by Alex Archer
Edgar Schwartz hit Send and leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. He closed out his email and called up a news page to skim a few headlines.
Amazing what people were capable of doing to each other. Edgar decided not to read any of the particulars and to instead indulge in something pleasant. He reached for the phone and dialed room service, ordering the cabernet-braised short ribs and a bottle of Shoofly Shiraz. The Madison Arms Hotel had a delightful menu, and he intended to work his way through as much of it as possible during his stay.
Thirty minutes, the man at the other end of the phone announced. Just enough time, Edgar thought, to take a peek at his son’s Facebook page and catch up on the grandchildren’s vacation pictures, and then maybe surf one of his favorite archaeology sites. He’d just clicked Open on a folder labeled Disneyland when his cell phone chirped.
“Oh, bother.” One of his colleagues, he guessed. The conference started tomorrow, and he’d be talking to plenty of his fellow archaeologists then. It was no doubt someone wondering why he didn’t go on the pre-conference tour today. He didn’t want to admit to the caller that his feet hurt.
The phone stopped chirping. A pause, and then it started again. Persistent, eh? Edgar thought, still deciding to ignore it. And yet... He stretched across the desk just to see who was calling. The hair prickled at the back of his neck. He picked it up. “Yes?”
He scowled and pressed the phone close. “I’m not changing my mind, damn you. I should have never told you about this, never should have showed you. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut and...What? Speak up. I—” The words came at him in a hiss. “Papa? Really? When?” More hurried words. “Dear God. And we’d been so careful, Papa and I.” A pause. “Not careful enough, apparently....Of course. Of course. Did you say anything? Anything to anyone?...No? Are you certain? How could anyone else have found out?...Oh, Papa, I suppose....No, he wouldn’t have told... Doesn’t matter, does it?...All right, I’ll call you when I can.”
Edgar closed the phone and shoved it in his pocket, lumbered to his suitcase and felt around on the inside flap until he came up with a jump drive. He hurried back to the desk and shoved the drive against the slot in the laptop. He pressed a few keys and tapped his fingers, waiting.
It wasn’t connecting fast enough.
He should call the front desk, shouldn’t he? No. No one there could help, and it would take too long to explain. The police? No on that account, too. Doubly no, in fact. He patted his pants to make sure he had his wallet, looked at his watch and tapped his fingers faster.
“Come on.” A return trip to his suitcase, and he dug into the flap again, coming away with a half-inch-thick folder filled with paper and a heavy envelope. Edgar considered himself both old and old-fashioned, and though he embraced computers, he still kept a little hard copy around. He shoved the folder and envelope in between the top mattress and the box springs and smoothed the spread down over it. They might not look there, and if they did, it wasn’t complete. There was only his suitcase and the laptop, right? They might be content with just searching those, and maybe with tossing the room a bit, opening all the drawers. That was what they did to Papa’s place. Gave it a tossing and then covered their tracks. They wouldn’t check the mattress. They wouldn’t! Had they found anything at Papa’s? Well, certainly. But Papa hadn’t had everything, only pieces and a couple of old, ancient things. Edgar had the whole puzzle between the folder and his computer and what rumbled around in his brain. And Edgar had that “icing” for the cake, the one thing that would prove him right and make him famous. His crowning achievement in archaeology.
“Oh, hurry up, will you!” he scolded the laptop. There! It was finished. He pulled the jump drive out without hitting the button that said it was safe to remove it. His thick fingers pounded across the keys. A few missed strokes and he had to start over. “Hurry up. Hurry up.”
The pictures of his youngest granddaughter holding hands with Mickey Mouse flickered then blinked out. The screen went blank. There, the hard drive was erased!
Edgar was panting, likening himself to a bulldog that had been forced into too much activity. He didn’t wear panic well, too many years and too many high-calorie restaurant dishes followed by too many bottles of wine. His chest felt tight with worry, and he tugged his shirt collar open. Eyes wide, he took a last glance around the room. Was he forgetting to cover any other tracks?
Forgetting anything important?
Wallet, jump drive—which he would hide in one of those fake potted plants in the lobby—car keys. He’d come back for the jump drive when it was safe, and the folder between the mattresses, if they didn’t find it. The relics were small, so they were in the folder, too. He patted his pockets again to make sure, opened his cell phone and tossed it into the toilet so it would be ruined. Then he trundled toward the door, knocking over the desk chair in his hurry.
“Steady on, old man.”
He looked out into the hallway.
Empty.
He could hear a few television sets playing from behind closed doors. The song “Wanted Dead or Alive” thrummed from the nearest, accompanied by the whoosh of a wave, suggesting that the guest was watching a Discovery Channel crab-fishing program.
Should he knock on someone’s door?
Ask for help?
No. Nobody here could help him. And he wasn’t about to put a stranger at risk.
He headed to his left, hoping he’d guessed correctly that the elevators were in that direction. The Madison Arms was a large hotel, and he had trouble sometimes finding his way in these big places.
Another left. He panted faster, making a chuffing noise.
Success! A bank of elevators waited.
A light blinked on above the center door, someone coming up to this floor.
It might be room service, with his cabernet-braised short ribs and Shoofly Shiraz. But it hadn’t been a half hour, had it? Maybe another guest with a room on this floor. But maybe it was someone else. He swung around and retraced his steps, chuffing louder. Right at the next corridor. He passed the door to a suite and heard a blast of canned laughter—someone inside watching an insipid sitcom. A right again and he saw the exit sign for the stairwell at the end of the hallway.
Edgar was on the tenth floor. He could do ten flights, couldn’t he? It would all be downhill. Edgar knew he would damn well have to manage it if he wanted to save his fat hide. He patted his pocket again, feeling the metal bulge of his car keys. Find a spot to stash the jump drive, retrieve it and the folder when it was safe, he repeated to himself. Couldn’t keep the jump drive on him in case they caught up to him. Old, out of shape, he wouldn’t be outrunning anybody. And he’d watched enough thrillers in his day to know if they caught him they’d search him...or worse.
“Dear God.” Then he pushed open the metal door and heard it clang loudly shut behind him as he trundled down the steps.
Chapter 3
Friday
Annja Creed breezed into the spacious lobby of the Madison Arms Hotel, duffel slung over her back.
“Swank for the land of the Cheeseheads, eh?” Rembert said. He was a few steps behind her. “Downright ritzy.”
Annja raised her eyebrows. “Swank? Ritzy? Using your grandfatherspeak, Rem? Old-man words.” She instantly regretted the jab when Rembert scowled and turned red. The “grandfather” bit was a sore spot. She knew her cameraman had just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday. But he’d become a grandfather before that. He had a teenage daughter at home, unwed and with a child just turned two. She opened her mouth to apologize.
He waved away any further comment and shuffled to the front desk, where two men in department-store suits were in a heated discussion with the manager.
“Checking in.” Rembert got the attention of a desk clerk. “Rembert Hayes.” He tugged out his wallet and handed over a credit card. “This is for incidentals, though there won’t be any. The room’s already marked as paid, right? I’m not paying for the room.”
&
nbsp; The clerk tapped some keys on her computer. “Yes, your reservation is covered. Room eight-fourteen. Three nights, queen. Checkout is by noon on Monday.” She took the offered card and ran it through a slot. She returned it and gave him a key card protruding from a small envelope. “Complimentary appetizers and glass of wine from five to seven.” She passed him a voucher. “The bellman is—”
“Don’t need one.” Rembert lifted his suitcase in one hand and hefted his camera bag with the other. “I can save five bucks and carry it myself.”
“Enjoy your stay,” she offered.
Annja stepped up and put on a polite smile in contrast to Rembert’s sour expression. “Annja Creed.” She handed over her credit card. She was paying her own way, as this was passing for a vacation.
Her producer, Doug Morrell, had offered to pick up the bill when he decided to send a photographer to get footage for all-purpose promos, but she declined his generosity. Her idea, her dime, her time. Doug was going to have zero say in how she spent the next three days.
She initially hadn’t even wanted the cameraman. She’d told Doug no but he pressed the matter, saying that filming her appearance at this conference would help add a scholarly air to their cable-television show Chasing History’s Monsters. She relented. But next time she wouldn’t cave. Next time...
“Miss Creed, I love your program!” The desk clerk beamed. “May I?” She produced a cell phone and opened it.
“Of course.”
The clerk snapped a picture and returned the phone to her pocket. “Just a little proof I met a real celebrity today.”
Rembert tapped his foot and made a sound as if he was clearing his throat.
The desk clerk’s lips formed a thin line, and she passed back Annja’s credit card along with her hotel key card and wine-and-appetizer voucher. “Eight-ten. One of our nicest suites. The bellman—”
“I’ve only the one bag,” Annja said. “I’ll manage. Thanks.”
“Enjoy your stay,” the clerk said.
“Fancy suite, huh?” Rembert headed toward the elevator. “La-di-da. I’ll just drop this off in my non-fancy suite, and then—”
“You’re in quite the mood,” Annja said, watching him punch the up button with more force than necessary. “I’m really sorry about the grandfather—”
He let out a hissing breath and stabbed at the button again. “The baby needs an eye operation. Found out three days ago.”
Rembert hadn’t mentioned that on the flight here from New York City. In fact, Annja recalled that he hadn’t talked about much of anything, losing himself in a movie on his iPad and pointedly ignoring her during the entire trip.
“I see.”
“It’s not one of those elective things. If the kid doesn’t have it, he’ll go blind. Gonna be expensive, the operation. Real. And the kid—Colton... She named my grandchild Colton after some contestant on a reality show. Colton isn’t covered—”
“—by your insurance.”
“No. My wife’s insurance, yes. Or what used to be my wife’s insurance. Colton was on a rider, had been covered. But she got laid off, part of the pink-slip-athon that hit the loan division of the bank. Didn’t think to change my insurance to cover the baby, and she didn’t think to sign up for Cobra.” A pause. “We just didn’t think.”
The elevator doors opened and Annja let him go first. Inside, he stabbed at the eight button.
“So now my life is a sitcom,” he huffed.
Annja waited for him to continue.
“Sitcom, you know—Single Income, Two Children, Oppressive Mortgage. Sitcom. A real laugh.”
The reason for Rembert’s last-minute presence at the conference dawned on her. Annja hadn’t imagined that the top-notch cameraman would normally put in for such a routine assignment as filming a few segments of archaeologists blustering on about their topics of choice—all of it to be mashed into a commercial or two promoting Annja as the host of Chasing History’s Monsters.
Rembert had been avoiding working with her ever since their trip to France to film an episode about the Dog Men of Avignon. He’d been beaten and shot at and had pronounced Annja risky company when their stint in Paris ran them afoul of a madman who thought himself Charlemagne’s heir. Rembert had told her then he would never work with her again.
But he needed the money, Annja realized. He was taking any assignment that came along and bumping junior camera operators to get gigs like this one.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she offered.
He shrugged and punched the eight again, staring at the ceiling until the chime signaled they’d arrived at the correct floor. “Don’t mention it.” The door opened; he exited first and found his room halfway down the hall.
“I’ll meet you downstairs, at the conference sign-in. Rem?” Annja’s room was just past his.
He mumbled a yes, fumbled with the key card and disappeared inside. He poked his head back out. “Give me a few, okay? I think I’ll take a shower first.”
And hopefully cool off, Annja thought as she set her duffel on the sofa inside her suite and freshened her face in the washroom. “Don’t mention grandfather ever again,” she told her reflection. “Ever, ever, ever again.” If Rembert didn’t cheer up, it would be an uncomfortably long weekend. But she didn’t have to share his company for the entire conference, did she? In fact, she wouldn’t.
She would be having dinner tonight with an old friend—Edgar Schwartz—and tomorrow she had scheduled a lunch meeting with another longtime colleague, Peter Chiapont, an expert on Egyptian architecture. And in between were wonderful lectures she could get lost in.
She ran her fingers through her hair and smoothed a wrinkle out of her blouse. Besides, there was nowhere to go but up with respect to Rembert’s attitude.
A quick phone call before joining the others, Annja thought. She went to the phone and pressed nine. “Dr. Edgar Schwartz’s room, please.” She hung up when it rang several times and switched to voice mail. She tried his cell phone and got nothing. He was probably downstairs grazing at the breakfast buffet, which kicked off the Great Lakes States Archaeological Conference and where she intended to be a minute from now. Rembert could find her there.
She wasn’t the featured speaker of the conference, though when she signed in at the registration table, clipped on her badge and grabbed a program, she saw that her picture was the biggest in the booklet, filling the inside front cover. Annja hadn’t sent them one to use when she’d registered a few months back, but they must have contacted her network. It was a stock publicity photo showing her in an Indiana Jones–style khaki shirt, broad-brimmed hat and her hair expertly curled around her shoulders. “Annja Creed of Chasing History’s Monsters” was printed beneath, along with the name and website of the network that sponsored the program.
She inwardly groaned; her producer, Doug, obviously had paid for it as an ad spot. Annja didn’t want to be a star here, just a plain old conference-goer intending to listen to as many lectures as she could fit into a three-day blitz. She’d only agreed to speak when the conference chairman called a second time and begged her to sit on two panels: one dealing with fringe archaeology and the other on antiquities of Tham Lod’s spirit cave.
The next time she came across a conference she wanted to attend, she’d do so under an assumed name and certainly wouldn’t mention it to Doug.
She looked around. The two men in the department-store suits were still talking to the hotel manager. Interesting. But not as interesting as the scents that wafted out of the nearby ballroom, where breakfast was being served. Annja was seriously hungry and let her nose lead her.
The room was expansive and packed with men and women seated at long tables arranged like a pattern of dominoes. They were all chattering between bites, a few looking up to note her entrance, and then returning to their food and conversation. It was a pleasant buzz. Annja recognized several people, including Peter Chiapont, who was engrossed in conversation with an ample-breasted female companion.
She estimated attendance here at better than two hundred. The conference itself would draw probably twice that by the time it really got rolling this afternoon, attracting professional and amateur archaeologists, and students. But this breakfast was pricey enough to keep some of them away.
She suspected that a lot of these folks had arrived yesterday for the organized pre-conference outing at Aztalan State Park, site of an ancient Native American village noted for its flat-topped pyramid mounds. Annja had not been particularly interested and so waited for the first flight out of New York this morning.
She went directly to the buffet table, grabbed a plate and made her choices: pumpkin French toast with apple-raisin compote, a mound of cherrywood smoked bacon, poached eggs on English muffins—all of it barely fitting on the plate—and a bowl of fresh berries for a side. She might make a second trip for the granola waffle with cranberry-lemon butter...if the other attendees didn’t raise too many eyebrows at her first trip. Annja had an unusual metabolism and a corresponding appetite.
Edgar had emailed her a few days ago about the hotel’s celebrated chef and overseer of banquet functions. She didn’t spot Edgar in the sea of faces, so she took a seat in the middle of the closest table.
No empty seat nearby for Rembert. Good. She suspected he would pass on this buffet anyway; it would probably strain the expense account Doug had allotted him. With the first bite of the French toast, Annja decided she would also celebrate the chef.
“Amazing,” she said. The man across the table from her nodded. He was eating the French toast, too.
“So you’re the famous Annja Creed.” This came from a hawk-nosed woman a few seats down on the opposite side of the table. “I’ve seen your show—once. That picture in the program book doesn’t do you justice.”
Annja came up for air and mumbled a thank-you around a mouthful of poached egg. She definitely was going back for a second plate—a heaping one. On that trip she’d look around for Edgar; she’d tell him their dinner date would be in the hotel restaurant. No need to go outside with food as delicious as this.