“Do you want me to stick with it?” Rico looked up.
“Nah. I’m going to call Rick Gonzales and see if Quantico has turned up anything. Meanwhile, I need somebody working that robbery at the trading post out on 285. Can you go out and take the woman’s statement?”
“Sure, boss.” Rico seemed disappointed at the lack of results on the shooting, but they all felt that way.
Beau went into his office, closed the door, and dialed the FBI Albuquerque office. Rick came on the line right away.
“I’ll report what we know, but afraid it isn’t much,” Gonzales said. “Ballistics ran your bullet through our databases, first by region, then nationwide and then worldwide. Nada. The gun that fired it hasn’t been used in any previous crimes—I should say no crimes with a matching bullet. So that seems like a dead end.”
Beau wasn’t exactly surprised. Everything about this case had been a dead end.
“We’ve got surveillance on Marcus Fitch in DC. Agents are watching his apartment and tailing his moves. Got taps on his phone and computer, but we’re just not getting anything useful. He goes out for a run every morning, one-point-six miles through a nice Georgetown neighborhood and along a riverside pathway. Our agents have observed every step of the route, five days in a row now, and Fitch never pauses, never speaks to anyone, hasn’t so much as thrown a gum wrapper in a trash barrel.”
“And the rest of the day?”
“He goes back home after the exercise, cleans up and comes back out dressed casually. Khaki slacks or shorts, polo shirt, ball cap. Stops at the closest Starbucks. One of our female agents even observed inside and he orders the very same thing every morning. Sometimes pulls a laptop out of his messenger bag and goes online while he has coffee. Reads his email—nothing connected as far as we can tell—checks his Facebook page where his closest friend seems to be some guy from college. We checked him, and can’t spot a connection there. Want more?”
“Summarize it for me.”
“He has four regular stops: coffee, groceries at a small neighborhood market, a bookstore where twice he’s come out with a new novel to read, and what appears to be his favorite take-out restaurant—Thai food.”
“When he’s home there’s no additional email or social media activity?”
“Well, sure. But it’s just more of the same. We haven’t found anything that speaks of a compelling reason for his trip to Rome, much less to New Mexico.”
“He doesn’t go to work? To an office anywhere?”
“Nope.”
“The witness, Isobel St. Clair, is really convinced Fitch was involved in this thing.”
“My mother’s convinced all priests are good men.”
“We do have some evidence,” Beau reminded him. “St. Clair’s last visit to Taos a year or so ago, when Fitch followed her and ran her off the road, stealing some important—and related—documents from her car. Her offices in Alexandria also had an attempted breach, by someone in this OSM organization.”
“And that’s why we’re giving the man this much attention and manpower. Just keep in mind, unless something breaks open here, we can’t keep it up forever.”
“I know, and we all appreciate the efforts.” Beau hung up feeling frustrated.
He, too, was beginning to wonder about the point in following Marcus Fitch around his daily routine. But he believed Sam and he trusted the information from Isobel St. Clair. This guy was involved, whether he was the shooter or he’d hired one.
Most likely, Fitch had spotted the agents tailing him and was leading them on a merry—very boring—chase until they gave up. Judging by the way Gonzales was talking, that day would come soon. The day when, Beau knew, he and his department would need to become extra vigilant.
Chapter 35
Bobul had told Sam bits about the Romanian witch, too. At the time she’d guessed him to be delusional or simply superstitious. Now she wondered. Too many of his predictions had come true. She turned the book over in her hands and opened it to the first page.
The printing was done by hand on what appeared to be the title page. The elaborate lettering was difficult to decipher and apparently in a foreign language.
“Hold on,” Kelly said, picking up her phone and opening a translator app. “Do you think it’s Romanian?”
Sam shrugged. Kelly tapped a few buttons and entered what she thought the letters represented.
“Well, either I’m not reading the lettering right or it isn’t Romanian.” She held the phone up to show Sam that the translation hadn’t meant anything.
“Never mind. You can play around with that later,” Sam said. “I think our more pressing worry is about the boxes. We have two of the three, and we know someone is after them. Urgently enough that they’re willing to kill to get them.”
Kelly chewed at her lower lip. “What shall we do?”
“We may find some answers in this book,” Sam said, riffling through the pages. “But I’m afraid getting there may be a long, slow process. I can’t read the words, and it’s full of little hand-drawn sketches that probably mean something too.”
“I’ll work on figuring out what language it is,” Kelly said. “And you know, we have a historian in the family. I could show it to Scott and see if he recognizes it.”
“Umm … not sure that’s a good idea. I don’t want to put him in danger.”
“I doubt he could read any of it, but he might recognize the characters and at least give me a lead.”
“Be careful, Kel. Really careful.”
Kelly laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I will. Meanwhile, I’ll keep the book hidden away as long as I’m not working on it. Riki said for me to take another couple of days off—bless her, she thinks I have jetlag. I can spend this afternoon on the book. You’re buried at work, and I don’t want to add this as another worry to your list.”
Another worry for the list—Sam almost laughed—there were already so many.
“You’re right. The bakery is crazy this week, and if I don’t get busy with some definite plans for revamping production at the chocolate factory we’ll never be ready in time to start shipping to the cruise line.”
“Exactly. Leave this to me,” Kelly said. “I will report. And don’t worry!”
It was like hearing ‘don’t worry’ from your toddler who was about to step into traffic, Sam thought as she backed her truck out of Kelly’s driveway. But it had been many years since her daughter was a toddler, and she knew she needed to have faith that Kelly was a grown, capable woman. She smiled to herself—your kid is always your kid.
She had no sooner pulled up to the back door at Sweet’s Sweets than her phone rang. Language translation already? But it wasn’t Kelly. The screen told her Isobel St. Clair was on the line.
“Sam, hi, just wanted to check in. Is there any news on the investigation? I realize I should probably have called your husband’s office directly.”
“It’s okay. You caught me at a good time.” Relatively good, Sam thought, considering there hasn’t been a lull in weeks. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid Beau hasn’t reported anything new about the shooter. The FBI is in on it now. That’s about all I know. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. I was hoping for some news, some closure, for Tony’s parents.”
“It’s so sad. Heartbreaking for everyone he worked with, I’m sure.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Isobel’s voice conveyed her disappointment. “Meanwhile, is everything all right with the, um, artifact? No mishaps, no inquiries?”
Obviously, she was asking whether anyone had been poking around, trying for information or to take the box away.
“All’s well,” Sam said. She debated for a moment then decided to trust. “I do know where the second one is.”
“My god,” Isobel said. “So it’s true. It wasn’t destroyed?”
“I believe it’s the same one my uncle once had. More than that, I really shouldn’t say.”
“No, you’re right. Please be vigilant, Sam.
We are just beginning to learn the price—”
The call disconnected, leaving Isobel’s sentence unfinished, but Sam knew the sentiment behind it. Yes, she and Kelly would definitely be watchful. Tonight she would tell Beau about Isobel’s call and ask him to share any news with the Vongraf people. Sadly, there were no updates that could bring back their lost co-worker.
Chapter 36
His heart began to pound as Marcus Fitch dropped the connection to the line he had breached at The Vongraf Foundation. Tapping their phones had posed a real challenge—unlike the dink system at the Taos County Sheriff’s Department, The Vongraf had invested in some serious security. But because of his persistence, he now knew Isobel St. Clair had just received a valuable piece of information. For Marcus, the news was priceless. His fingertips practically itched with the urge to act. Unfortunately, the time was not quite right.
He’d spotted the FBI tail the very first day, and he felt quite proud of the way he’d manipulated them. An agent—usually the attractive dark-haired female, sometimes the young hot-shot guy—was now at Starbucks every day. On the days he didn’t see one of them inside the shop, pretending to leisurely sip a coffee while sneaking glances toward his laptop screen, one or the other would be sitting in a car a half block down the street.
There were two others, one a blonde who looked damn good in gray Lycra shorts and a blue singlet that hugged her every curve. She ran his entire route each morning, keeping about a quarter mile behind, although she was fit enough to have overtaken him anytime she wanted. The fourth character was actually the one who’d tipped him that the team was FBI—older guy, bald, tired blue suit that had gone baggy at the knees from too much sitting. He’d passed Marcus on the street when he paused to look in a window at some cool watches; in the millisecond when the suit jacket flapped open Marcus spotted the badge and holster at his waist.
None of this came as a surprise after that Special Agent Rossetti had questioned him in New York. He’d been a little freaked when they pulled him aside after the Shannon flight, but he’d kept his cool and walked away. Now, here in DC, all he had to do was keep up a boring routine and not make any sudden moves. They’d give up. With all the flap in the news about government cutbacks, they couldn’t watch a guy jog and drink coffee forever.
“Morning, Fitch,” said a voice at his shoulder. Marcus tried not to flinch.
“Perone. How’s it going?” he asked without looking up from the computer screen in front of him.
“I could ask you the same. The director wants to know why you weren’t at the last three meetings. Clearly, you’re in town and you’re here in the secure room nearly every day.”
Marcus gritted his teeth behind the smile he sent to the junior OSM member. “I’m monitoring critical phone calls. The director knows about it. He gave the go-ahead.”
“Well, yesterday afternoon he asked if any of us knew where you were.” Perone’s voice took on a whiny tinge as he tried to justify the interruption.
Fitch gave him a long stare and the younger man backed down. “Okay, then, guess it was nothing.”
Behind the cool glare to his fellow OSM member, Marcus’s thoughts were still reeling after listening to the call Isobel St. Clair had placed. Samantha Sweet had two of the magical boxes in Taos. If he could get his hands on them … He practically salivated at the thought.
Another trip to Taos was in order. If only he could get rid of those damned FBI agents.
He erased his browsing history and shut down the ultra-secure OSM computer. Bypassing the director’s office, he took a narrow hallway to an elevator that led to the underground parking level. What few people knew was that the unmarked door next to the elevator opened to the basement of the adjacent bookstore.
The agents had trailed him there, too. For the first three days he’d tested their patience by wandering up and down the aisles of the fiction sections, seemingly browsing every book. On day two he’d picked up one and taken it to the in-store bistro where he spent two hours eating a sandwich while reading. By day three the FBI had taken to watching from across the street, and by day four he could see the two agents having a lively conversation in their car while barely glancing toward the bookshop. That’s when he began strolling toward the restrooms and veering away to the elevator. Many bookstore customers parked in the underground lot, so no one noticed Marcus.
For two weeks now he’d been able to accomplish miracles in tracking the moves of his quarries in Alexandria and in Taos without ever using his personal computer or phone. To keep his surveillance team thinking they were doing a great job, he always ended each session at OSM by walking back through the bookshop, grabbing a novel at random to buy, then tucking it under his arm as he strolled out the front door and went back in the direction of his apartment. He grinned. Oh yeah, these people would soon be extremely tired of Marcus Fitch and his boring routines.
Chapter 37
Kelly pored over the old book most of the afternoon. A few of the drawings were recognizable, but without the context of the words to go along with them, she couldn’t take much meaning from them. The one sketch she definitely knew was that of a box shape, skillfully drawn in three dimensions, showing a quilted pattern carved into the surface. It had small circular shapes in each X part of the design, identical to the box her mother owned.
Beneath the picture was one word, but Kelly couldn’t read it. Sam had said the boxes had names. Perhaps that was it.
Outside, a car pulled into their driveway. She shoved the book under the edge of the sofa and hurried to the kitchen. It was Scott.
“Hey, baby,” he said with a warm smile. “Were you napping?”
She couldn’t tell him how much energy she had, so she merely shook her head.
“I was dozing at my desk. Can’t believe it’s only three o’clock. Decided to come home early, grab a little rest, then I thought maybe we could go out for Mexican. Those burritos at the Taoseño keep coming to mind.”
“Sounds good. Hey, before you fall asleep could you take a look at something real quick?”
He followed her into the living room and she pulled out the book. She opened it to a page without pictures. “Mom and I were looking at this earlier but we have no idea what language it is. Do you recognize it?”
He held it at arm’s length, staring intently. “Not really. The characters are similar to Cyrillic, which is what Russian and several other languages are based on … but I don’t think it’s exactly that. Some of the letters could almost be Runes. But I’m no expert on languages. I could show it to one of the linguists at the university and see if they recognize it.”
She took the book back, watching him yawn. “Go have your nap, and we’ll think about this later.”
She watched as he dropped his jacket over a chair and dragged himself toward the bedroom. Within five minutes he’d kicked off his shoes, flopped fully clothed onto the bed, and was snoring heartily.
The book should definitely not leave her possession, Kelly knew. And she had a feeling even making a copy of a page or two wouldn’t be smart. What if the linguist who looked at it could do more than identify the language, could actually read it? If the book had indeed come from a line of Romanian witches, having someone know it was here might not be good at all.
She found a sheet of tracing paper among a bin of art supplies and set about tracing a sampling of random characters, with a full word only here and there. Surely, this couldn’t be comprehensible. What she wanted at this point was just to identify the language so she could go online and look up the meaning.
By the time Scott woke up, she had a half page of what looked like scribbles.
“Can your language colleague help us with this little bit to go on?” she asked when he came into the kitchen and saw the page on the table.
“No idea, but we can ask.”
She had expected him to fold the page and take it to the college the next day but he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. In under a minute he’d fo
und the email address of the linguist he’d been thinking of and had sent the photo and request.
“Now, how about that burrito?” he suggested.
Kelly had loved the Taoseño since she was a kid, from the family who owned the place to the consistently good food. And, come dinner time, you could have a drink with your meal. She and Scott ordered Tecate, which seemed the ideal match for the chicken burrito smothered in green chile sauce. The scent of the steaming hot meal that arrived in front of her caused her to salivate, even before the hot chile tingled her taste buds.
Scott’s phone rang just as he was pushing his empty plate aside. “Hmm, that was quick.”
“Hey, Ben. Are you a whiz with languages, or what?” He put the speaker on so Kelly could follow.
A chuckle came through. “Well, can’t say I’m a whiz at this one. Can’t read a thing it says.”
Kelly felt a stab of remorse. Maybe she should have at least copied an entire sentence verbatim.
“Actually, I don’t think it’s a recognized language. Based on the characters, I believe this is a made-up communication using two or more different languages. Some of the symbols are Glagolitic, which is an ancient language—generally thought to be created in the 9th century by Saint Cyril, who was a Byzantine monk from Thessaloniki.”
Scott sent Kelly a wide-eyed look. She was scribbling notes on her rumpled napkin.
Ben continued. “Certain of the characters are from one of the runic alphabets. Those were the earliest of Germanic writings, but they can also date back to Greek or Phoenician. It’s fascinating stuff, but I don’t think what you sent me can really be translated. It’s such a mishmash of word patterns … Perhaps if I had a whole page of it … but I’m thinking someone wrote it almost as a code. If you had the answer key, you could figure out what character stands for what. Then we might be able to apply it to one specific language and get somewhere with it. Sorry I don’t have more positive news. I’d love to give it a shot if I had a longer text and if there existed an answer key of some kind.”
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