by Alex Archer
Annja sat back, trying to absorb everything.
“Some of this will come out,” Peter continued. “It’ll show I didn’t kill Edgar. Whoever killed Papa, well...”
Annja just stared.
“...I think whoever killed Papa killed Edgar.” He switched hands on the telephone, wiped his sweaty palm off on his jumpsuit. “Problem is, nobody is looking at Papa’s death as murder. He had a history of heart problems, and they think he just died in his sleep. The police don’t know it’s probably about the gold.”
Peter could get them to look at Papa’s death as murder, Annja realized; if it came out at trial about Edgar and Papa’s research, the gold and the theory. But to do that, Peter would have to reveal that he was trying to talk his way into their clique, turn their duo into a triumvirate and take a share of the discovery. It would make Peter look bad...but could he look any worse than being charged with manslaughter?
“If you had called the police,” Annja said, her voice a whisper, “when you saw the struggle at Dr. Papadopolous’ house, maybe he’d be alive.” She recognized too late how very hurtful those words were, that she’d put Papa’s death on Peter. “Look, I—”
“You don’t think I know that?” Peter’s face was red with ire. “I know I screwed up.... If I’d done something, I maybe could’ve kept Papa alive.” His voice faded to a mere whisper. “And maybe Edgar, too. If only I’d called the police right away.”
“You’re a fool,” Annja said, not able to tamp down her anger. “Maybe Edgar was right about the Mayans. Or maybe he was on a wild-goose chase. In either case, he wasn’t the fool.”
Peter’s shoulders shook. “Annja, I—”
Peter was a different man to her now. Not the archaeologist she had respected or the man she’d called a friend. He was defeated. Pitiful.
“Mrs. Hapgood.” Annja remembered that people at the conference said Mrs. Elyse Hapgood was with Peter. “Does she have anything to do with this...with any of this?” Or was Mrs. Hapgood a puzzle piece that Annja wasn’t going to be able to cram into place?
He shook his head. “Elyse.”
“Not a coincidence, Peter. Everything’s related.”
He shook his head more vehemently. “Elyse had nothing to do with his. She is...was...a friend, a little more than a friend. But I told her about it, the gold and the theory, just in conversation at the park while I was hoping to talk to Papa again. I guess we all talk too much. But I swear she had nothing to do with—”
“Edgar, Dr. Papadopolous, your ‘friend’ Mrs. Hapgood. They’re all related, Peter.”
“Annja, no, maybe not. Maybe—”
“They all knew about the theory and the gold. And they’re all dead.” She stood, still holding on to the phone. “I’d watch your back, Peter. I’d stay in jail, where you’re safe. And I’d pay attention to your attorney. Keep your mouth shut.” Maybe if he’d done that, at least Mrs. Elyse Hapgood would still be breathing.
Chapter 21
Annja knew she had a temper, but she kept it under control most of the time. Now she wasn’t even trying.
Right now she wanted to be angry, needed to be angry...over the death of Edgar, and Papa, whom she’d never met, over the death of a potter named Joe, who made works of art and discovered Mayan gold in a Wisconsin lake. She was an admitted adrenaline junkie, and her rage was giving her a welcome boost. She focused on it, felt her heart beating faster, formed fists as she walked from the police station toward the parking lot where she’d left her motorcycle. She could have parked closer, but after dealing with Sully, driving here right after, she wanted to burn off some pent-up energy.
Annja listened to the city as she went, the traffic shushing by, music coming from open car windows—rap, blues, country, rock. There was the loud belch of a bus that pulled up next to her, dispatching a few folks who were going toward an apartment building, probably headed home from work or possibly from dinner, judging by the time. She glanced at her watch; it was nearly seven. She’d hoped to find Manny after she was done with Peter, but he wasn’t at the station. “Out at the hotel and conference center,” an officer told her. “Working a case.”
His last case, she thought, wanting to help solve it for Edgar and herself, but also for the detective. It would indeed be a great note to end his career on. Two blocks to go and she caught a look at an old woman outside an antiques shop. She’d been looking in the window, the shop closed, but now she was looking at Annja, eyes wide and mouth open. Maybe a fan of Chasing History’s Monsters, or maybe...
Annja spun, but not fast enough. A man had come up behind her, snub-nosed pistol in his hand. He jabbed her with it.
“In the alley,” he growled. “Now, or I’ll pull the trigger.”
The sword was there in Annja’s mind and she flexed her hand, ready to call it. But not here, right out on the sidewalk with all the people watching.
“No!” The old woman yelled and jumped back, hoping to shield herself. “Police!”
The old woman screamed. She was on her cell phone, calling the police, frantically describing the man with the gun.
“Damn.” The man pushing Annja raised a hand with something in it just as they reached an empty alleyway. She breathed, and then the earth seemed to fall away and darkness reached up to swallow her.
She came to minutes later.
Annja knew she hadn’t been out long, since the sky was still gray. She heard sirens, loud and close, likely coming in answer to the old woman’s call. The man who’d clocked her now loomed over her. They were still in the alley. She’d been stuffed between two Dumpsters. The guy was attempting to hide the both of them from the action on the street. He waved the snub-nosed gun at her.
“You!” he said.
Annja waited, tentatively reaching up and touching the back of her head, her fingertips coming away bloody. “Great.” She was sitting on the ground, the back of her pants damp from whatever garbage he’d sat her in.
“You!” He pointed the gun at her and kicked at something on the ground between her knees. It was her purse, and he’d upended it. The contents were strewn among the litter. Her cell phone was in pieces beneath his heel.
“Great,” she said again. The sword was there, waiting, almost as if it was demanding she reach for it. Annja held back. The man would have killed her if that had been his intent.
He touched his ear with his free hand; she noticed he had a phone bud. “Mr. A.,” he said. “I have her. But the cops are here. Some old woman called them. Sirens going already. Yeah, I’ll get it out of her. I’ll get your gold. Stevie’s bringing the van right now.” He touched the bud again, disconnecting his call. “So, where is it, lady? The rest of it?”
Annja put on a surprised face and listened to the siren, which was passing by the alley. The car didn’t stop. “The rest of what?”
He shoved the gun against her forehead.
“You know damn well what I want.”
The guy was going to kill her, she decided, but not until after he got what he wanted.
“You know what. The coins. The gold your fat friend had.”
“Dr. Schwartz?”
“Yeah, him.” He pressed the gun harder; it hurt. “Quick, lady. Not in your purse.” He moved his foot to step on the plastic enclosing the silver certificate. It snapped. “Not in your hotel room. Where is it and where did Schwartz get it? Tell me now and I won’t have to dump you a long ways from here. Better if your friends find your body, don’t ya think? Where did it come from, the gold coins? Where’s the treasure? We know Schwartz was a friend of yours. Said your name all nice and pretty before he died—”
“You son of a bitch!” He’d killed Edgar. But the thug hadn’t gotten anything useful out of Edgar in the process...other than her name. Her old friend hadn’t mentioned Sully’s What-Nots, nor the lake. She was
planning to go along with the brute; he was clearly the muscle and not the brains. The brains had been at the other end of the earbud. That was who she needed to find—the orchestrator—to fill in the final puzzle pieces.
She wanted to yell at him some more, but she was mad and grieving, and suddenly, the sword was in her hand. She turned and swung with all the strength she could summon, hitting the hand holding the gun. She’d used the flat and the impact was loud, his cry of pain sharp. Still, he kept hold of the snub-nosed pistol.
The sirens roared louder. She counted two now. Were they doubling back? They had to be looking for her and this thug. She’d have to act quickly, to deal with the man and get some questions answered before the police found this alley or before Stevie and the van showed up.
She wasted no time. Sweeping the sword up, she rammed him with it. He staggered, and as she was clear of the Dumpsters, she had room to truly work the blade. She angled it again and drove it down, the flat cracking against his shoulder blade. She heard something pop—maybe his shoulder had dislocated, maybe she’d cracked a bone.
A string of expletives ran together as he jerked his gun in close and fired it.
Hot pain stabbed through Annja’s thigh. He’d shot her.
“Where the hell...did you get a sword!”
She reversed her swing, and the blade caught him in the arm. “You bitch! Mr. A. says you gotta live...until you give up the gold.” He quickly stepped back when Annja swung once more, slicing through his heavy shirt and drawing a line of blood. He fired again. This time the bullet connected with a Dumpster.
“Hey! What’s going on down there? I’m calling the police!” The voice came from somewhere above them.
Tires squealed and Annja pressed her attack, rushing him and pinning him up against the opposite wall of the alley, bringing the sword up in both hands and hammering down with the pommel, catching him on the shoulder blade again.
“Who’s doing this? Give me a name!”
His answer was to spit in her face.
Gravel ricocheted against trash cans and the brickwork, and tires squealed louder, heralding company in the alley. Annja looked now, expecting to see a police car, but it was a van, Army-green and speeding toward them.
A dog barked, more yelling and the sirens again.
The van was closing in.
Annja dismissed her sword to free both hands, and she sprung, grabbing the end of a fire escape and hauling herself up, her leg screaming in protest. The tips of her shoes bounced against the roof of the van; it had come that close to the wall, meaning perhaps to run her over.
Or to run over the thug.
She glanced down as she pulled herself up another rung and saw a flash of light from the passenger window. The sirens were too loud to hear anything apart from them, but she knew a gun had gone off. The thug caught it in the chest, and the van rocketed out of the other end of the alley, turning right so hard and fast it rode up on two wheels before disappearing from sight.
A police car followed the van, the sound of its siren so loud it hurt. A second car that was behind it, lights on but no sirens, slammed to a halt. Two officers jumped out, one leaning over the thug, the other standing next the car, mic to his mouth and looking up at Annja and motioning. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. There was too much noise—sirens, shouts from the street, from someone above.
She lowered herself down the fire escape and jumped the last five feet to the ground, landing on her good leg and falling, but picking herself up before the cop could reach her.
“How is he—” Annja started.
“Dead,” the officer answered. “One round in the chest, dead center.”
More sirens. Annja pressed her palms against her ears and leaned back against the brick. “This has been a crazy day,” she said.
An ambulance entered the alley from the opposite end, going nose to nose with the police car. Two paramedics hopped out, one going to the back and opening the door.
“No.” Annja waved at them. “I’m not going to—”
“Ma’am?” This from the officer who had been checking on the thug. “We need you to go to the hospital, ma’am.”
“It’s Annja Creed,” the other officer said. “The woman Rizzo told me about.” He picked up the spilled contents of her purse and tried to make some order of them, then gathered her broken cell phone and stuffed it all in the purse. He nodded toward his partner. “Miss Creed, Larry here will ride with you to the hospital. Is there anyone we can call for you?”
She thought a moment, deciding not to argue and to accept the ride. Her leg throbbed badly, and her pants were wet with muck and blood. “Manny. You could call Detective Manny Rizzo for me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She closed her eyes when they helped her onto the stretcher. Its thin mattress felt comfortable. “You don’t have to use the sirens,” she told the paramedics.
But they didn’t listen.
Chapter 22
He liked the feel of her skin against his, slightly sweaty and perfumed, soft and smooth as porcelain.
“I have to leave, Keiko.”
She sucked on his earlobe and draped an arm across his chest. “No, you don’t have to leave. This is my vacation, Gary, yours and mine, and we can stay between these sheets until noon tomorrow if we want to.”
He rose and checked the clock on the nightstand. “Sorry. I’ve an appointment,” he said and padded into the bathroom for a shower, the steaming water washing away all trace of her.
Like money, women came and went from his life, but he was finding himself attached to this one. Keiko wasn’t especially beautiful or smart, and he thought her overly skinny. But she had a charm, was good in bed, and he liked the way her eyes flashed with childlike wonder when she was excited over something...anything. Did she suspect that he would ditch her shortly? Not right after this conference, as he was going back to Chicago for a while and she would continue to provide a welcome distraction when he was not “working.” But soon thereafter.
He’d fly out of the Windy City for someplace exotic, and he’d leave her behind. He would never see her again. Garin knew that he’d regret it.... It would be the first time in many, many years that he would feel sad—would feel anything—over leaving a woman. But he would leave her nonetheless. Women did not live forever...and even if they did, he couldn’t imagine spending eternity with just one.
He toweled himself and changed into jeans and a tailored shirt, added a maroon silk tie Keiko had bought him this afternoon with his money. As an afterthought he put on a blazer, a very expensive linen-and-silk blend he’d paid seventeen hundred for. Fog-gray and adjusted to fit his wide shoulders, he fancied that it made him look professional, but not overly so, as the jeans kept his appearance casual.
“My handsome man,” Keiko pronounced. “I like to watch you dress.”
He came to the bed, leaned over and kissed her forehead. “And I like to watch you undress.”
She giggled playfully. “I ordered wine from room service. Can’t you wait until it gets here? Have a glass before you go to spend more time with those boring old anthropologists?”
“No, sweet. But I won’t be gone all that long. Save me a few sips, will you?”
“And then I can watch you undress,” she said. “I think I will like that even better.”
He met Rembert on the floor above, not wanting the photographer to know what room he was in. Together they went up to the penthouse floor.
“Your camera?”
“Two, actually. My tie tack,” Rembert said. He fiddled with his tie to show him. “Neat, huh? Like something out of James Bond. Won’t be the best for recording faces. So for that, I’m relying on this ear-piece in my glasses. They weren’t all that expensive, and I figure I can turn in a voucher for them. The quality? I don’t k
now, not up to what I can get with my good equipment, but they’re unobtrusive.”
“No shots of me, understand, Mr. Hayes...until I ask you for such.”
Rembert looked confused. “I thought you didn’t want any—”
“And be careful in here. You said you valued your family and your skin. These men are...” He watched Rembert pale and left the sentence unfinished. The photographer got his meaning.
Aeschelman greeted them with champagne, which Garin declined. He wanted to remain alert, and he was pleased Rembert followed his lead. He stayed slightly behind the photographer’s shoulder, ensuring that he wouldn’t end up in the video.
There were a dozen others present, and even though the suite was large, the guests made the room feel uncomfortably close. Perfumes and scented oils mingled and made Garin’s eyes water. A thin man was smoking, despite hotel regulations. The youngest was an archaeologist Garin had spotted yesterday trying to avoid the reporters in the lobby; he had the wide-pupil look of having just done a line of cocaine. There were two other men who’d been wearing badges earlier in the day. So Garin had accounted for the archaeologists in the circle who were attending the conference—two bidding and selling for themselves, one acting as a broker; he suspected the broker to be the cocaine boy.