“It was nearly a year later when she disappeared,” Scalera said. “So no, I didn't have anything to do with it.”
“You'll understand if I ask you not to leave town,” Denzel said. “And to make yourself available for further questioning.”
Scalera looked as if he were about to respond to that, but closed his mouth and nodded.
There was still more they needed to know, though. Kotler asked, “Was the musical about Central America? The Yucatán?”
Scalera nodded. “Yeah, she was nuts over the culture. She bought a ton of books and CDs, had me listening to music from the region all the time. I wrote some pieces that fit the style, but gave us some room for lyrics. She wrote lyrics. Or, she tried to write lyrics.”
Kotler let that pass. It was clear that Scalera had a rather high opinion of his own skill and his work, and saw Maggie as a pretender, despite her pedigree. He wasn't very likable, in Kotler's opinion. But Kotler knew enough people like him to understand him. Every industry had its hotshots. They were usually very talented, but working from a fixed mindset. Their talent was what they bankrolled their life on, and so they tended never to stretch themselves. They tended to ride their past successes, rather than risk attempting something new. After all, if their talent was their identity, then who did they become if they tried something and failed? Fixed-mindset prodigies and geniuses and wunderkinds tended toward arrogance and disdain for the abilities and work of others because it was a way to distance themselves, to keep people from looking closer and discovering the feelings of inadequacy and fraudulence and fear.
Kotler thought of all the men and women he'd known who were just like Scalera—brilliant, but also hopelessly frightened of their brilliance. Or, rather, frightened that their brilliance wasn't enough, and that they'd be found out as a fraud, that it would all come crumbling down around them. They were afraid, in short, that people would find out that they were as human as everyone else, and would then take away what they'd built—regardless of its size and momentum.
Scalera was a study in the self-defeating prodigy. Now, though, wasn't the time to analyze him, or even to tolerate his ego.
“Did Maggie ever mention Ah-Puch?” Kotler asked.
At the mention of the Mayan god of death, Scalera's haughty attitude shifted, and his micro expressions suddenly amped up. He got control of himself, after only an instant, but Kotler had seen the hints of a story unfolding on his features.
“Don't,” Kotler said, abruptly.
Scalera looked from him to Denzel, and back again. “Don't what?” he asked.
“You know something about Ah-Puch, and you're preparing to lie about it.”
Again, Scalera looked to Denzel, who had a stern expression on his face, and shook his head to indicate that lying was not going to be tolerated.
Scalera took a breath, and let it out slowly. “Ok,” he said. “Yes. I've heard of it. A Mayan god, right? It came up in Maggie's research. She wanted to frame her show around him. Sort of a Dia de Los Muertos theme. Day of the Dead. She had this vision of doing a story about life by focusing on its opposite. A study in contrast.” Scalera shook his head, smirking. “It became the heart of the show, so she started digging into it more. She bought a bunch of stuff from some antiquities dealer, and some of it got attention.”
“What do you mean?” Denzel asked.
“She had a bunch of artifacts and other things shipped to the studio we were leasing. Statues. Authentic Mayan clothing. Instruments. That sort of thing. It was all supposed to be set dressing and inspiration. She wanted me to compose something that included one of the instruments she found, but we didn't have anyone who could play it. I sure didn't.”
“You said these things got attention?” Denzel asked.
Scalera nodded. “I came into the studio one day and Maggie was talking to a man in a suit. He wasn't anyone I recognized. He wanted to buy everything Maggie had shipped in. She was going to do it, too. The money he offered would fund us for at least another year.”
“What went wrong?” Kotler asked.
“How'd you know something went wrong?” Scalera replied.
“Because none of those artifacts are here, and none were found in Maggie's apartment, according to the evidence list. And you weren't funded for an additional year, we already know that. So either something went wrong with the deal, or you have a bunch of Mayan artifacts stuffed into a closet somewhere.”
Scalera shook his head. “The man showed up with a couple of big guys, and they started grabbing things and loading them in a truck. Maggie got there right as they were finishing. She asked for the money, and the man gave it to her, but it was only half.”
“And Ms. Hamilton was upset about this?” Denzel asked.
“Wouldn't you be?” Scalera asked.
“Why did he only give her half?” Denzel asked.
“He said he'd give her the rest once he'd checked everything against the inventory, and authenticated it. Maggie said that wasn't the deal, and that now he had all of the stuff, but she only had half the money. He promised he'd get her the rest ‘in time.' Which I figured meant he'd just bilked her.”
“Did he ever pay her?” Denzel asked.
Scalera shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“How long after this did Maggie disappear?” Kotler asked.
Scalera shrugged. “A few weeks. All I know is that she stopped coming around as much, and when she was around all she would talk about was Ah-Puch. She told me that if the man came around again, or anyone, really, and asked about Ah-Puch, I had to pretend like I had no idea what they were talking about. Which wasn't hard, because I didn't.”
“Did she tell you why?” Denzel asked.
Scalera shook his head. “No. And I didn't ask. I could tell things were winding down, by then. For the show. For us.”
“What about Ah-Puch?” Kotler asked. “Do you remember anything else about it?”
“No. But I think Maggie kept something from all those artifacts. Hid it. And I think it had something to do with Ah-Puch. That guy did come around again, after she'd already disappeared. He said he'd bought the whole lot, and an item was missing. He wanted to know if I had it. Offered me a hundred grand for it. I would have taken it, no questions. But I didn't have it. I didn't have anything, by then.”
Scalera glanced at his piano, at the pile of discarded scraps of music that covered the piano's surface.
“What about Viracocha?” Kotler asked. “Did Maggie ever mention that name?”
Scalera shook his head. “Not that I know of. Maybe? I listened to her talk about this stuff for a year. Pillow talk. Shop talk. She was obsessed. She might have mentioned all kind of Mexican names, for all I remember.”
“Mayan,” Kotler corrected. “And Incan, in the case of Viracocha.”
“Puerto Rican and Farsi,” Scalera said, waving a hand. “It's all Greek to me.”
He grinned at this last, as if he'd just made the cleverest joke of all time.
Denzel and Kotler finished up then, and Denzel gave another warning to Scalera about sticking around town.
“Not going anywhere,” Scalera said, spreading his hands to indicate his workspace. “But hey, if you find out what happened, let me know, ok?”
“I can't comment on an open investigation,” Denzel said, and before Scalera could reply he walked away, with Kotler close behind. Unlike DeFranco, Scalera's interest didn't seem altogether legitimate. It seemed more like morbid curiosity than genuine concern.
They were soon driving back to the FBI offices.
“So, did we learn anything useful in all that?” Denzel asked Kotler. “I feel like we just have more questions than before.”
“We learned that Ah-Puch wasn't just a mythological reference,” Kotler said. “Maggie was referring to something she had in her possession.”
“An artifact?” Denzel asked.
“Sounds like it. We know that the guerrillas took something from Maggie, which she referred to as
‘Ah-Puch.' Given that he's a Mayan god of death, I think it would be unwise to disregard her warning, that millions might die.”
“How would an ancient Mayan artifact kill millions of people?” Denzel asked.
Kotler shook his head. “No idea,” he replied. “But I'd like to know who this mysterious ‘man in a suit' was.”
Denzel nodded. “Same here.”
Chapter 5
Raymond Masters had been patient, but that grace was wearing thin. His plans had already been delayed for more than a decade, thanks to the starlet. Ah-Puch had evaded him.
He'd nearly had it. Nearly managed to put the final piece in place, to begin the endgame. And then, as happens, fate had stepped in. He'd been betrayed—first by the antiquities dealer, Ramon, and then by the woman, Maggie Hamilton. He'd further been betrayed by the guerrillas he'd paid to deliver Ah-Puch into his hands. Betrayal stacked upon betrayal. It had left a sour taste in his mouth. But he'd been patient.
Now he was practicing his patience with the young archaeology student who quivered and fidgeted in front of him.
“Mr. Simmons,” Masters said, his voice deep and resonating, and filled with notes of pure authority. It was his boardroom voice. It was the voice he used to control his empire. Men who made more money in a single day than Derek Simmons could hope to make in a hundred lifetimes were often moved to shiver and quake by the sound of that voice.
Simmons was alert, his eyes wide, his face pale and skin clammy.
“I have paid you for a service,” Masters continued. “I expect you to provide the artifact.”
“I will, I promise,” Simmons said. “It's just that I can't get to it, at the moment.”
“And why is that?” Masters asked.
“Well, the girl … the girl we found in the tomb. She's famous. Or she was five years ago. And there was a big investigation into her disappearance. When we found the statue, I hid it, so I could sneak it out of camp later. But before I could do that, the Mexican authorities clamped down on the site. And now the FBI is involved …” He trailed off, as if invoking those three letters somehow absolved him of responsibility.
“You were paid a considerable sum,” Masters said. “In advance.”
Simmons nodded several times, very quickly. “Yes, thank you,” he said, as if Masters were merely reminding him to be polite. “I was able to pay off my student loans in one payment, and I still have money left over. I'm … thank you.”
“I haven't performed a charity, Mr. Simmons. I have an expectation. We struck a deal. You would deliver Ah-Puch to me, in exchange for that rather large sum of money. I fulfilled my part in that bargain, and you have not.”
Simmons again started to stammer. “Yeah, I … I know. I'm sorry. Yes, I promise, I will get it to you, somehow.”
“You'll pardon me if I don't rely on that promise,” Masters said. “However, you can still be of service to me. You said you've hidden the artifact.”
“Yes!” Simmons said. “It's still in the camp, but I doubt anyone will find it, anytime soon.”
Masters looked to one of his men—one of the two brutish figures acting as personal security, standing on either side of the door to the study. Masters had reserved rooms in this hotel to provide a neutral meeting place. He had them booked under an assumed name, and had them paid for with cash by one of his people. There was nothing to connect him to this meeting. Simmons didn't even know his name. The two brutes on either side of the door would ensure that Simmons could never connect anything to Masters, but that would happen later.
The man he'd motioned to approached. “Take Mr. Simmons to a desk and provide him with paper and a pen.” He looked back to Simmons. “You'll write a detailed description of where you've hidden Ah-Puch, and how to retrieve it.”
Simmons was nodding before Masters had even finished. “Yes, definitely,” he said. “But there's also a security force there. A lot of men, and a lot of weapons. They were our escort to the site, and they're still there, protecting it.”
“Write down those details as well,” Masters said. “Be specific.”
Simmons nodded again, and was led away by the larger man.
Masters turned to face the tall windows that looked out over the mountains and forests of Mexico. This hotel was located in an idyllic spot, providing a unique glimpse of at least three different ecosystems. The mountains had their majestic charm, and were then surrounded by the wild and untamed jungle. But from this vantage point, Masters could also see the blue waters and white-sand beaches that drew tourists to this region.
He owned a villa near here, with a similar view, but it was striking despite its familiarity.
More waiting.
He sighed, and poured himself a glass of Macallan. The 250-year-old scotch was smooth and soothing, and did much to bring a sense of peace and calm to him. But even the fine texture and body of this golden liquid could only carry him so far.
He had been patient, and more tolerant than he'd had reason to be. But that patience was wearing thin. He sensed, however, that the waiting was soon to come to its conclusion, and a plan that had been on pause for a half a decade could resume.
Soon.
Chapter 6
Kotler was seated across from Denzel in the offices of the Historic Crimes division, at the FBI headquarters in Manhattan. Agent Denzel was on the phone with contacts at Homeland Security, asking for details about the biological weapon and its association with the name “Ah-Puch.” For the past two hours, Denzel had asked for any information the agency had on Mayan artifacts, particularly anything that might have come into the country just prior to Maggie Hamilton's disappearance. So far, Denzel's half of the conversation had sounded less than productive.
Denzel hung up, and though he had carefully replaced the receiver on its base, it was clear his instinct was to slam it.
“No luck?” Kotler asked.
Denzel shook his head. “They can't release any details about the weapon. Classified.”
“But they have no problem with you doing all the footwork and tracking down this potentially lethal threat?” Kotler asked, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Allocation of resources is always at the heart of these things,” Denzel said. “So, we're still looking for more details about how Maggie Hamilton ended up in a Mayan tomb in Central America, and though we know that ‘Ah-Puch' was once used as a reference to a biological weapon, we have no way of knowing whether there's actually a connection between that and Ms. Hamilton's death. And if there is, we have no idea what the weapon might be.”
“And so that means …” Kotler said, rolling a hand and dipping his chin to his chest as he let the sentence trail.
Denzel sighed. “I'll book us on a flight,” he said.
Kotler grinned. “Don't look so forlorn, Roland! We're traveling to a history-rich region! Mesoamerica is one of the most intriguing cultural hotspots on the planet. Even what we know of the various civilizations that evolved there is sketchy at best. There are so many opportunities to learn something new!”
“The only new things I need to learn are how Maggie Hamilton ended up there and what problems Ah-Puch represents. Then I want to stop those problems from happening, and maybe arrest a bad guy. I'm not looking forward to cutting my way through jungles, sweating through my clothes, and fighting bugs and snakes and worse the whole time.”
Kotler waved a hand. “All part of the fun.”
“Kotler, has anyone ever told you that you have a twisted idea of fun?”
“It's come up,” Kotler said, nodding.
It had been a long day. They'd first flown into Miami, leaving on an early flight out of Newark, and from there they connected with a direct flight to Chichén Itzá International Airport, in Yucatán, Mexico. They disembarked directly to the tarmac, blinking in the bright Mexican sunlight and taking in their meager surroundings with curiosity.
The airport—with its squat and squared design, and inset external staircases—could just as well hav
e been another ruin of Mesoamerica. It shared many of the characteristics of the stone pyramids of the region, a deliberate nod to that historic architecture. It favored the local attractions to a degree, in fact, that had proven prophetic.
Built in the late 1990s, the Chichén Itzá International Airport (CZA, as it was designated in airport code) had been an attempt to capitalize on tourist traffic to the pyramids and ruins of this part of Mexico. These had long been an attraction of international appeal, drawing thousands of visitors a year to explore the mysteries of a lost culture. Building an airport that allowed visitors to step off the plane and wind their way to the pyramids in minutes, rather than hours, would surely thrill and inspire millions of tourists. For a profit, of course.
The assumption was that a direct route would open up new opportunities to obtain what would surely be untold wealth, siphoning vacation money away from eager tourists via trinkets and tours and luxury amenities. No longer would visitors have to fly to a remote region and endure bus rides through barely tamed jungles and even less tamed rural areas. Instead, they could set foot on Mexican soil a mere cab ride away from the treasures of Mesoamerica. It was certain to be a success.
The reality had fallen short of that assumption.
As it turned out, and to no great surprise to many, tourists preferred flying into Cancún as their ultimate vacation destination. The well-groomed beaches and long-established resorts were far more appealing than the newly emerging tourist trade in the jungles and rough terrain of Chichén Itzá, which suffered from a subtle veneer of poverty that didn't quite belie the actual undercurrents of wealth in the region.
Essentially, Chichén Itzá had an image problem.
This made it less than appealing as a travel hotspot, despite the fact that thousands of people visited the region each year. The reason was oddly non-intuitive, but ultimately came down to human nature.
For vacationers interested in traveling to and exploring the ruins of Mayan pyramids and lost cities, the attractions were just a four-hour bus ride away from the superior comfort and luxury of Cancún—making them close enough for a day-visit from the resorts, but far enough away to feel as though one were actually striking out on an adventure.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 6