by Diana Palmer
“Me, too. Can you get Drake and Marie to help?” she added. “Between them, they know most everybody on the reservation.”
“I already have,” he replied. He searched her blue eyes quietly. “Getting you shot wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Your father saved me,” she said with a smile. “I’m tough as old boots. You just go get the killer.”
He laughed shortly. “You make it sound simple.”
“It probably is,” she replied. “Find the money and you find the motive. Somebody’s in hock up to his eyebrows and desperate to stay afloat financially. Right?”
He pursed his lips. “Right.”
“So can’t you subpoena financial records from the companies you suspect?”
He chuckled. “Listen, I work for the FBI…I can do just about anything I want.” He gave her a stern look. “But I don’t want you to go around asking questions. You’re in enough danger as it is.”
“Think of me as your assistant,” she said innocently.
He touched her short hair lightly. “I loved it long,” he remarked.
She averted her eyes. “I went a little crazy when I got that clipping,” she confessed. “I got drunk and went to a wild party, ended up in bed with a man I didn’t even know…”
He closed his eyes briefly and turned his face away. His fault. His fault!
She wanted to tell him all of it, but the wounds were still raw from his desertion. She turned her face toward the window. “I’m older and wiser now,” she bit off. “I guess there’s no way to run away from pain. You just have to get through it.”
He drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t dare say what he was thinking. It was enough that they were speaking again. He had no right to recriminations. “You aren’t the only one who acted irresponsibly,” he said gruffly. “I wasn’t thinking. So much happened, in such a short time. I couldn’t cope, for the first time in my life. I thought hating me might spare you some of the pain.”
She laughed coldly. “Fat chance.”
“Yes. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.” He reached out and tugged on a short lock of her hair, his dark eyes smoldering with feeling as he looked at her. “I had dreams.”
Her lower lip trembled. “So did I,” she choked.
The emotion he saw in her face wounded him. Their eyes locked and the pain mingled with sudden, terrible desire. She thought her heart would jump right out of her chest.
“I’m starving to death. Come here,” he demanded, tugging her face under his with an insistent hand at the back of her neck.
His mouth ground into hers with no warning, no preliminary tenderness. He kissed her as if he’d never see her again in his life.
She moaned helplessly at the first touch of his hard mouth. It was just as it had been in her office yesterday, as if the three years since they’d been apart fell away the minute he touched her.
She linked her arms around his neck, oblivious to the tug of the seat belt, the pain of her bruise. She fed on his kiss, drowning, aching to be part of him.
He found the release on her belt and then on his, and pulled her over the console and into his lap. His arms contracted, grinding her breasts against his hard chest. The kiss grew slower, harder, deeper with every passing second. The only sounds were the harsh metallic ping of the rain hitting the car and the muffled sighs of their breathing as they kissed feverishly.
He groaned out loud as his hand smoothed possessively over her small breast and contracted, feeling the hard nub in his palm.
“Jeremiah,” she whimpered into his mouth. She was on fire for him. She trembled helplessly as her nails bit into the back of his neck.
“Easy,” he whispered, easing the embrace. His mouth lifted, brushing hers tenderly as his hand gentled on her breast. “Easy. It’s all right. I ache just as much for you, Phoebe…”
She arched her body against his, feeling his warm strength, the hardness of his chest muscles against her. She loved the slow tracing of his fingertips over her breast. The pleasure made her shiver helplessly.
He nibbled her upper lip, then her lower one. All the while, he was searching for a way under the embroidered top she was wearing. He was successful. His hand found the catch of her brassiere behind her back. He flipped it open. His hand circled back, taking the weight of her soft, warm breast.
“Beautiful,” he whispered into her parted lips.
“Beautiful,” she managed shakily, lifting closer to the tender caress.
Somewhere there was the sound of an engine cutting off and a door slamming. Neither of them realized what it was.
There was a sudden rap on the window. Cortez lifted his head and looked around. The windows were all completely covered with fog. It was impossible to see anything outside. There was a long shadow near the driver’s side.
“Someone’s out there,” Phoebe said unsteadily, lifting herself away from him and back into her own seat. Her hand shook as she pushed back her hair.
“Someone,” Cortez agreed. He straightened his tie and jacket and slowly powered the window down.
“Carbon monoxide can be deadly,” Drake said with a straight face.
Cortez blinked. “Thank you for that health bulletin, Deputy Stewart,” he replied, in what he hoped was a composed tone.
“I had a speck,” Phoebe said primly. “Jeremiah was helping me get it out.”
“Out of what?” Drake mused, noting the disarray of Phoebe’s blouse.
She folded her arm over her sore breasts indignantly. “Never mind what! What do you want?”
He grinned. “Remember that teacher who was here yesterday for an explanation?” Drake asked. “Marie phoned me, looking for you, and said she was on her way over here to talk to you. I guess that was her who drove up a couple of minutes ago in the only cab we have in town.”
“Oh, no,” Phoebe groaned, her face in her hands, imagining what the woman would have seen before the windows got so fogged.
“Marie headed her off,” Drake said after a minute, chuckling. “She’s inside waiting for you, though. You might want to announce your engagement while there’s still time to save your job.”
“I will not…” Phoebe began, embarrassed.
“Yes, you will,” Cortez said with an amused glance. “Tell her I proposed yesterday and you accepted. That will get her off your back.”
“It’s dishonest,” Phoebe fluttered.
Cortez gave her a long, slow look. “Tell her. We’ll work out the details later.” He checked his watch and grimaced. “I’m late. I’m going to talk to the contractor Bennett told me about.”
“You watch your back,” Phoebe said immediately.
“Good advice,” Drake seconded.
“I’m going inside before I get into any more trouble,” she murmured, getting out of the car. She was painfully aware that her bra was still unfastened. She’d make a run for the ladies’ restroom once she got through the front door. No need to give that teacher more ammunition than she already had.
“I’ll pick you up at five,” Cortez told her firmly.
She started to argue and couldn’t find a reason to. She nodded, smiled at Drake, and rushed into the building.
When she was out of earshot, Drake bent down to the driver’s window, his good humor gone.
“Bennett of Bennett Construction has a record,” he told Cortez at once. “He was arrested and charged with violation of the clean water act for dumping paint thinner into a stream in north Georgia, along with containers of paint and glue.”
“Was he convicted?” Cortez asked.
“No. He pleaded no contest, though, and got probation. It was a first offense. But it’s well-known locally that he’s invested his last dime in this new project, in partnership with the ‘Big Greek.’ Apparently he was involved in some sort of reparation in another case and it almost bankrupted him. I couldn’t find out the circumstances. But suffice it to say that he can’t afford work stoppages, not even for a week. Now his site foreman Walks Far, on the other h
and, actually did do time for theft by taking. He stole some items from a museum in New York City, among several other items. He spent three years in prison.”
“So Bennett’s not exactly squeaky clean,” Cortez mused, thinking out loud. “Why would he hire an ex-con?”
“Because Walks Far is married to Bennett’s only sister,” Drake replied.
He and the deputy exchanged curious looks.
“Bennett’s wealthy. Or he was,” Drake added.
“And Walks Far apparently isn’t,” Cortez said. “If he’s working for wages, and Bennett’s sister has champagne tastes, maybe he’s trying to protect his boss from losing it all.”
“Not bad,” Drake said with a faint grin. “Ever thought of working in law enforcement?”
Cortez gave him a speaking glance.
“But why shoot at Phoebe?” Drake wondered.
Cortez’s black eyes flashed angrily. “Maybe because of her phone call with the dead professor.” He paused. “But that’s just speculation at this point. She might have just been caught in the crossfire.”
“You mean, maybe he was aiming at you?”
“It’s a possibility.” Cortez sighed with irritation. “If he’s killed once, another death won’t matter much, considering the penalties. But none of this makes sense! There has to be more to murder than avoiding a work stoppage. I’m still going to speak to Paul Corland, and the builder working on the other project. I can’t go any further without knowing all the facts. Bennett may be involved, but all the evidence so far is circumstantial.”
“It does look that way. I’ll be on duty today if you need backup,” Drake offered.
“Thanks,” Cortez said quietly, and he meant it.
“I’ll keep an eye on Phoebe, too.” He smiled. “No worries,” he added when Cortez’s face tautened. “I know the lay of the land.” He glanced toward the still-fogged windows. “Making out in a museum parking lot, for God’s sake. Don’t they have dirt roads in Oklahoma? We have lots of them in North Carolina.”
“You know what you can do with your dirt roads,” Cortez said pleasantly, starting the car. “I’m going to work.”
“Me, too. Take care.”
“You do the same.”
PHOEBE INCHED OUT of the restroom and into her office, hoping for a reprieve. It didn’t come. Seconds later, a worried Marie led a trim older woman into Phoebe’s office and ran for her life. The woman seemed nervous. Her eyes shifted constantly. She had blond hair, blue eyes and a nice figure. She was wearing a designer suit that seemed more expensive than a schoolteacher could afford.
“I’m Marsha Mason,” the woman began. “I was here yesterday.” She hesitated. “I teach grade school. I told your assistant I wanted to discuss a moral issue with you…”
“I’m Phoebe Keller,” came the quick reply. “I’m sorry about what you saw in my office yesterday. My…fiancé had just proposed,” she began.
“Proposed?” The woman seemed confused.
“Uh, yes,” Phoebe replied, forcing a smile. “We’ve known each other for three years, but we’d been apart for a time…he’s an FBI agent.”
The woman seemed to flinch, but her face was calm. “He is? I see.”
“I am keenly aware of my responsibilities here,” Phoebe said softly. “But the circumstances were…quite overwhelming.”
“Apparently.” The woman frowned. “You don’t have a ring,” she added, noting Phoebe’s bare ring finger.
“Not yet,” Phoebe agreed with a shy smile. “He’s very impulsive.”
The teacher cleared her throat. “Well, under the circumstances, I expect it was understandable. But in future…”
“It won’t happen again,” Phoebe said firmly. “Was there anything else?”
The woman hesitated. “No. Yes,” she corrected at once. “I notice that you have quite a nice collection of Paleo-Indian artifacts. The effigy figure in the front display case is…especially impressive. Could I ask where you purchased it?”
Phoebe frowned. That was a strange question. “Why?”
The woman hesitated again, as if she were thinking hard. She ground her teeth together. “There was a robbery at a museum in New York City, a year or so ago,” the woman said solemnly. “I don’t mean to make accusations or anything, but I was, uh, I taught near the museum and often took my classes through it. I saw photographs of the pieces that were lost. One of them resembles that effigy figure in your central case.”
Phoebe felt faint, but she hid it quickly. She’d forgotten about that particular piece. It was less than a month old. She’d been approached by an art dealer and she’d taken him before the museum’s board of governors to suggest the purchase. The governors had approved it, at a substantial price. But she didn’t want to admit that to the teacher before she spoke to Cortez. It was odd that the woman had brought it up. The woman didn’t really look like a typical schoolteacher, either. She was carrying what was definitely a designer purse and so were her shoes, like her suit. Not exactly items that can be bought on a modest schoolteacher’s salary.
“How interesting,” Phoebe said with feigned surprise. “I’ve seen a couple of effigy figures like it over the years. One, of course, was an admitted forgery.”
The woman’s eyes were shrewd. “Yours doesn’t look like a forgery.”
Phoebe’s eyebrows lifted. “You studied archaeology?” she asked curiously.
“I have some knowledge of artifacts,” the woman said quickly. “You know, there are people who rob archaeological sites for valuable artifacts,” she said.
“Indeed,” Phoebe agreed, her face darkening. “Pot hunters are the lowest form of life to any true archaeologist.”
The woman lifted her eyebrows. “Where would museums like this get their treasures without them?”
“Reputably,” Phoebe replied curtly. “From archaeologists who find them on site and arrange their donation to museums through the legitimate channels. I can assure you that our effigy figure came from a reputable source, an art dealer from New York City. He was very knowledgeable about it. Apparently it was a piece from Cahokia that had been in the hands of a private collector who died.”
“How interesting.” She hesitated. “My school would like to add a few inexpensive pieces to our collection, in our display case. Do you have the man’s name?”
Stranger and stranger, Phoebe was thinking. She blinked. “He gave me a business card, but I lost it, apparently.” She let out a short laugh. “But I’d know the man anywhere. I could pick him out of a crowd. Perhaps I could call his gallery and inquire for you. I do have that number written on the purchase file itself…”
The woman had gone pale. “On second thought, I don’t think we could afford him. Perhaps if you hear of a dig nearby you could contact me and I could beg some potsherds from the archaeologist.”
“That’s a possibility,” Phoebe said.
“Forgive what I said about the effigy figure,” Miss Mason said primly. “I’m sure that your exhibits don’t come from suspect sources.”
“I never thought you were making accusations,” Phoebe said, smiling.
Miss Mason smiled back, but it didn’t reach her dark blue eyes. “I’ll go, then. Congratulations on your engagement, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Phoebe replied.
“You’re…very sure that your art dealer was legitimate?” the blonde asked suddenly, flushing as she met Phoebe’s suspicious gaze.
“Of course I am,” Phoebe lied.
“Well, then.” The blond woman smiled wanly and walked out of the museum, climbing quickly into the cab that had been waiting for her out front. Phoebe watched her go, but didn’t feel the relief she’d expected to have the episode put behind her before it threatened her job. Miss Mason had made a disturbing comment about that effigy figure. Phoebe was going to tell Cortez. But first, she was going to check her records and trace its history. She gave the effigy figure in the case another quiet scrutiny.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PHOEBE MADE A CAREFUL SEARCH of her files to look for the man who’d brought them the effigy figure. The business card he’d given her wasn’t actually lost. She’d told the woman it was because there was something suspicious about her.
But the business card wasn’t what she expected. It had the man’s name—Fred Norton—and his business address along with the name of his gallery in New York City. It didn’t have a telephone number.
Impulsively Phoebe dialed information and gave the name of the gallery. The operator told her there was no such listing. There was one that was close, so Phoebe called it and asked for Norton. She was told that no one by that name worked for them.
She hung up and stared at the telephone curiously. What if the man who sold her the effigy figure was the same man who’d stolen it in the first place?
Impulsively she phoned the school the teacher had said she worked for. She asked for Miss Mason and waited while the woman was called to the phone.
“Miss Mason?” Phoebe asked carefully.
“Yes, what can I do for you?” someone replied in an unfamiliar voice.
“I’m Phoebe Keller at the Chenocetah Museum,” she introduced herself. “I wanted to ask you a question in regard to our conversation in my office this morning.”
There was a long pause. “Excuse me, but you must have the wrong number. I have never been to your museum.”
“But your class was here yesterday,” Phoebe argued.
“Another teacher’s class did come there,” came the soft reply. “But it wasn’t mine. I’ve had the stomach virus. This is my first day back.”
Phoebe stared at her desk blindly. “But the woman said her name was Marsha Mason,” she protested.
“But that’s impossible,” the voice said worriedly.
Apparently it was. Phoebe was ready to grasp at straws. “Then can you tell me the name of the teacher who was here yesterday?”
“Just a moment, please.” There was muffled conversation. Miss Mason came back on the line. “Are you still there, Miss Keller?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said.