Weaver's Needle

by Caroll, Robin;

Baptiste? Every pore of Landry’s body went hot. Her mouth could barely form the words. “Landry. Landry Parker.”

  His facial features tightened. “Parker Recovery?”

  She nodded.

  He shot his glare to Mrs. Winslet. “What is this, some kind of joke?”

  “I assure you both, this is no joke. I want the document recovered as quickly as possible.” Her spine was as tight as the tension in the room.

  Landry could barely concentrate with him sitting next to her. She knew who he was, of course, but had never met him in person. Did her only competitor in New Orleans have to be so drop-dead handsome? She shook her head and stood. “I’ll accept the assignment, Mrs. Winslet.” Gray area of the law and all. Fifty thousand would surely save her company.

  He stood as well. “Wait a minute. Let’s discuss this.” He tapped the envelope against his hand. “You’re pitting me against her?” He shook his head and smirked. “That’s hardly fair. To her, I mean.”

  Smirked. He smirked! Landry clamped down the retort burning her tongue and lifted her chin. “Again, I’ll accept the assignment, Mrs. Winslet.”

  The widow smiled. “I’d hoped you would, dear. All the information is there, along with my contact information and that of Mr. Hauge.”

  “Wait a minute.” His jaw muscles popped.

  “If you don’t want the assignment, Mr. Baptiste, don’t take it. If you do, I welcome the challenge.” He had no idea how much she welcomed the challenge. She smiled at her new client. “I’ll be in touch. Soon.” Landry turned and left the room then exited the house, heading to her VW as quickly as possible.

  Not fair? She’d show him. She’d find the stupid document first and beat him, earning the fifty grand. And the bragging rights.

  Not fair. Indeed.

  That was Landry Parker? His nemesis? Somehow he’d imagined her to be more—more—masculine? Nickolai couldn’t exactly wrap his mind around that dark-haired, blue-eyed spitfire being a successful recovery specialist. She looked more like she belonged on a magazine cover than sitting beside him as his biggest competition in the state.

  “I’ll be in touch, too.” He nodded at Mrs. Winslet, grabbed his own envelope, and followed Landry from the crazy widow’s house. Pitting one against the other … he’d never heard of such. To top it off, the situation was as far left of legal as one could get without going right. That map—document—whatever it might be, was evidence in an open, ongoing murder investigation. To recover it and not turn it in to the police would be illegal. Interference.

  “Hey, wait a minute.” He bounded down the stairs, ignoring the late-winter breeze skittering around the box hedges. He approached the woman just as she reached her car. “Surely you’re not going for this?”

  “I am.” She rested one foot on the driver’s floorboard and pivoted, resting her arm on the hood of her beat-up little car. She looked him right in the eye without flinching. “I need the money and the job sounds reasonable.”

  “But it’s evidence in a murder. Even if recovered, if it’s not turned over to the police as evidence, that’s interference in a police investigation. That’s criminal.” She’d been military police? Sure didn’t act like it. Not even close. The law was the law—black and white, no muddying it up with gray areas.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and leveled him with an icy stare from her big baby blues. “I don’t recall Mrs. Winslet telling us what she planned to do with the document once she gets it. How do you know she isn’t just trying to help the investigation along and intends to hand it over to the detective working her husband’s case as soon as she has it?”

  Nickolai ground his teeth. The woman was deliberately splitting hairs. “But she didn’t say she was going to turn it in, either.”

  “Do you ask all your clients what they’re going to do with their personal property that you recover? Does their answer dictate whether you take the job?”

  Well … no.

  Landry smiled as he hesitated. “Right. What I thought. But because you’re an ex-cop, you’re all wrapped up in the legalities. Fine. You do what you want. Me? That’s a nice recovery fee.” The challenge in her voice was unmistakable.

  “But pitting us against each other? Doesn’t that feel shady to you?” Couldn’t she see the widow was playing them?

  “No.” She shrugged. “Look, if you don’t want to do it, then don’t. I’ll have no problem finding the document without the interference. If you decide to take the assignment, great. I’ll welcome the challenge.”

  Landry slipped behind the steering wheel. “Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. I intend to recover the document and collect the fifty thousand.” She shut the door, right in his face.

  With a wave, she started the engine and drove off, leaving him staring after her.

  The woman was infuriating. Intending to recover the document even if he took the assignment? The cockiness … arrogance … confidence.

  That fifty thousand would cover the expenses of his sister getting into the halfway house.

  Little Miss Landry Parker intended to recover the document, did she? He’d see about that. Yes, sir, he’d just see about that.

  THE FORETELLING

  Nii nahii’maa at’e, ya nahiika’ee at’e.” Gopan bowed his head against the fire’s smoke.

  The three shamans answered in unison. “Yes, the earth is our mother and the sky our father.”

  This was the Native American way. Their culture. Not a religion, but their beliefs and practices merging as an integral and seamless part of their very being. Who they were, at the core.

  Gopan continued in his Apache language. “I come to ask for wisdom. Dreams have come to me. Dreams of Thunder God’s anger. His wrath on our people.”

  The elder of the shamans, Paco, stood and faced the eastern sky. His Apache tongue split the silence of the range. “Hail to the East, to the new day. To the light. To the eagle. To insight. To the East, we call on you.”

  Nantan stood and raised his arms. “Hail to the South, to innocence. To trust. To the mouse. To the path home. To the South, we call on you.”

  The wind shifted directions, swirling the smoke.

  Dyami joined the other two shamans, facing the west. “Hail to the West, to the darkened waters. To looking within. Home to black bear. To the medicine path. To the West, we call on you.”

  Gopan’s pulse kicked up a notch. He stood, holding the pouch with the blue cornmeal, and faced the north. He raised his arms. “Hail to the North, home of the old ones, and those gone before. To the wisdom place. The place of snow leopard and white buffalo. To the North, we call on you.”

  All four men knelt as one. In the prone position, each blew into their medicine pouches. Paco’s voice rang strong against the darkening sky. “And to mother earth, for the two and four leggeds. For those that fly or crawl and swim. For all children of the mother.”

  In unison, all four men stood. Nantan waved his arms above his head in a big circle. Another. Then another. “And to father sky. Thank you for this day.”

  Dyami raised his arms alongside Nantan. “Great Spirit, we ask for the explanation of the visions. We ask for meaning.”

  All four kissed their pouches then laid them in the weeds, as their ancestors before them had done. As was laid out in the sacred texts from the previous shamans of the tribe.

  “So be it,” said Paco.

  “It is a good day to die,” all four men whispered. “Sadnleel da’ya’dee nzho.” Long life, old age, everything good.

  A star shot across the dusky sky.

  The breeze kicked up, blowing the smoke across Gopan’s face. He inhaled the smoke but closed his eyes against the burning.

  Paco spoke softly. “Indaa comes.”

  Every muscle in Gopan’s body tightened. What white person would come?

  CHAPTER THREE

  You’re insane to take this case, you know that, right?” Marcie stabbed the air as she pointed at Landry.

  Landry shook her
head even as she looked over the documents from the envelope for the tenth time this Wednesday morning. “Look, fifty thousand would get the business back in the black.”

  Marcie raised her eyebrows.

  “What? You didn’t think I’d looked over the paperwork you left me? I did. I might not be great with numbers, but I saw the bottom line.” Landry reorganized the documents spread out on the conference table in chronological order. Again.

  “It’s too dangerous, Landry.”

  “It’s recovering a document.”

  “A document someone has already been murdered to get.”

  Landry shook her head and plopped down onto one of the chairs. “We don’t know that’s the reason Mr. Winslet was killed.”

  “Come on, don’t play stupid with me,” Marcie huffed as she sat on the edge of the scuffed table. “You know that’s why he was murdered.”

  “Probably.” Landry believed he was, but she didn’t need to confirm her best friend’s fears. “But I can handle myself, probably a lot better than my competition.”

  Nickolai Baptiste.

  Visions of his dark hair … his piercing eyes … his smirk had invaded her sleep entirely too much last night. Maybe that’s why she felt as she did. Restless and edgy.

  “That’s something else that bugs me—this whole competition thing.” Marcie’s eyes widened as she spoke faster. “If you hire someone, hire them. You don’t offer them a job, but only if they complete it before someone else. Especially when one of them has years more experience.”

  Landry sat up straight. “I’m just as qualified.”

  Marcie blushed. “I didn’t say you weren’t. I just pointed out that he has more experience than you do. I didn’t imply he was better.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” If her own best friend didn’t think she could beat Nickolai, what did that say about her?

  “Seriously, Landry.” Marcie grabbed Landry’s hand. “You know I think you’re an awesome recovery specialist. Everybody who’s ever hired you gives you nothing but glowing recommendations.”

  “But?”

  “But this case is different. Homicide is involved.” Marcie lowered her voice. “I’m scared for you.”

  Landry squeezed Marcie’s hand. “I’ll be fine. I know how to cover my six. I was trained by our military, you know.”

  “I still don’t think you should take the case.” Marcie eased off the table and smoothed her skirt.

  “I’ve already taken it.” Landry stood and spread her hands over the conference table. “These are all the documents Mrs. Winslet provided.”

  Marcie glanced over the papers. “Anything useful?”

  Landry smiled. Marcie might not like it, but she was on board. “I’m working it just like Dad taught me, starting with the missing item and backtracking.”

  “Where, exactly, is that?”

  “I know Mr. Winslet had it when he got out of his car, going toward the bank. It was gone when his body was discovered. That’s a short period of time.”

  “Back up a minute and let my analytical thoughts get on the same page. How can you be sure he actually had it in his personal custody?”

  Landry nodded. “Follow with me for a few minutes.” She found a check stub and held it up. “Receipt of the cashier’s check Mr. Winslet got from his bank the morning of January 18. Made out to one Joel Easton for a million dollars.”

  Marcie let out a slow whistle. “A million dollars? Yikes.”

  “But if the map is real and points to the lost mine, a million dollars is barely a drop in the bucket.” The excitement bubbled in Landry’s chest. A real treasure map.

  “There’s no proof that it’s an authentic map.”

  “True. But think about it, Marcie. What if it is? Can you imagine the worth of what’s hidden in the mountains? I doubt Mr. Winslet would pay a million dollars for something he didn’t strongly believe was real.”

  “It’s a long shot. A legend. Not a single shred of proof of there ever being a mine, much less a map to find it.”

  Landry leaned against the table and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at her friend.

  “What? Accountants know how to Google, too.” Marcie rested against the table as well, mimicking Landry’s stance.

  “It’s been said that Jacob Waltz had a matchbox made from the highest-grade ore in his possession when he died. That might be your evidence.” Landry chuckled at her friend’s wrinkled nose. “Come on, Marcie, I don’t have to find the mine or even believe the map is real. All I have to do is find the map and get it back to Mrs. Winslet and collect fifty grand. Easy-peasy.” Well, not exactly, but Landry couldn’t deny this case interested her more than any other had in quite some time.

  A modern-day treasure hunt.

  “I still don’t like it.”

  “I know you don’t.” If there was one thing left in this life that Landry could count on, it was her best friend being overprotective of her. Marcie had always been a mother hen, but she was even more cautious since Landry’s mom then dad had passed away. “And I love you for trying to watch over me, but I have a job to do.”

  Marcie sighed and slouched. “So I’m going to assume the police looked into the guy who sold the map?”

  Grinning, Landry lifted a sheet of paper and read. “Joel Easton, thirty-two, from Phoenix, Arizona. Not married, no children. Lives alone. By profession, he’s a landscaper who—”

  “A landscaper? In Phoenix?”

  “Apparently.” Landry chuckled. “Maybe that’s why he had to sell the map. I’m guessing landscapers don’t make a lot of money in Arizona.”

  “Okay, go on with what you were saying.”

  Landry read aloud. “According to the police report Mrs. Winslet provided, on January 18, Joel Easton met with Bartholomew Winslet at the Le Pavillon Hotel on Poydras Street at precisely 10:45 a.m. Security camera footage of the downtown hotel shows Mr. Winslet taking something, looking at it, then slipping it into what appears to be a protective sleeve before placing it in his briefcase. He gave Mr. Easton the cashier’s check, and the men shook hands. While Mr. Winslet finished his cup of coffee, Mr. Easton crossed the lobby and got into the elevator at 10:58. Security cameras followed him entering his room on the third floor of the hotel at 11:02.”

  Landry flipped the page and paced slowly as she read. Whoever had compiled the documentation had been very thorough in creating a timeline. “Mr. Winslet left the hotel at approximately 11:05 and got into his waiting car. Mr. Easton checked out at the front desk at 11:22. He left the hotel, having the concierge hail a taxi for him.”

  Landry turned to the next page and kept reading. “According to the taxi driver’s log, he drove Mr. Easton to the airport, dropping him off at exactly 11:58. Easton boarded his flight to home in Arizona at 12:30 p.m. He had a forty-five-minute layover at DFW, and landed on time in Arizona.” She stopped and set the papers in place on the table. “So, yes, the police checked him out and his alibi is tight. If he had anything to do with Mr. Winslet’s murder, he had to hire someone to do it.”

  “Do the police think that’s a possibility?”

  “They wouldn’t tell anyone if they did, Marcie.” Landry sat back down in one of the chairs and looked up at her best friend. “But if he was a suspect in any way, I’m pretty sure they’d have sent at least one detective to Arizona to follow up, and they didn’t. They did their questioning by phone. They didn’t even have local police question Easton in person.”

  “What about you? Do you think he might be involved?” Marcie sat on the edge of the table, her posture rigid … perfect.

  “I don’t know.” Landry chewed her bottom lip as she scanned the information before her. “I know a million dollars sounds like a lot of money, and it is, but if the map was real … it could be worth a lot more.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’ve put out a couple of feelers in the art world. Word on the street is the map is available again for sale on the black market.”

  M
arcie’s eyes widened. “Joel Easton?”

  Landry shook her head. “He’s not the one listing it, but the description is the exact same as Easton’s—word for word. Black market art sales are usually so convoluted that you don’t really know who you’re doing business with until you meet them face-to-face.” She took a deep breath, bracing for the argument she knew would come. “I set up a meeting with the potential seller. In Apache Junction. On Friday.”

  “You’re going to Arizona? You’re going to meet with this person who deals in the black market?”

  “Yes.” Landry swallowed. “Mrs. Winslet’s vice president made the arrangements and is accompanying me. We fly out tomorrow afternoon. But don’t worry: I won’t be unchaperoned, Mom.”

  Marcie shook her head. “But … whoever has that map had to be involved with Mr. Winslet’s murder. There’s no other way they could have it to sell. I don’t like it.”

  That was the mountain Landry had to climb. “I’m just going to see if this is legit. Someone could’ve seen the news about Winslet’s murder and decided to try and make a little money. They could be faking having anything.”

  “If it’s a fake, how would they even know about the map?”

  “You’d be amazed how fast details like that spread throughout the antiques and collections community. And the description matches Easton’s, so it could’ve been copied.”

  Marcie’s frown said it all.

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence in my abilities.”

  “It’s not that.”

  Landry tapped her fingers on the table. “Then what? I’m serious, Marcie. If you doubt my ability to do this, then just tell me.”

  “I know you can do anything you set your mind to, Landry.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat what you think. You know me better than that.” Landry couldn’t accept fake flattery, no matter who dished it out.

  “I’m not sugarcoating anything. I’m just saying that this is a dangerous case and there’s no guarantee you’ll locate the map.” Marcie held up her hands in front of her, as if to ward off Landry’s argument. “Not because I think Nickolai Baptiste will find it first. What if the map is gone? Where neither one of you can find it. What if it’s destroyed? You can’t help that.”