by Frank Zafiro
Elias pushed his lower lip out and retracted it thoughtfully. “How much you figure one of those mummies is worth, anyway?”
“Good question. Millions?”
“Gotta be that,” Elias said. “Or maybe it’s the international angle. Something political, though. Gotta be.”
“Probably.”
“Mummies are from Egypt, right?”
“Mostly,” Finch said. “But they’ve been discovered in other places, too. Peru, for instance.”
Elias shot him a glance. “That was kind of a rhetorical question, partner.”
Finch shrugged. He took a left onto Birch and headed for the bridge.
“And when did you get to be such a professor, anyway?” Elias asked him.
“I watch the History Channel once in a while.”
Elias snorted. “Whatever. You probably jumped on the internet as soon as the lieutenant made the assignment.”
“Channel forty-seven,” Finch said.
“What?”
“The History Channel. It’s channel forty-seven.”
“Oh, leave it alone already. What did Lieutenant Crawford say?”
Finch crossed the Birch Street Bridge. The Looking Glass River sparkled below, the morning sun winking off the wide swath of water that cut through the valley. He allowed himself a quick glance to take in the scene before answering.
“He didn’t say much. He handed me the slip of paper with the address and said that it involved a mummy.”
“That’s it?”
Finch half-nodded, half-shrugged. “He said we’d get the rest at the museum from the director. And not to screw it up.”
Elias frowned. “He’s only saying that last part because of the two-fer.”
“I know.” Finch rubbed his temple absently. Right after Christmas, they’d arrested a heavyset woman who’d clocked both of them in the head, leaving visible bruises. “And we didn’t screw that up. That case cleared.”
“Not how he likes it.”
The two men remained silent the rest of the way to the museum.
Located in Browne’s Addition, River City’s once-proud residential district that was now home to subdivided homes and newly erected apartment buildings, the Richard Ardis Museum was a sprawling complex of buildings splashed across three acres. Finch pulled up in front of the main building and parked.
“Who are we supposed to meet?” Elias asked.
Before Finch could answer, a tall man dressed in a blue suit exited the front door and strode purposefully toward the car.
“Him, I figure,” Finch said.
“Is this how it’s going to be all day?” Elias asked. “You pointing out the obvious?”
“I wouldn’t want you to miss something.”
Elias tapped the butt of his service pistol. “Oh, I won’t miss.”
“You sure do get surly when you don’t get your full cup of coffee in the morning.”
Both men exited the car. The man in the blue suit approached Finch. The museum’s crest was embroidered above the jacket pocket and he carried a small yellow Nextel phone in his right hand.
“Tony Moore,” he said, shifting the phone to his left hand and sticking out his right. “Head of security.”
Finch shook his hand. “Detective Finch. That’s Elias.”
Elias nodded his hello.
“What’s the situation here?” Finch asked.
Tony shifted uncomfortably, a hint of red coloring his cheeks. “I...uh, better let Director Leavitt fill you in on that.”
“We’d like it if you did,” Finch said, “seeing how you’re head of security.”
Moore eyed them both carefully, then shook his head. “Director Leavitt was clear,” he said. “He wants to brief you on the bastard. So if you’ll follow me, please.” He turned and headed toward the door.
Finch’s eyes narrowed in surprise at the profanity, but he shrugged it off and headed after the security head. Elias fell into step beside him.
Moore led them through the front door and into the main entrance. While he pulled the door shut and locked it, Finch glanced around. A large sign on an easel declared:
One month only—Ancient Egypt on display!
Pedubastis I revealed!
Moore turned and walked past it without pause, but Finch spent a moment studying it.
Elias stopped. “See something about that guy on the History Channel?” he whispered.
Finch shook his head.
“How about the internet?”
“I didn’t use the—” Finch started to say, then stopped. Elias was already three steps away, following Moore down the hall.
Finch suppressed a smile and followed. The tapping of the three sets of footsteps echoed throughout the seemingly empty museum.
Moore led them to an elevator, down two floors to the basement and then through another short hallway. He stopped at a thick wooden door marked with the nameplate “Edward Leavitt, Director” and rapped on it.
“Come!” came the immediate reply from within.
Moore opened the door and stood aside for the detectives, who entered. Leavitt sat behind a huge desk. Several ornaments adorned the desktop, along with an empty in-basket. A single gold pen lay in front of the man, pointing directly at the door. Leavitt himself was a compact man who looked, to Finch’s eye, about fifteen pounds overweight. Probably forty-five years old. Thinning hair, combed meticulously. Glasses that had once been stylish rested on his narrow nose.
The man reminded Finch of Lieutenant Crawford, despite being a physical opposite of the lieutenant. Maybe it was the air of superiority he detected before Leavitt even spoke.
“Are you the detectives they sent to find our artifact?”
“Yes, sir,” Finch answered.
“And there are only two of you?”
“You only lost one mummy, right?” Elias asked.
Leavitt shot him a look that clearly stated humor had no place in his office. Then he brought his gaze back to Finch. “Will they be sending more? And a forensics team?”
Finch changed his mind. Leavitt reminded him more of Lieutenant Hart, the weasel in charge of Internal Affairs. “We have the resources of the entire department at our disposal,” he told Leavitt, struggling to be diplomatic. “But we need to get a feel for what happened first.”
Leavitt considered his answer, then gave a curt nod. He motioned for Moore to close the office door. “And wait outside,” he instructed.
Finch noticed the color rise in Moore’s cheeks, but the security head complied without a word.
“Are you in charge of this investigation?” Leavitt asked Finch.
Finch glanced around the office for a chair and found none. “Uh, we’re partners,” he told Leavitt. “Major Crimes.”
“Well, this certainly qualifies as one,” Leavitt replied.
A tickle of frustration appeared in Finch’s gut, but he ignored it. “Why don’t you run down the events for us, Mr. Leavitt? That’d be a big help.”
Leavitt furrowed his brow. “You weren’t briefed?”
“Not fully. We like to get witness statements again, anyway.”
“I’m not really a witness.”
“Complainant, then.”
“Fine.” Leavitt pursed his lips. “What do you want to know?”
“This mummy,” Elias interrupted. “What’s his name, Pedobonik, Pedophilus—”
“Pedubastis,” Leavitt said with a glare. “The First. And I don’t appreciate your levity, detective.”
“I’m not good with foreign names,” Elias said. “And I don’t watch the History Channel like some people.”
“Do you read?” Leavitt asked acidly.
Elias opened his mouth to reply, but Finch interrupted. “Was Pedubastis stolen, Mr. Leavitt?”
Leavitt glared at Elias a moment longer, then turned to Finch. “No.”
“No?” Finch asked. He and Elias exchanged a surprised glance. “We thought—”
“Pedubastis the First is stil
l on display, perfectly safe. His bastard was stolen.”
Finch and Elias exchanged another look. “His…bastard?” Finch asked.
“Yes,” Leavitt snapped. “A child mummy. The bastard son of Pedubastis the First.”
“We’re looking for a baby mummy?” Elias asked, his voice incredulous.
“Not a baby,” Leavitt said. “A child.”
Elias blinked and said nothing.
“Dr. Ingram can fill you in on the specifics,” Leavitt added.
“Dr. Ingram?” Finch asked.
“She’s the Ancient Cultures Department head.”
Elias removed a notepad from his jacket pocket and jotted down a note.
“Can you tell us when this happened?” asked Finch.
“Sometime last night. Mr. Moore can supply you with more accurate times.”
Finch and Elias exchanged a glance. “Uh, I was under the impression that you wanted to brief us on this case,” Finch said.
Leavitt steepled his fingers and contemplated the two detectives with a superior air. “I will leave it to my employees to brief you on the relevant details of the case. Mr. Moore can fill you in on security matters and Dr. Ingram is more than capable of providing any facts about the exhibit you may need.”
Finch stared at him, confused. “Then why—”
Leavitt interrupted. “I will, however, brief you about this situation. The situation is this: The Pedubastis exhibit is priceless. The stolen artifact alone is worth millions. The insurance company has been notified. The FBI has been notified. The Egyptian consulate has been notified. Within hours, and certainly no more than a day, representatives from these respective agencies will descend upon this museum and they will all have a simple question: How is it that the police here in River City have allowed this to happen?”
Elias’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on a minute—”
“I’m certain they’ll be asking your chief of police that exact question,” Leavitt continued. “It will be an international incident. So my suggestion to you, detectives, is to find the artifact before that happens.”
Elias muttered something unintelligible, but Finch caught an r sound and cleared his throat. “We’ll do what we can, Mr. Leavitt.”
Leavitt gave him an officious nod.
Finch and Elias turned to go.
Definitely a ringer for Lieutenant Hart, Finch decided.
Outside in the hallway, Moore looked sheepish as he led them to his own small office.
“That was worthless,” Elias muttered along the way.
Finch agreed with a grunt. “Mr. Moore, can you give us the details of this case?”
“It’s a situation,” Elias reminded him.
“Whatever. Mr. Moore?”
“Sure.” Moore slid a pair of plastic chairs from the wall to a position in front of his well-worn metal desk. It looked like an older, battered version of the desks in the Major Crimes unit. “You guys want to sit down?”
The detectives sat.
“The details,” Finch said.
“Please,” Elias added.
Moore settled into his own chair with a sigh. He ran his hand through his hair. “This is terrible.”
The detectives sat quietly and waited.
Moore sighed again and reached for a notebook. He flipped it open and cleared his throat. “Uh, the museum closes at eight, but we really don’t end up locking the doors until closer to eight-thirty. Eight o’clock is when we flash the lights and ask people to move toward the exits. It usually takes about a half hour.”
“Any problems with that last night?” Elias asked.
“No. In fact, everyone was out by about twenty after. I did a final sweep of the premises and except for authorized employees, the place was empty.”
“Which employees?”
“Me. Director Leavitt. And Michael, the night janitor.”
“What about the department head?”
“Professor Ingram? No, she left around six, if I remember right.”
“Do employees have to check in and out?”
“Not while the museum is open for business. But after hours, they’re supposed to sign in.” Moore glanced away quickly.
Elias caught the motion. “Supposed to? But they don’t?”
Moore pressed his lips together. He gave a small shake of his head. “It’s never been an issue before, so we’ve never really enforced it.”
Elias waved his hand. “Okay. So at lock-up, it’s just you, Leavitt, and the janitor?”
“Yes. And I let Director Leavitt out myself.”
“When?”
“About ten till nine.”
“Leaving just you and the janitor.”
Moore nodded. “Yeah. I waited at the main doors for Eric while Michael started cleaning.”
“Who’s Eric?”
“The night guy.”
“Security?”
“Right. He patrols the inside of the museum and mans the phones.”
“When did you leave?”
Moore considered. “Probably about five after nine. Maybe a little later. Eric is usually running behind, so I have to wait.”
“After you left, the only two people in the whole place would have been the night guy and the janitor?”
Moore nodded.
“How long does the janitor take?”
“He’s done by eleven, except on Fridays. He does his weekly stuff on Friday night, so it takes a couple hours longer.”
“But this was a Tuesday.”
“Right.”
“So he finished by eleven?”
“I guess so. Eric would know for sure.”
“Where is Eric?”
“He’s in the break room. I held him over. I figured you guys would want to talk to him.”
Elias nodded. “Good. And the janitor?”
“I called him in, too.”
“Excellent. Now, I assume the museum has alarms?”
“Yes.”
“With coded key pads or something?”
“Exactly.”
“Who has those codes?”
Moore listed names on his fingers, ending on his thumb. “Director Leavitt, Dr. Ingram, Me, Eric, and Mike, the janitor.”
“No one else?”
“No one.”
“Everyone have their own code?”
Moore shook his head. “No. There’s just two codes. A museum code and the contract code.”
“Can you break down who knows which code for me?”
“Well, Mike uses the contract code since he technically works for the janitorial service. The rest of us use the museum code.”
“But who knows which code?”
“Oh, sorry. Uh, I think I’m the only one who knows both codes. Maybe Director Leavitt, too.”
“All right. Now, I’m assuming there’s video security as well?”
“Of course.”
“All the entrances?”
Moore nodded. “And the main exhibits.”
“Do you keep the surveillance tapes?”
“Sure.” Moore fidgeted. “We keep them thirty days.”
Elias flashed Finch a smile. “Well, let’s just take a look at the tape.”
“We can’t.”
Elias’s smile faded. “Why not?”
“Eric didn’t change the tape last night.”
“He what?”
“He forgot to change the tape. It’s on a two-hour loop. When I pulled it this morning, it had a start time of 0403 hours. The last tape on the shelf ended at 2358 hours.”
“So you’re missing two tapes.”
He shook his head. “No. The tapes themselves are numbered sequentially and the one in the VCR was the very next one.”
“Then what happened?”
“Eric must’ve forgotten to change the tape. If you don’t change it, the tape automatically rewinds and starts taping again.”
Elias opened his mouth in surprise. A quizzical grunt escaped his lips. He looked over at Finch, a combination o
f anger and disbelief visible in his eyes.
“So midnight to four in the morning has been—” Finch began.
“Completely taped over,” Moore finished. “That’s right.”
Elias’ surprised silence was short-lived. “Why in the hell did he do that?”
Moore looked away, squirming in his seat. “I don’t know exactly. You’ll have to ask him.”
“We will.” Elias leaned forward in his chair. “But tell me something, Tony.”
Moore eyed him warily. “What?”
“Did you come back to the museum at all last night?”
“No. Not until Director Leavitt called me this morning.”
“When?”
“About six-twenty.”
“Where’d you go after work?”
Moore bit his lip slightly. “I drove around for a while. Then I went home.”
“Drove where?”
“Just around. It helps me unwind.”
“What time did you get home?”
His face flushed. He gave Elias a hard stare. “I don’t know. Maybe midnight. What’s this have to do with what happened at the museum?”
“Just covering all our bases,” Finch told him.
Moore glanced over at Finch, then back at Elias. Then he shrugged. “It was around midnight. Like I said.”
“Can anyone verify that?” Elias asked.
“My wife was asleep. She might’ve woken up enough to tell what time it was.” His voice remained sullen. “I don’t know for sure.”
Elias watched Moore for a minute, then turned to Finch. “Eric? Or the janitor?”
“The janitor,” Finch said.
Elias looked back at Moore and raised his eyebrows expectantly. The security head rose from his desk and led the detectives out of the room.
“He’s hiding something,” Elias whispered to Finch as he passed.
“Now who’s being obvious?”
Elias scowled but without much energy behind it. The two detectives followed Moore to a utility room. A man sat at the utility desk reading a car magazine. His overweight frame reminded Finch of a man who might have once been a body builder but then let things slip.
“Mike?” Moore said.
The man looked up with bleary eyes. When he saw the three men, he set the magazine on the desk and stood, offering his hand to Finch, who was nearest.
“Michael Booth,” he said, squeezing Finch’s hand. Finch struggled not to wince. The man’s strength radiated from the handshake. Finch murmured his own name and introduced Elias. Booth gave Elias the same firm shake.