Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel)

by Alex Archer

  “Funny-looking,” Rembert observed.

  Garin could tell he’d reached into his pocket and clicked the recorder off, not wanting to pick up his own voice.

  “Those little pieces, they look like deer or elk, don’t they? And that one, a badger with a man’s face. It’s sort of like the mascot for the city’s university.”

  Garin peered closer. “Indeed.” Perhaps he would bid on those, as well.

  The silver-and-gold bracelet, too, looked interesting. Dotted with jade and etched with more of the half-man, half-badger creatures. He doubted they were truly pre-Columbian, and in some cases he doubted the authenticity of several of the things for sale. Some craftsmen were so skilled that they could create objects that appeared to be centuries old, going so far as to find materials dating to those time periods; museums had paid thousands for pieces later proved forgeries.

  Garin recalled reading an article in a current archaeology magazine before coming to this conference; he’d been trying to acquire conversational tidbits in the event he found himself trapped. It covered the controversial sale at a Paris auction house of a pre-Columbian stucco goddess. Nearly life-size, it had been dated to roughly 700 AD and went for more than four million. Mexican authorities contended that the artifact was merely a clever forgery and had been recently produced and artificially made to look ancient. However, the auction house stood by its experts. The article went on to quote European museum curators who said the Mexican government was merely trying to eliminate the trade of pre-Columbian artifacts from European markets. Garin wondered what the Mexican authorities would say about these pieces.

  “These are beautiful pieces.” This from one of the two men ogling the pre-Columbian selection; he pointed to the effigies.

  Rembert had turned on his recorder again.

  The gold effigies were each no larger than a golf ball, and they had been placed next to Colima pottery figurines and a pre-Columbian Moche stirrup vessel that Aeschelman said was dated to 300 AD.

  “I acquired that very piece myself,” Aeschelman told Garin. “We are ready to begin.”

  In the end, Garin acquired the shield for thirty thousand, not as much as he had expected to spend, but the only other interested bidder was the woman, and she had already purchased several of the Egyptian pieces. If the others had known that the shield had in fact been carried by one of Joan of Arc’s knights...and had Aeschelman saw Joan’s signature etched in the steel, it could have sold for ten times that amount.

  And Garin would have paid it. He would have given up every last cent to get this, would have stolen it if need be. He knew when he saw it earlier today that he would not be leaving Wisconsin without it.

  Garin spent eight thousand on the earrings, having been told that a pair of earrings of that age was exceedingly valuable. Often only one survived the centuries. And another two thousand on the small medallion of the half man/half badger; he intended to have it turned into a key chain.

  If Rembert had been surprised at the money Garin was tossing at Aeschelman, he wisely didn’t show it. Garin decided that it had not been so foolish a decision to bring Annja’s photographer into this after all.

  “Wine to celebrate your purchases?” Aeschelman offered Garin a toast.

  “I have wine waiting for me in my room, thank you.” And better company to share it with. He pictured Keiko stretched out, catlike, on the bed and could not help but smile. But he had one more stop to make before he could return to her. He paid Aeschelman and added thirty thousand to it. “The name of the gentleman who had the shield?”

  Aeschelman provided a card; it would take at least a phone call to determine if it was the right man...an expensive risk. The auction host had also provided packaging material for each item. In Garin’s case, the shield was carefully nested into an overlarge thin portfolio, the kind artists carried their paintings in.

  “Perhaps I will see you at the next gathering of this circle,” Garin said to Aechelman as he and Rembert left.

  “Perhaps.” Aeschelman turned his attention to the woman and put his hand against the small of her back.

  At the elevator, Garin saw Rembert let out a deep breath and relax his shoulders. He opened his mouth, but Garin shook his head and mouthed Later. In the elevator, Garin waited until Rembert punched the button for the eighth floor.

  “Are you sharing your room with anyone, Mr. Hayes?”

  “No.” Rembert gave him a puzzled look.

  “Good. We will talk there.”

  Garin took the desk chair and rested the portfolio with the shield in the only other chair, leaving Rembert to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “What did you think, Mr. Hayes?”

  Rembert planted his palms on his knees, pointed his face toward the floor and rocked. “I think those are people with too much money and big egos. I’m going to sell my video to a major network and I bet they’ll use it as a piece of a much larger exposé. Those people back there are going to be in a world of trouble. The police...hell, I think the FBI will come after them.”

  “And I think you will have solved some of your money woes and made quite a name for yourself.”

  Rembert agreed and raised his head to meet Gavin’s gaze. “So tell me...at least tell me why you did this.” He pulled the recorder out of his pocket and laid it on the bed. Garin could tell it was off. He took off his tie-tack camera and the glasses

  “Did this? Did what, Mr. Hayes? Buy the shield and the trinkets?”

  Rembert shook his head. “No. I know you’re not going to tell me that. And frankly, I don’t care.”

  Smart man, Garin thought. No wonder Annja liked working with him.

  “Then what?”

  “Why let me film this, record those people—”

  “Those people with big egos and money?”

  “Yeah. Why let me in? I don’t buy what you told me earlier. There’s more to it.”

  “Of course there is, Mr. Hayes.”

  Rembert seemed to be studying him.

  “I told you at the beginning of this that you would learn nothing about me.”

  “Well, I have.”

  Garin got up, opened the portfolio and removed the shield. He left the white gloves in his pocket. “You’ve learned only that I have money and a big ego, Mr. Hayes, and now you will learn that I am a smug SOB. Your video camera, please. And do you have a spare memory card?”

  Rembert went to his camera bag and rustled around in it, glancing up and keeping an obvious eye on Garin. “I do have a spare memory card. I wouldn’t be much of a photographer if I didn’t carry spares.”

  “Then film me with it, Mr. Hayes.” Garin stood waiting, posing with the shield.

  “This is weird,” Rembert muttered. “All of this is weird. You’re weird.” But he complied. He videoed Garin from one angle and then another.

  “You record sound with that?”

  Rembert touched a button. “I am now recording sound.”

  “Keep it going, then.” Garin resumed his pose and squared his shoulders, put his chin up. “Roux. I am in Madison, Wisconsin, a...boring, almost wholesome place, and in this boring, almost wholesome place I ran across something that used to belong to you. Do you recognize it?” Keeping his face toward Rembert’s camera, Garin turned the shield around and held it by the sides. “Move in closer, please. I want my friend to see the signature.”

  Rembert came close and adjusted the lens.

  Garin made sure Rembert captured Joan of Arc’s signature. “See, old friend?” He paused and waited until Rembert had stepped back and manually adjusted the focus. “It is amazing what one can come across in America’s Heartland. Oh, Annja is here, by the way.” He paused. “Well, not here, not right here. But she is in the city. It is too bad she didn’t find this first, eh?”

  Garin’s silence served as adequate signal to Rembert. He brought the camera down, opened the side, extracted the memory card and handed it over.

  “Thank you.” Garin carefully replaced the shie
ld, feeling Rembert’s eyes on him. He reached into the bottom of the case and brought out a small cloth bag, the one that contained the half badger/half man gold piece with the sun on the reverse side. Garin gave in to his impulsive nature and handed it to Rembert. “I don’t need another key chain. That should net you a good bit, but take care where you sell it, all right?”

  Rembert stared, slack jawed.

  “Now I must be on my way. If you see Annja, give her my best, won’t you?”

  Then he was down the hall and into the stairwell, taking it down one flight to his floor. He hoped he hadn’t been gone so long that Keiko had bothered to get dressed.

  Chapter 23

  “Treated and released. I’m impressed.” Manny stood just inside the Emergency Room doors.

  It was nearly midnight. Annja had spent almost five hours here.

  “Guess the officers wouldn’t hand over their first-aid kit and let you fix yourself, eh?”

  Annja thought he looked in worse shape than she did. He was visibly exhausted, his clothes rumpled, and she wondered if he’d slept any after coming back from Lakeside Friday night. Had he been working the case nonstop? She really liked Manny; respected him, too.

  “Fortunately, the bullet only grazed me,” she said. “I was lucky.”

  “They were after the gold, right?”

  She nodded.

  “That’s why we were chased yesterday. Why you were chased yesterday.”

  Annja raised an eyebrow.

  “The officers that responded to the alley questioned a witness who lives in an upper apartment and who apparently saw it go down. Overheard your conversation and regurgitated it apparently word-for-word, the guy demanding the gold from you.”

  “He killed Edgar, that ‘guy.’”

  “Your professor friend.”

  “Yeah.” She ran her fingers through her hair, discovering it was riddled with tangles. “He did it, but he wasn’t behind it.”

  Manny set his hands on his hips. “We know that.”

  “From the witness?”

  A nod. “Busybodies are great with details. He even got a look at the woman in the van who plugged the guy that shot you.”

  “Stevie.” Annja remembered what the thug had said.

  “I’ll wager either she was the brains, or—”

  “No, the brains is someone named Mr. A.”

  “Okay.” Another nod. “The witness mentioned a Mr. A. We got the guy’s earphone and we’re working on following the calls that came and went on it. He didn’t have any ID on him, the thug.”

  Annja opened her mouth.

  “And yeah, I’ll let you know what we come up with.”

  “Thanks.”

  “C’mon, I’ll take you back to your bike.”

  Like a gentleman, he opened the door for her.

  “How’d your meeting with the chief go?” Annja asked as they left the hospital lot.

  Manny gave her his trademark lopsided grin. “It went.” He followed it up with a dry chuckle. “Good thing I’m retiring, he said. Damn good thing.”

  The chatter from the police radio was low. Annja listened to a report about a drunk driver sideswiping parked cars on Pinehurst Drive off Highway 14. Behind them a siren wailed, an ambulance going out on a call.

  Annja was wearing a pair of scrubs a doctor had handed over. Her own clothes were filthy and torn, and were probably headed to the hospital’s incinerator. She was looking forward to a long bath in the hotel...before she changed clothes and checked out.

  “I’m going to Lakeside tonight. Um, that’ll be tomorrow morning by the time I get there. I made a reservation at the beach cottage where Edgar stayed.” She looked at the jumble of things in her purse. She’d have to get a new phone. “I had to book it for the week.”

  Manny didn’t say anything.

  “And I found out where Edgar came by the gold.”

  She had his full attention now. He pulled over and parked while she told him about her trip to Sully’s What-Nots. She recounted everything from her day’s activities...except what she’d already detailed to the police who took her report at the E.R.

  “They want the gold, Manny, but not because of its value. Those little pieces aren’t actually worth all that much. I did some checking, and the market for pre-Columbian relics just isn’t all that high, not unless you have rare, large pieces.”

  “Then why do they want it?”

  “They think there’s more. Wherever those few pieces came from... I wager they’re thinking a lot more. And that ‘lot more’ could include some very, very valuable things. Too, if they could find proof of Mayans in Wisconsin...that would be valuable, as well.”

  Manny let out a long whistle, pulled back onto the street and took her to where her bike was parked. “I don’t know, Annja, about the whole Mayans-in-Wisconsin thing. Sounds a little far-fetched. But I do know people got killed over the gold, and I intend to close these cases and go out on top. I’m going back to Lakeside tomorrow, too. But after I catch a nap. Arnie’s still taking the hotel angle. All the archaeologists got another full day before they split. He might make some of them stick around.”

  “I can stay in the area through Friday,” she said. “Then it’s Morocco.”

  “Ah, the life of a—”

  Annja got out of the car, then leaned in and put her hand on Manny’s arm. “Thanks for the ride. Thanks for a lot of things. I’d give you my cell-phone number so you could call me tomorrow, connect in Lakeside. But it’s in pieces.”

  He fished his card out of his wallet. It had his cell number. “In case you get another phone,” he said. Then he handed her a jump drive. “This is a copy. And I’m not giving you this. Understand? You don’t have this copy.”

  “Copy of what?”

  “Something Arnie found in the stairwell of the eighth floor. It was jammed into the light fixture on the wall, had broken the bulb.”

  Annja recalled that when she entered the stairwell after first learning of Edgar’s death, the landing had been dark, the landings below and above it lit.

  “Belonged to your professor. A clever hiding place so the guy coming after him wouldn’t find it. Smart, you archaeologists, but your professor would’ve been smarter if he hadn’t run. If he’d have stayed put and called us...”

  “Indeed,” Annja said.

  Then he was gone and she was on her bike. It protested starting, and so did her leg, but she shrugged off the pain, and the bike sputtered to life. She revved the engine; the thing was noisy, and it coughed exhaust. She hoped the police wouldn’t pull her over for violating local ordinances—she was already in trouble for not having the registration.

  Several blocks from the hotel, she found a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and bought a bottle of aspirin, a prepaid cell phone and a pair of cheap, relatively comfortable sneakers.

  She called Rembert, cradling the phone on her shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Did I wake you, Rem?”

  “No. Not exactly. Just got ready for bed. Where have you been?”

  “Long story, Rem. I—”

  “—don’t want to hear it, Annja.”

  “I’ve an opportunity for you to pick up some extra cash. You interested?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How about doing some video for me tomorrow? I’ll get Doug to pay you overtime, maybe double overtime.”

  Still no answer.

  “Rem?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll think about it. Tell me where I’m going for this video, and if I show up, I show up. And I need to know if I’m getting double overtime.”

  Annja gave him an address in Lakeside. She started up the bike again and drove the last few blocks to the hotel, finding an open spot on the street. Her leg still ached from the grazing and the stitches, and the bandage felt tight. Despite that, she moved quickly, up to her floor, and discovered the thug had been right...he hadn’t found the gold in her room. The meager contents of her duffel were strewn everywhere, and her
laptop was gone. She stared at the jump drive in her hand. Rembert was still up, but all he had was an iPad. She wasn’t about to wake one of the other conference-goers to borrow theirs.

  That hot bath she was envisioning would come at the beach cottage in a few hours. She changed out of the scrubs, stuffed everything back into her duffel and gave a last look around the room.

  She stopped at the front desk only long enough to leave her key card, check out and ask directions to a twenty-four-hour Starbucks. Somebody would have a laptop there. She only had to be polite and persuasive. Annja could be both when she worked at it. She patted the jump drive and headed toward her motorcycle.

  Chapter 24

  Sunday

  Thankfully, one of Madison’s Starbucks was open even after midnight. She didn’t have to borrow a laptop from one of the customers; the coffee shop had three available for use. She bought a zucchini-walnut muffin, thinking that bordered on healthy and would offset the double-chocolate brownie and the cinnamon scone that she’d already chosen. While her left hand was wrapped around one of the shop’s signature drinks, the fingers of her right hand worked to key into the various folders on the jump drive.

  “Talk to me, Edgar,” she coaxed. “Tell me what caused all this mayhem and death.” The drink disappeared before she’d realized it, and she ordered a second. She told herself that the caffeine would help get her through this, but more likely her nervous energy would power her past the fatigue that was pulling at her eyelids.

  MAYANS IN GEORGIA. That was the first folder she delved into. It carried a report from December 2011 of an Atlanta-based couple who suggested that Georgia’s highest peak had been the site of a Mayan outpost. One hundred miles from their home, the spot was similar to locations in Mexico and Guatemala that the Maya people had favored. The couple demonstrated that terraces on the side of the mountain were unique to the United States, yet identical to ones in southern Mexico attributed to the Maya. It was complete with pentagonal mounds. They further suggested the Maya had been mining the mountain for gold and that words from their language had crept into the vocabulary of Native Americans in the area.