Stouraitis set the plate down beside him and selected some cheese. “You do me a great disservice. I didn’t kill Nicholas or that woman.”
“Her name was Evelyn Benchley, and I don’t believe you, Doctor.”
“Please, call me Athanasios. My master, Apollo, has told me so much about you that I feel I’ve known you for a long time.”
Ansel shook her head. “You’re crazy. You talk about a mythical Greek god as if he were a fishing buddy. Did Apollo mention that my father is Chase Phoenix and that when he finds out you’re responsible for terrorizing me, he’s going to make a tobacco pouch out of your scrotum?”
Stouraitis cringed. “Such disrespect. It’s one of the things I find so vulgar about Americans.” He dropped a cube of feta with distaste, wiped his face and hands with a lace-edged napkin, then set the dish on the console. “All right. We’ll get to business.” He gave her a piercing, brown-eyed gaze. “I want to know where the griffin is. And my money.”
Ansel glanced out the picture window for a second, thinking about what to say. The limousine had left Helena, and dusk had fallen. They traveled south on Highway 15 toward Butte, passing dark, vast expanses of ranch land and prairie.
Ansel looked at the ornithologist. “I don’t even know what the griffin is.”
“I’m not in the mood for games,” Stouraitis said with irritation. “You mentioned the griffin to Milos inside your home.”
“Someone told me Nick used the word during a phone conversation. I threw it out in the heat of the moment.”
Stouraitis pursed his full lips, then gulped down his ouzo. He reached for a refill, taking time to mix the liqueur with water. After the first sip, he grabbed a phone receiver on the wall behind him and punched a button. The chauffeur picked up a dash phone.
“Samos. Stamahteesteh,” Stouraitis ordered.
In seconds the limousine slowed and veered toward the shoulder. Ansel tensed. “What are you doing?”
“Letting you out. Our conversation is finished.”
“You’re dumping me out here in the dark?”
“Your truck is behind us. Milos has been following.”
Ansel turned. Through a tinted rear window, she could see the headlights of her truck a car length behind. That meant Milos had gone through her purse to get her truck keys. He had her gun. The limousine glided to a stop on an asphalt strip beside a sheep pasture. Milos pulled over with the Ford.
“What is the griffin, Dr. Stouraitis?”
“You must go now. You can’t help me, and I can’t have you going to the police about my private affairs.” The door lock jumped up.
Ansel bit her lip. She should leave and never look back, but she was close to cracking the mystery of Nick’s murder. She could feel it. Stouraitis wasn’t afraid of the police. He’d baited her, dangling his knowledge about the griffin to convince her to stay and help him in some way. Dorbandt would be furious if she consorted with a delusional millionaire and his criminal lackey, but he’d never taken her seriously. Proving him wrong was incentive enough.
Ansel exhaled. “I won’t go to the police, but I want to know what Nick and you were involved in. I’ll guess it involved an Archaeopteryx and Baltic amber.”
Stouraitis’ face remained calm and thoughtful, his gaze steady. He picked up the phone. “Pahrahkahlo, Samos.”
The chauffeur nodded, and the limousine pulled onto the highway. In seconds they accelerated back to a smooth-as-glass, sixty-five-mile-per-hour cruising speed. Milos, behind them, did the same.
“You see that vase?” Stouraitis pointed toward the console. A six-inch black ceramic flower vase filled with yellow tulips perched near the roof. “It is an artifact made in 550 B.C. and a splendid example of red-figure technique developed by Athenian craftsmen at the end of the sixth century. The design is very similar to the famous Vulci vase in the Metropolitan Museum. It illustrates Hercules using a sling to drive away swan-like birds which, according to Greek mythology, infested Lake Stymphalis. My hobby is collecting nice things relating to bird lore.”
“Like fossil artifacts?”
A quirky smile appeared on Stouraitis’ face. “I knew Nicholas from the day he was born. His father Isidoro and I were acquaintances long before the second world war. When Isidoro left to come to America, I stayed and fought. After the war, I went to college. I became interested in the true personal fulfillment and harmony associated with the Heroic Path, and I realized I have an intuitive gift for watching bird behavior. Sometimes I can actually understand the language of the birds. Since the time of Calchas, Melampus, and Tiresias, a chosen few have been able to develop abilities of augury. I am one of them. Nicholas knew of my powers, and he respected them. He was even a member of my group, the Avis Arcana. So you see, Ansel, Nicholas’ death is a great personal loss for me.”
“Okay. You’re wealthy, artistic, and sensitive. Tell me about the griffin.”
“Nicholas came to me in February and said he had found a piece of Baltic amber with something inside it. A broken egg with a fossil reptile-bird. He wanted me to see it and help verify its authenticity. He could not afford the many expensive scientific tests required. I agreed.”
A shiver skittered up Ansel’s spine. Could it be possible that Nick had stumbled onto the inclusion of all time inside Becker’s crusty amber?
“Where did Nick get it?”
“From the man you just visited. Peter Becker.” Stouraitis fixed her with a curious stare. “Nicholas had been looking for a large piece of Baltic amber for his collection. Finding the griffin inside the resin was an accident.”
Stouraitis turned to stare at the Eye of Apollo. “The griffin was meant to come to me,” he said in a trance-like voice. “It is my destiny to own it. You cannot imagine its beauty, Ansel. It is a creature from myth, half bird, half beast, captured within the hardened, golden tears of the Heliades.”
Ansel leaned forward, excitement coursing through her. “What does the griffin look like?”
Stouraitis faced her. “Small. The egg is white, elongated and reptilian-like. Leathery. The griffin’s head and one wing partially out of an opening in one end. It has a few gray downy feathers and featherless wings with little clawed hands. Reptilian eyes. The mouth is beak-like but has tiny teeth.”
“What dinosaur species is it?”
“It has no name. It is similar to Archaeopteryx, but Nicholas said it was a new subspecies that lived about sixty million years ago.”
“Have you had the amber tested?” Ansel asked.
Stouraitis chuckled. “For fakery? Of course. Do you think I would want it back so badly if I didn’t know it was authentic? I paid handsomely for a world-class amber expert to evaluate it and keep its existence a secret. All the tests were done.” He ticked off test parameters on his fingers. “Hardness, toughness, specific gravity, optical properties, polarized light, turbidity, structure, color, fluorescence, diaphaneity, heat, and electrical characteristics. I have the documentation to prove it, and I have a history of its provenance through Becker. The Baltic amber is real. The griffin is real. And it’s mine.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“It will remain in my private collection. I paid Nicholas for it. I own it.”
Ansel had no patience with such selfish greed, but she wouldn’t argue now. She needed him just as much as he needed her. “How much did you pay Nick for the griffin?”
“Two million dollars.”
Ansel blinked. No wonder Stouraitis had sent Milos looking for his money. Still, two million was a cheap price to pay for the world’s only preserved dinosaur. “And you still don’t have the griffin in your possession. What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Stouraitis said, throwing up his hands in anger. “I paid Nicholas June second. We agreed he’d bring the griffin to me the next day. He never showed up. He disappeared until you found his body. Since he’d spent time with you,” Stouraitis said suggestively, “I assumed you knew about the griffin and the money
.”
“And that I’d killed Nick,” Ansel finished.
“The thought crossed my mind,” he admitted.
“Well, I didn’t. Did you know that Evelyn Benchley had a six-month affair with Nick?”
“When did this happen?”
“From June to December of last year. After he bought Becker’s amber and before he came to you. Evelyn never knew about the amber or the reptile inclusion.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I know.”
“Maybe somebody thought she knew and killed her.”
“Maybe,” Ansel agreed. She eyed the man across from her. “Who else hated Nick enough to poison him with strychnine?”
“I have no idea, but the name strychnine comes from the Greek word Strychnos. It means ‘nightshade.’ At one time death by strychnine was an ancient method of execution in my country. I was struck by this coincidence when I first heard that Nicholas had been poisoned with such a concoction. Someone else had to know about the griffin,” Stouraitis said emphatically.
He glanced out the window. “Ah, we are nearing Butte. You will be leaving here.” He gestured toward the glass divider, and the ever vigilant Samos nodded.
Ansel was more than ready to leave. She had to think about what Stouraitis had said and figure out what was the truth and what wasn’t. She waited patiently as the limo pulled into a grocery parking lot, then reached for the door handle.
“I have recorded our conversation on video,” said Stouraitis with a predatory smile. Just in case your father or the police would like to see it. Have a nice evening.”
Ansel resisted the urge to tell Stouraitis where he could rewind his tape and exited the vehicle. Milos had parked her truck behind the limo. He swaggered toward her, and she made a point of giving him a wide berth. Milos sneered, then disappeared through the limo door. The car took off, leaving her alone.
Ansel opened the truck door and saw her black purse on the passenger’s seat, along with the paper bag containing Nick’s orange pick. So far so good. Hopping into the cab, she closed the door, then noticed the faint odor of ammonia. She looked toward the ignition. Her keys weren’t there. Next she glanced at her purse as the taint of urine got stronger in the closed confines. The fabric sides looked wet.
“No way,” Ansel spat, hoping her suspicions were wrong, especially with her keys, wallet, and gun in there.
She cursed like a longshoreman as she twisted toward the backseat looking for a box of sterile, rubber gloves she always carried for digging up delicate fossils or making plaster castings. She needed them before she opened her handbag.
That sick creep had pissed in her purse like a dog marking its territory.
Chapter 27
“If a man loses anything and goes back and looks carefully for it, he will find it...”
Sitting Bull, Sioux
On Friday morning, Dorbandt was happy for the first time in days. A fax on top of his IN basket listed all the manufacturers in India who exported strychnine to the United States, as well as Montana distributors, manufacturers, and medical supply houses that sold the poison.
Not quite ready to go into McKenzie’s office to discuss what he’d discovered, Dorbandt picked up the phone. He’d wanted to make this call for days, but had resisted the urge to annoy the cantankerous Dr. Arlen Floyd.
“Serology/DNA,” answered a female voice.
“I’m Detective Dorbandt. Lacrosse Sheriff’s Department. Is Dr. Floyd there?”
“Just a minute.”
“Yes, detective,” Floyd’s voice suddenly boomed.
“Have you completed testing on the Capos feather? Case 01-06-23-H-0007,” he said, anticipating the doctor’s demands.
“No.”
“Why not? This is a high-profile homicide. It has priority.”
“Wrong. Your feather is not a priority over bloodstains, saliva, and semen testing. All I’m going to be able to tell you is what family the bird sample comes from. Not the species.”
“Explain what the word ‘family’ means,” Dorbandt demanded.
“It means I can tell you if it comes from a goose, a vulture or a chicken, but not which type of goose, vulture or chicken. I don’t have the resources for that sort of DNA comparison.”
“Where can I get more detailed testing?”
“If you want to know specifics such as the species or family, you need a forensic zoologist. Try a wildlife forensics laboratory. I have to go.”
Dorbandt scribbled a note. “Where is the closest wildlife lab?”
“Wait a minute.” The receiver fell hard, and Floyd didn’t return for a full minute. “Try the Clark R. Bavin National Fish and Wildlife Forensics Lab in Ashland, Oregon.”
“Oregon? You’re kidding me.”
“I don’t have time to joke.”
“Arlen, throw me a bone. What’s in state I can use?”
“Well, you could contact a national wildlife refuge and ask them to route you to a lab. Or try a university or private lab. In any case, the test results won’t come cheap.”
Dorbandt probed his brain for a name. Montana didn’t lack for government refuges, fisheries, or field offices. The first place that came to mind was the Charles M. Russell National Wildlife Refuge in Jordan.
“Do you want me to test the feather or get it packed for a transfer?”
“Can you do your test first?”
“Not enough blood in the feather shaft. Make a decision. I don’t have all day.”
“I’ll let you know what I’m going to do in a couple hours.”
“I can hardly wait.” The phone went dead.
Dorbandt replaced the receiver, picked up a folder, and walked over to Fiskar. The detective was hunkered over his desk, attention riveted to a ballistics report.
“Odie, I need you to chase down something.”
Fiskar looked up. His somber, Paul Bunyan face transformed into an eager-to-please grin. “Sure, Reid.”
“I need you to ask somebody at the Charles Russell Refuge in Jordan if there’s a lab near here that can do DNA testing on the Capos feather. I need to know exactly what type of bird it comes from, and I mean everything: family, genus, species.”
“Let me write that down.” One of Fiskar’s massive hands grabbed a notepad. “You still working on that Melba lead?”
Dorbandt shook his head. “I’ve got something hotter. I’ll fill you in later.”
Fiskar’s eyes widened. “Sounds good. I’ll see what I can do and get back to you.”
“Thanks.” Dorbandt thumbed toward McKenzie’s glass-partitioned office. “I’m going into Count Dracula’s crypt and make my blood offering.”
Odie chuckled. “You need backup?”
Dorbandt smiled wickedly. “No. I had a garlic bagel for breakfast. I’ll just fart if things turn ugly.”
Odie sniggered as he headed for the office. Dorbandt’s smile got smaller in direct proportion to his proximity to McKenzie’s door. Bracing himself for battle, he walked into the small room. McKenzie sat behind his desk, sharpening a pencil in an electric machine whirring like a can opener. The urge to grab the pointed implement out of McKenzie’s hand and stake the supervisor’s heart appealed to him.
“Dorbandt,” McKenzie growled. “Just the person I want to see.”
You’re not going to be able to dump on me this time, thought Dorbandt. “I’ve got a solid suspect on the strychnine case. Karen Capos’ boyfriend in residence, Alexander King.”
McKenzie pulled the pencil out of the sharpener, and the room became deathly quiet. “The stud? This better be good. I can’t afford any screw-ups.”
Dorbandt put the fax down on his desk. “Just got this list of twelve major pharmaceutical houses in India that export strychnine into the country. Got a list of their Montana distributors, too. Bombay Laboratories Limited sells strychnine to Universal Veterinary Supply in Billings. Universal’s address is on Mariah Street. The location looked familiar, so I went through my files to find out why
.”
He placed a printout of King’s employment records in front of McKenzie. “Eight years ago King managed a pet shop called Ancare Pets in Glasgow before opening his Bird Haven store. King’s social security records listed his employer as Ancare Pets with the same Mariah Street address. Ancare Pets was a sister company of Universal Veterinary Supply, their attempt to move into the retail pet business. Ancare paychecks were issued by Universal. This connects King directly to a strychnine distributor.”
McKenzie leaned back in his chair and chewed on the pencil eraser. “Why does Universal handle strychnine?”
“Vets use it as part of a medicinal tonic to stimulate digestion in horses and cattle. The tonic is administered orally and as a subcutaneous or intramuscular injection,” Dorbandt explained. “Perfect for a dart gun.”
McKenzie leaned back in his chair. “Eight years is a long time to keep poison.”
Dorbandt shrugged. “Strychnine doesn’t go bad. Universal still sells a one-ounce bottle of concentrate for fifty-four dollars. And UVS was also the sole supplier for Ancare inventory. Ancare carried equine supplies. King was a manager. He had easy access to strychnine. Now he’s shacking up with Capos’ wife. That gives him the means, motive, and opportunity.”
“Why would he kill Benchley?”
“Let me bring him in for questioning, and I’ll ask him. If there’s any meat to this nut, maybe I can crack it open with the right leverage.”
McKenzie nodded, a small smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “I like it, Dorbandt. Problem is, you can bring King in for questioning but unless he confesses, he walks right out. I want an arrest. You need to match this Universal strychnine with that used to kill Capos.”
“I’ve got those wheels moving, but it will take time. What I really want is a search warrant for King’s bird shop and Karen Capos’ house. If there’s strychnine in either place, we’ll find it. To get a warrant, I’ll need more evidence to convince a judge that King is a legitimate suspect. I might be able to do that, if you help me,” Dorbandt said, staring at McKenzie.
“How?”
“There’s some trace evidence that might link King to Capos. A small feather was found on Capos’ body. It could be transfer evidence between the perp and the victim. The feather’s at the state lab waiting for DNA testing. Could take up to six weeks. If King has the bird that feather belongs to in his store or at home, it means he was probably at the Capos crime scene.”
Mesozoic Murder Page 21