Last Breath

by Mariah Stewart

  Daria nodded. “I don’t know of any culture other than Shandihar that punished in that specific manner. Her death was clearly a punishment. A condemnation.” She swallowed hard. “But it’s almost too crazy to be true. I mean, who outside of a few scholars would even know about any of this? This story isn’t at all well-known; it isn’t like Tut’s tomb. And who would even know that she had the griffins?”

  “Anyone who read the Inquirer article her niece mentioned.”

  “Crap. I forgot about that.”

  “First things first.” He took the phone from his pocket and hit redial.

  “Will, it’s Connor. Where are we with that information I asked you for?” He reached across the front seat and gave Daria’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Yeah, I know it’s only been two hours since I called, but I’d appreciate it if you’d really turn the heat up. I need to know the cause of death…sure, I understand. Tell her she has to wait her turn.”

  He placed the phone on the console and checked the rearview mirror for traffic. He pulled out of the parking spot expertly, and headed for the center of the city.

  “You agree, though, right? This is all connected?” Daria turned in her seat to face him. “Why else make Mrs. Sevrenson open the safe but only steal the artifacts from Shandihar when there were so many other valuable items right there under their noses? Why kill this woman in exactly that manner unless it’s to make a statement?”

  She thought that over for a moment, then said, “No, it wasn’t a statement. It was a punishment.”

  “A punishment for owning something that was stolen from Shandihar?”

  “For owning something that was stolen from the goddess,” Daria said. “Those griffins were from one of the tombs in Shandihar, a tomb where one of the high priestesses was buried.”

  “Who the hell would know that?” Connor frowned.

  “Someone who read Alistair’s journals would know,” she replied. “He went into quite a bit of detail about finding them and how he removed them from the tomb. I’ll show you the passage when we get back to Howe.”

  “How many other people do you think might have read that same passage over the years?

  “I have no idea. I don’t know where they were kept, or how accessible they were.”

  He took a left turn instead of heading toward the expressway.

  “We’re going to make a quick stop at Mr. Cavanaugh’s and see if he sold those griffins to either Mr. or Mrs. Sevrenson. If he was the dealer, he’d remember where he got them.”

  “And when,” she pointed out. “The when is important. I think the farther back in time we go, the harder it’s going to be to figure out who stole them originally, and how many hands they’ve passed through since then.”

  “Like I said, first things first. And the first thing we need to figure out is where Cavanaugh got the griffins. Next up, did the person who sold them to him realize the significance of the pieces? Where they came from, and that somewhere along the line they were stolen?”

  Rush-hour traffic had just eased up, and within minutes, Connor was driving around Rittenhouse Square, looking for a sign for Cavanaugh and Sons.

  “I don’t see it,” Daria said. “Go around again.”

  “Do you remember the address?” Connor asked.

  “I didn’t really notice,” she admitted. “I take it you didn’t, either.”

  “I figured Rittenhouse Square, how hard could it be to find?” He pulled into a parking spot on Walnut Street that was just at that moment being vacated. “Let’s just get out and look around. It has to be here someplace.”

  The hazy August stew of heat and humidity clung to even the smartly dressed women who passed by on their way to the corner where they crossed the street. Nearby, a genteel-looking storefront announced the home of Cavanaugh & Sons, Purveyors of Antiques, in tasteful gold script. In the window, an elegant Victorian settee with red silk upholstery stood next to a delicate candlestick table, upon which sat a Deco-era vase.

  “Looks like Cavanaugh’s tastes pretty much run the gamut,” Connor observed.

  “I guess the antique-furniture market might be a little busier than the market for antiquities these days, especially since there’s less and less available in the legitimate marketplace. Most collectors really are ethical when it comes to what they buy. They want to know it’s come cleanly, so I’m not surprised to see dealers mixing up their stock. I would imagine one would have to, in order to make a living.”

  They walked to the door and as Connor reached for it, a young woman opened it and collided with him in the doorway.

  “Oh! Sorry!” she exclaimed, looking up. “I didn’t see you.”

  “My fault.” Connor smiled at her.

  “I was just about to lock up.” She flushed red and glanced at her watch. “We close at seven on weekdays. Would you mind stopping back tomorrow?”

  “Actually, we would.” Connor nodded and reached into his pocket for his credentials. He held the ID up for her inspection.

  “Oh. FBI?” She glanced from Connor to Daria and back again. “You’re with the FBI?”

  “Yes. We were hoping to speak with Mr. Cavanaugh,” he told her.

  “Which one?” the young woman asked.

  “How many are there?”

  “Three. David, Colin, and Mr. C.”

  “David and Colin are the sons, Mr. C. is the Cavanaugh?” Connor guessed.

  “Right.”

  “I’m thinking Mr. C. might be the one I’m looking for. Would he have handled any dealings the shop had with Mrs. Sevrenson?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Sevrenson.” The woman’s face clouded. “Yes, she and Mr. C. went way back. It was just terrible what happened to her.”

  “It was. How can I get in touch with him?” Connor asked.

  “He’s in Maine, on vacation. Is there something I might be able to help you with?”

  “We just wanted to ask him a few questions about some pieces from Mrs. Sevrenson’s collection.”

  “I helped Mr. C. catalog the items. I helped pack and unpack them, too, so if there was something in particular you were looking for…?”

  “Ms. DiPietro mentioned that there were two items stolen from her aunt’s house the night she was murdered. We were hoping Mr. Cavanaugh could tell us something about those two items.”

  “I know that something was stolen, and I know he had to fill out something for the insurance company about the theft, but you’d really have to talk to him about that. I’m afraid I wasn’t that familiar with the pieces.” The young woman seemed to backtrack from her previous statement. Clearly, this was something she didn’t want to be involved with.

  “Do you have a phone number for him?” Connor asked.

  When she hesitated, he took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Could you give him a call and ask him to contact me at this number?”

  “Sure.” She glanced at the card. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Please tell him it’s very important that we speak as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Connor took Daria’s arm and walked back to the car.

  “Connor,” she said when they’d set off for the Schuylkill Expressway, “I’m wondering if maybe we should talk to Damien Cross. Maybe he should know what’s going on, what’s happened to the Blumes and Mrs. Sevrenson.”

  He handed her his phone. “His number should be under last numbers dialed. If he answers, just let him know we’d like to speak with him.”

  She scrolled through the numbers until she found it. She dialed, then waited.

  “I got the answering machine,” Daria whispered. “Should I leave a message?”

  Connor shook his head. “Let’s just head back there. I have a really bad feeling…”

  “I was hoping it was only me,” she said as she disconnected the call. “What if…”

  “Like I said, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For all we know, Damien Cross took
a week at the beach.”

  “I don’t think he would have left his dog alone inside the house if he went away for that long.”

  “A day trip, maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Connor made a call to his boss, but had to leave a detailed voice mail. He hung up hoping that John wouldn’t pull him off this case just yet. It was just starting to get interesting.

  By seven-thirty, they were back at the Cross property and ringing the doorbell once again. And once again, the only sound of life came from the barking dog on the other side of the door.

  “Let’s walk around the back,” Connor suggested. “Maybe there’s a door unlocked.”

  “Are you going to go in?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Daria followed him around the corner of the house. At the rear, they found a patio with French doors that led from the kitchen. The brown-and-white dog scratched wildly on the other side of the glass.

  “Connor, that dog wants out badly.” She walked to the door and leaned down to the dog’s level. “What’s wrong, pup? Have you been locked inside the house all day?”

  I’d bet money it was more than one day, Connor thought, as he took in how skinny the dog looked.

  Daria was just about to say something else when she jumped back from the glass. “Oh, God. Look at the glass.”

  Smears of red streaked down the outside of the door like ribbons.

  Connor knelt down and studied it.

  “It’s on the outside of the glass. Looks like a really clear handprint right here, but there’s nothing on the handle.” He took something from his pocket, turned his back on her and did something to the door.

  “Do you have a tissue?” He asked.

  She looked through her bag. “Here’s a napkin.”

  She handed it to him. “Are you going in there?”

  “No, that would be breaking and entering. Not a good idea. But at the same time, I can’t help but think Cross might be in there, and he could be injured, or worse.” He held the napkin over the door handle and gave it a turn. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll just open the door and call inside. If he answers, I’ll go in.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Then we go to plan B.” He hesitated, the whining dog now appearing ready to lunge. “Pit bulls aren’t known for being all that nice. I hope this one is friendlier than most.”

  “Not pit bull. American Staffordshire terrier,” she said. “My parents used to have one, and she was an absolute lamb. I think this poor thing just wants out.” She peered over Connor’s shoulder. “See, the dog isn’t snarling, it’s just whimpering and scratching at the glass.”

  “Stand back anyway, just in case.”

  “Connor, did you pick that lock?”

  “Of course not. I’m a federal agent.”

  “How do you know how to do that?” She ignored his halfhearted indignation.

  “Spy school.”

  “Stop it. Even I know that FBI agents aren’t spies. Seriously, where did you learn-”

  The napkin still covering the handle, he opened the door and tried to grab the dog’s collar. The animal was faster than Connor, though, and shot past them to the yard.

  “Boy, that dog really wanted out in the worst way.” Daria followed the dog toward the back of the property. “He didn’t even pause to give us a sniff. And it looks like he is a she.”

  “Oh, man.” Connor closed the door quickly.

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you smell it?”

  “Smell what?” Daria, a hundred feet into the yard, was distracted by the dog.

  “Guess you weren’t as close to the door as I was.” He started around the side of the house. “Stay here for a minute, and don’t touch the door.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look for something.”

  Connor had gone three quarters of the way around the house before he found what he was looking for: a window where the drape was covered with an inordinate number of flies.

  But only one window. Which meant the body was most likely confined in one closed room. Otherwise, there would be flies on every window, and a surge of them would have tried to escape when he’d opened the door for the dog.

  He walked the rest of the way around the house but found no other signs of anything amiss. When he returned to the patio, he found Daria filling a metal bowl with water from an outside spigot.

  “Where’d the bowl come from?” He frowned. “You didn’t go inside, did you?”

  “No. It was on the grass.” She placed the bowl on the ground. “This poor dog is so thirsty. This is her second bowl. You don’t think she’ll get sick, do you?”

  She turned and found Connor sitting on the stone wall that surrounded the patio.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “From the look on your face, it doesn’t appear to be good news.”

  “Not for Mr. Cross. Assuming he’s inside.”

  “You think he’s dead?”

  “Yes. Well, someone is.”

  “Why would you think that? You didn’t even go inside.” She walked to where Connor sat, the dog at her heels, and sat beside him. “You didn’t go inside, did you?”

  “No.”

  “If you think he’s in there, why not just go in and look?”

  “Because I suspect it’s a crime scene. One that I have no jurisdiction over.”

  “A crime scene? Jesus, this is scary. You really think Cross could be dead?” She paled. “What do we do now?”

  “We’re going to start by calling 911.” He got up and started toward the car. The dog began to growl.

  “It’s all right,” Daria snapped her fingers and called to it. “Here, come sit. Can you sit for me? Good girl.”

  Connor reached inside the car and grabbed his phone, then dialed 911.

  “This is FBI Special Agent Connor Shields,” he said when the dispatcher answered. “I want to report a possible homicide…”

  ***

  “She’s really hungry, Connor,” Daria told him. “I think she’s trying to behave, but she probably hasn’t eaten since, well, probably since the day Cross died. Do you think I could go inside? Maybe get her some food?”

  “Sorry, but no. At least, not now.”

  They were sitting on the stone wall, waiting for the arrival of someone from the New Castle County, Delaware, police department.

  “How long do you think Cross has been…” She had gone pale again. “Cross or whoever is in there.”

  “My best guess, based on how thin the dog is, and the number of flies on that drape, I’d have to say he’s been dead for a couple of days.” He stood, his hands on his hips, and walked to the end of the patio, where he remained for a moment before walking down the driveway. He watched the road for a while, then walked back toward his car.

  “Maybe Cross isn’t in there at all,” Daria called to him. “Or maybe he’s dead but he died of natural causes. A heart attack, maybe. Maybe it’s not what we think.”

  “Maybe,” he said without conviction.

  The dog approached him, wagging its tail tentatively. He reached down and let it smell his hand.

  “She’s a sweet thing, don’t you think?” Daria joined them, as restless as both Connor and the dog appeared to be.

  “Yeah, she is.” Connor agreed . And maybe our only witness to what happened here, he was thinking as he rubbed the dog’s head between the ears.

  A patrol car pulled into the driveway and parked behind Connor’s car. A uniformed officer got out of each side in what appeared to be synchronized moves.

  “You Agent Shields?” the driver asked Connor as the dog began to bark. The officer stopped and eyed it warily. “That your dog? Get it under control.”

  Connor held the dog’s collar and unsuccessfully told it to sit. “Yes, I’m Shields. And no, it isn’t my dog. I believe
it belongs to the owner of the house.”

  Daria grabbed the dog from him and coaxed it back onto the patio. When she told it to sit, it sat immediately.

  “Good girl,” Daria said softly, and tried to fade into the background. This was Connor’s game.

  “You called in a possible homicide?” the second officer, the younger of the two, said as he approached Connor.

  Connor explained why he and Daria had been looking for Damien Cross, and what they found when they arrived at the house, from the whimpering dog to the hideous telltale smell when he opened the back door, to the flies that crawled on the drape covering the window on the far side of the house.

  “Let’s take a look at that.” The driver, whose name plate identified him as Patrol Officer Eugene Hill, watched as Daria took control of the dog. “Why don’t you show us…”

  Daria gave up the hard stone wall in favor of one of the cushioned chairs that matched the glass-topped table on Damien Cross’s patio. Over the past ninety minutes, she’d watched the sun turn the sky coral and purple as it set behind the trees at the far end of the property. It was closing in on nine o’clock, and her patience had just about run out. She was hungry, she was hot and tired and thirsty, and she had work of her own to do. She’d given her statement to the officers and had watched Connor give his. At her request, one of the officers had brought out some of the dog’s food and her bowl, and Daria had fed her in increments, a little at a time, so she wouldn’t eat too much too fast and get sick. She passed the time tending to the dog and trying not to think about what was going on inside the house. She was also trying not to think too much about the murders and what they could mean. The Blumes. Elena Sevrenson. Now Damien Cross.

  She watched the endless stream of law enforcement personnel arrive. Forty minutes or so after the medical examiner got there, the body was brought out of the house. Crime scene technicians came, carrying lights and cameras and black bags, and from time to time, Connor would be called into the house by one of the officers. Two more patrol cars and one unmarked vehicle had pulled into the driveway since the body of Damien Cross had been discovered lying in a pool of blood in the first-floor library.