Last Breath

by Mariah Stewart

  “How long will they keep her?” Daria knelt and put an arm around the dog’s neck. Sweet Thing’s pink tongue unfurled like a small flag and licked the side of Daria’s face. “When will we be able to get her back?”

  “I guess it will depend on when the vet has time to do the impression. They might have to sedate her to do that.”

  “But she’ll be okay, right?”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Seeing that Daria still appeared uneasy, Connor added, “Hey, she’s the star witness. They’re going to take good care of her.”

  “All right. Give me five minutes to change, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Listen, if you don’t need me for the rest of the day, I think I’d like to head back to St. Dennis,” Mia said after Daria left the room. “The weekends are so busy there, with all the tourists, and I promised Vanessa I’d help her out in her shop. The girl who usually works for her is on vacation.”

  “Vanessa?” Connor asked absently.

  “Beck’s sister. She owns a boutique there on the main street, and does a lot of business this time of the year. The weekends are especially busy.”

  “I think I can handle things from here.” Connor took a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the sink. “How is Beck, by the way? That working out for you?”

  “Couldn’t be better, actually. I’m trying to take things slow, but you know how these things are.” Mia smiled.

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  Mia’s smile widened. “I guess you’re learning, anyway.”

  His cell phone rang just as he opened his mouth to reply.

  “Answer your phone, Con.” Mia laughed. “I’m going to go upstairs and pack.”

  “Shields. Yes, Detective, thanks for calling me back…”

  “Maybe we should go with her to the vet,” Daria said to Vince Coliani in the parking lot at the New Castle County police station. “She might get upset. Maybe she’ll think we’ve abandoned her.”

  “She’s going to be just fine,” the detective assured her. “Dr. Price is great with dogs. We take our K9s to her.”

  “We can come back and pick her up later today if she’s finished?” Daria asked.

  “The vet didn’t think she’d get around to the impression until pretty late in the day. She has two surgeries this afternoon,” he told her. “But don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her, and you’ll have her back by tomorrow, no later.”

  “Okay. Sweet Thing, you behave yourself.” Daria gave the dog a parting hug and got into Connor’s car. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Connor handed the fur he’d cut from Sweet Thing’s neck over to the detective. “Here’s the dog hair I told you about. Get your lab guys to compare the blood on it to the blood on the door.”

  “Great. Hey, I owe you one,” Coliani said.

  “Get me a match and we’ll both be happy,” Connor said as he got into the car.

  Daria looked out the window as Connor turned the car around.

  “She’ll be fine, Daria. I promise.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “You’ve really become attached to her.”

  Daria nodded. “I really have. I hope I can keep her.”

  “Coliani said no one’s even stepped forward to ask about the dog. Cross had one nephew; he made arrangements for the body to be transferred to a funeral parlor in Virginia when the medical examiner releases it, which will probably happen today. But there wasn’t a word said about the dog.”

  “Maybe the detective can tell me who I have to talk to to adopt her.”

  “I’m thinking possession is good enough at this point. I doubt anyone’s going to challenge you.”

  “Good. That would be good.” Daria rested her head against the back of the seat. “Tell me again where Mr. Cavanaugh lives.”

  “Outside of West Chester. It’s not far from here. He said to come up Route 202. Which according to that sign, is right here.”

  Connor followed the signs that led them onto a heavily commercial stretch of road that ran several miles through Delaware and into Pennsylvania.

  “Did you ever get that package of material from your mother? The one with the PI reports about your brother?”

  “What made you think of that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” Connor waited for a moment, and when she didn’t answer the question, he said, “Well, did you?”

  “It came yesterday or the day before. Vita dropped it off right after Mia and I got home yesterday. The mailman evidently left it at the administration building.”

  “When were you going to give it to me?”

  “When things slowed down a bit. I figured you have your hands full. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother. Did you look through it?”

  “I started to yesterday, but to tell you the truth, reading gave me a headache.”

  “How’s your head now?”

  “Much better. I took some of the pain meds after breakfast and the throbbing is pretty much gone.”

  “Good.” He maneuvered the Porsche around a tractor trailer and settled back into the right lane. Traffic was heavy and the road wasn’t particularly smooth, so he did what he could to keep Daria’s head from bouncing around too much.

  “Connor, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “Dylan?” Connor slowed for the light. “He died.”

  “I know that. How did he die?”

  “What brought this up?”

  “Just something Mia said.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That I’d have to ask you about him. As if she didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I imagine she didn’t.” Connor took a deep breath. “Dylan was murdered by Mia’s brother, Brendan.”

  Daria’s jaw dropped. She tried in vain for several seconds to close it.

  “But they were-”

  “Yeah, cousins. Yes, they were.” Connor’s jaw tightened and she wished she could see his eyes behind those dark glasses. “You know how every family has a black sheep? Brendan was ours.”

  He pulled in front of a green pickup and gunned the engine. “The thing is, Brendan hadn’t wanted to kill Dylan. That was a mistake. The person he’d wanted to kill-the person he thought he was shooting-was me.”

  “God, Connor.” She tried not to gasp. “But why?”

  “Long story short, I saw something he didn’t want me to see. I was in Central America on a job, and ran into him while something very bad was going down. He told me he was on the case for the Bureau, that he was shutting down the local operation. I believed him. Later, he and his partner realized it was only a matter of time before I found out that there was no FBI operation. He set me up when I was supposed to be working a drug bust, but there was a change of plans, and Dylan worked that job in my place.”

  “What was the bad thing he was into?”

  “Selling children on the black market.”

  “My God…”

  Connor fell silent then. They drove for several miles without speaking.

  Finally, Daria said, “Why do you feel responsible for your brother’s death?”

  It was a question he had heard before. He’d heard it more times than he’d like to think about, and had never bothered to reply. Not to his brother, Aidan, or his cousin Andrew, or to Mia. Nor to Annie, the woman Dylan had been engaged to when he died. He’d tried to blow off the others, but Annie was a psychologist and wouldn’t permit him to bully her.

  He was trying to decide if he wanted to bully Daria into shutting up when she reached over and grasped the hand that was resting on the gear shift.

  Neither of them spoke until they arrived at Cavanaugh’s.

  “This is it here, I think,” Connor said. “Number 438 Broad Run Road.”

  He turned into the drive and followed it up a slight incline until he reached the house, set well back from the road
. It was gray stucco and stone, three stories high, and surrounded by tall trees.

  Connor parked near the walk that ran next to the drive and before he could say anything, Daria was out of the car.

  “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it? Did you notice that pretty stream when we pulled in?” She gazed around admiringly. “Like a painting.”

  He was about to respond when a short, balding, jovial-looking man in a yellow polo shirt and lime green pants came down the walk.

  “Agent Shields, I’m guessing,” he called out as he approached.

  Connor removed his ID from his pocket and held it up for inspection as the man drew near.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh?” Connor asked.

  “Yes, yes, let me have a look at that.” He appeared to study it before handing it back. “You’re wondering if I know how to tell if it’s real or not. Well, I can tell you that I do. I have a good friend in your Philadelphia office. Jack Gaffney, you know him?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, he works with the art-theft people. I met him many years ago when he was trying to track down some forged Wyeth watercolors. Damned scandal, that was.” He turned to Daria. “You an agent, too?”

  “No, sir. I’m an archaeologist,” Daria told him.

  “That so. Well, then come on in. You wanted to talk to me about Elena Sevrenson.” He shook his head with obvious sadness. “Damned fine woman, Elena was. One of my favorite customers. Not just because she bought a lot, and didn’t mind paying top dollar for what she wanted. No, sir. Elena had a real appreciation for the things she collected. Didn’t buy a thing she didn’t love, didn’t matter how trendy or how unfashionable. She bought what she loved. Art and artifacts she respected. Her husband was the same way when he was alive. God rest their souls. I miss them both, and I don’t mind saying it.”

  When he held the front door open for them, Daria saw the tears in his eyes. It was clear that Elena Sevrenson had indeed been more than a customer to him. She’d been his friend.

  They stepped from the heat of the day into the air-conditioned comfort of the old house. Peter Cavanaugh led them through the front hall and the living room into his office, which was in an addition off the side of the house. An ancient Scottish terrier waddled along behind them.

  “Don’t mind Fergus,” he told his guests. “We’re just back from our annual vacation in Maine. It always takes the old boy a few days to get used to things again.”

  “You take him with you?” Daria asked.

  “Of course I take him. You think I’d kennel my best friend?” Cavanaugh looked indignant. “He just needs to acclimate himself to the house again. I’m thinking he has a form of doggie Alzheimer’s.”

  Before either of them could reply, Cavanaugh took a notebook from a desk drawer.

  “You were asking about the griffins.” He paged through the notebook. “It took me a while to find the sale, but I did.”

  He opened an eyeglass case that was sitting on the desktop and took out the glasses. He put them on and pored over the notebook carefully.

  “I thought I marked that page…just give me a minute here…”

  “Do you remember if you sold them to Mr. or to Mrs. Sevrenson?” Connor asked.

  Cavanaugh peered at him from over the top of the glasses. “I said the dog has Alzheimer’s, not that I did.” He coughed. “Of course I know. I sold them to Mitch back in 1964. Forty-three years ago.” He looked out over his desk at nothing in particular and said, “Can you imagine, it was that long ago? Where the hell have the years gone?”

  He thumbed through a few more pages, then said, “Ha. Here it is. Pair of gold griffins. They had arrows in their claws. Never saw anything like them, before or since. They were just spectacular. Mitch bought them for Elena, for their anniversary. They’d only been married a few years back then, but they both had an eye for art, that’s for sure. Always bought the best.”

  “How did that sale come about?” Daria asked. “Did you have the griffins, and offer them to the Sevrenson’s, or did he come to you, looking for something special?”

  Cavanaugh smiled at Daria.

  “You understand that, don’t you? That relationship between dealer and collector.” He nodded. “Mitch came by my shop several times, bought the occasional piece. Delightful man, knew his stuff. We’d been doing business for several years when he came in one day-in the spring, I seem to recall. Said they’d be having an anniversary in the fall and he wanted something very special, something very unique, to surprise Elena. I told him I’d see what I could find.”

  “Where did you find the griffins?” Connor asked.

  “Dealer down your way, actually. Friend of a friend of a friend. Name was Dragonis. Henry Dragonis. When you said Howe University, that’s the first thing I thought of, what a coincidence that was, that you were down there at Howe, and that he lived in Howeville.”

  “Dragonis lived in Howeville?” Connor asked.

  “Yes. Seems to me he had some connection to the college there, but I don’t recall what it was.”

  “Was he employed there?”

  “I don’t remember ever discussing that with him, Agent Shields, but it’s in my mind that there was some connection.”

  “Did you know him before you bought the griffins from him?”

  “No. I’d heard that he had some very unusual pieces, so I drove down there one afternoon to see what he had.”

  “The griffins were in his shop?” Daria leaned forward, enjoying the story.

  “No, no. He asked me what I was looking for. I told him what Mitch had said, and that I hadn’t been given a price limit. Well, he thought it over and told me to come back in a week and he’d have something for me. I went back a week later and there were the griffins. I knew they were just what Mitch was looking for. We negotiated a price and I left with them in a cardboard box.”

  “Did he tell you where he got them?” Connor asked.

  “No, he wouldn’t give that up,” Cavanaugh said. “He just said he had a source, a collector who from time to time had something special to sell.”

  Cavanaugh turned to Daria. “Fifty years ago, provenance wasn’t as big a deal as it is now. There were few laws on the books, none of them enforceable unless a piece was out-and-out stolen. For the most part, collectors back then didn’t ask many questions. Up until 1970, there wasn’t even much international interest in the subject.”

  “That was the year of the UNESCO convention that addressed the international trade of cultural property,” Daria said.

  “Correct. There was no ban on the sale of artifacts back then. So while it was nice to know how a piece came to be placed on the market, it wasn’t against the law to not know, and collectors weren’t that concerned where an item had been.” Cavanaugh met her eyes without apology. “All that has changed, of course, but things were different then.”

  “Were you aware that the griffins were from Shandihar?”

  “Yes, though I knew almost nothing about Shandihar. I knew it had been some ancient city in Turkey, but truthfully, I knew little more than that. When Dragonis showed me the griffins, he merely referred to them as Turkish. I believe Mitch may have educated himself a bit, sought out some books so that he could discuss the origins of the griffins with Elena, but I don’t know that even he knew all that much.”

  “Did you purchase other pieces from this dealer?” Connor asked.

  “Oh, yes, several pieces over the years, though nothing else from Shandihar. The Sevrensons were aware that what they had was extremely rare, but they weren’t interested in starting a collection of objects from Shandihar. Mostly what I bought from Dragonis, as I recall, were earlier objects. Mesopotamian, I believe.”

  Daria exchanged a long look with Connor.

  “Would that have been around the same time, Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  “After the griffins, yes. I purchased items from him up until his death in 1998.”

  “Do you know if someone took over his business?”

>   “I don’t believe anyone did. I never heard about it, if so.”

  “So his shop just closed?”

  “He didn’t have a shop. He did business out of his home.”

  “Do you remember the address?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t. I can look through some old files, see if I can come up with something, but…” He shrugged.

  “We’d appreciate it.” Connor stood. “We’d appreciate anything else you can recall, as well. Anything at all…a description of the house he lived in, the neighborhood, landmarks-anything that could help us track his family.”

  “Doesn’t seem to me that he had much of a family.” Cavanaugh closed his notebook. “Had a daughter, she was just a little thing. I think he raised her by himself. Seems there was something about the wife dying. And I think he may have mentioned a brother, but I don’t think I ever met him. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Connor told him. “You’ve certainly given us a lot to think about.”

  ***

  “So where do you go from here?” Daria asked when they’d arrived back in Howeville.

  “First things first.” He parked in the shade of a huge oak tree. “We find this Henry Dragonis.”

  “He’s dead, remember.”

  “I mean we find out everything about him that we can.”

  “How do we do that?” Daria asked.

  “When you’re learning about an ancient culture, what’s the first thing you do?”

  “I look for written records.”

  “Same thing here. We look for written records.” Connor took the phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

  “Will…Connor. I’ve got a job for you. I need some information and I need it really fast. I need you to run a check on a man named Henry Dragonis. Howeville, PA. Everything you can find.” He reported what little information he’d gotten from Cavanaugh. “And while you’re at it, could you run a few more names? Start with Louise Burnette. Casper Fenn. Vita Landis. Nora Gannon. Olivia Masters. Sabina Bokhari. Stefano Korban.”