-dove, good to see you. Really good to see you.”
“My pleasure. Sorry we missed the excitement.” Turtledove hugged the ladies and shook hands with Vic. “Meet my cousins.” They nodded silently and shook hands. Stella eyed the cousins invitingly. She seemed to be contemplating switching sides. Turtledove manhandled Kepelov to his feet with one hand while the cousins managed the skinny, out-of-shape Griffin. The two of them looked like tree trunks next to a droopy twig.
“Gently, please. Force is not necessary, gentlemen, as you can see.” Griffin indicated the handcuffs. “I am already subdued. Quite subdued. Perfectly bloody calm.”
“Shut up, imbecile,” Kepelov growled.
“What do you want to do with them?” Turtledove asked, holding Kepelov at arm’s length. His biceps barely strained. “Police? FBI? Toxic waste disposal? Or just feed ’em to the gators?”
“I like number four, but let me make a call first,” Vic said, pulling out his phone again.
Before he could punch in a number, the sound of boots crunching on the gravel pathways of the cemetery broke the silence. Everyone turned to stare at the new arrival.
Chapter 37
Tony Trujillo, the cop-beat reporter for The Eye Street Observer, rested one black lizard-skin boot on the top step of a whitewashed tomb, looking relaxed and curious.
“Mac said I should keep an eye on you, Lacey. Keep you out of trouble. And here you are, taking the cemetery tour. Hey, Vic! Long time no see, man. Stella, howdy! And it’s Forrest Thunderbird, right?” Trujillo knew Turtledove by the name on his business card. He shook hands all around, except with those too handcuffed to shake hands. He eyed Griffin and Kepelov curiously.
“‘Keep an eye on me’? Are you kidding?” There was danger in Lacey’s voice. “Mac didn’t tell me you were going to show up.”
“He thought it would be a nice surprise. You know how Mac loves surprises.”
“Nice surprise, my aunt Mimi! He doesn’t trust me.”
“Who wouldn’t trust a fashion reporter? But you know how it is, Lois Lane. Even Superman says, ‘Trust but verify.’” He smiled his lazy Southwestern smile. “He doesn’t want you to come back in a box.”
“You’re just here to steal my story.”
“To share the story, Smithsonian. Double byline. Mac got all cranked up about it. Thinks he’s been neglecting your occupational safety and health.” Trujillo glanced from Griffin and Kepelov to Turtledove and his cousins, and back to Vic and Lacey and Stella. “Did I miss anything? Fill me in.”
“No way! This is my story! It’s great that Mac finally believes there’s a big story here,” Lacey said. “But you are not poaching on my territory.” She held the box close to her chest.
“Whatever. Your story is a feature. A personal journey. ‘I was there, in the cellar and on the battlements,’ et cetera. That’s cool,” Trujillo said, “but I can bring some objectivity to the story, the kind The Eye Street Observer is known for.”
“Ha! The Eye has never been known for objectivity,” Lacey fumed. She caught a glimpse of Vic. His mouth seemed to be fighting a smile, and losing.
“Always a first time,” Tony said. “Besides, I’m here, I got my orders too, so let’s deal.”
Lacey knew when to yield to her editor, but she’d be damned if she’d let Trujillo muscle in on her story without working for it. “Fine. Follow along, Tony. Try to keep up.” She carefully documented the scene and the principal characters with her digital camera, and she was surprised to see Trujillo had brought one too. They both took photos of the unopened box from the crypt from every angle. Lacey wondered why Mac hadn’t also sent her Hansen, the long-legged staff photographer, who was usually up for anything and took direction much better than Trujillo.
Vic and Turtledove decided Kepelov and Griffin would be kept amused by the cousins for the rest of the afternoon, until some decisions could be made. Turtledove would start a tab for their entertainment expenses, and either Vic’s security company or The Eye would cover the cos
ts. “No problem,” Turtledove assured him with a wink. “They’ll dig my cousins’ bayou tour. Tourists love an up-close look at the gators.” Kepelov kept a stoic silence and a grim look on his face.
“All right, Donovan, this little joke has gone far enough,” Griffin protested as one of the cousins took his arm. “I’ve had a bellyful of your Yank barbarity.”
Vic grinned at him. “Don’t let the gators get a belly full of you, Nigel.” Lacey shot Vic a questioning look. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, it would be animal cruelty to make an alligator eat these two rotten apples.”
“You hear that, mate,” Griffin said to Kepelov, “you’d gag a gator.” Kepelov grunted.
Turtledove’s cousins took the two prisoners in hand to march them out of the cemetery. Stella’s loyalties seemed to be divided for all of a minute, then she pecked Griffin good-bye. “You’re going to be totally okay, Nigel. Maybe we’ll party later. The handcuffs are so you.”
Vic and Trujillo found the screwdriver and hammer Dante had left behind and Lacey prepared to open the metal box.
“At least let us see what’s in the bloody box!” Griffin shouted as he was being led away.
“Up to Lacey,” Vic said. “Maybe you should say ‘pretty please.’”
Griffin glared back. “Bloody hell. All right! Pretty bloody please, Smithsonian, please open the bloody box. Please.”
“Only because your plea has moved me,” Lacey said, with a smile at Vic.
Vic set the box on the concrete apron of a tomb and tapped the screwdriver gently into the gap under the lid with the hammer. One twist of the screwdriver and the lid gave, but he left it shut and handed the box to Lacey. Lacey lifted the lid. The box contained only a handwritten letter on one sheet of unlined writing paper, lying flat in the box. Lacey lifted out the note with Trujillo’s Swiss Army knife tweezers and demonstrated that the box was otherwise empty for Griffin and Kepelov’s benefit, and for Trujillo’s camera. She showed the note to Vic and laid it carefully back in the box.
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