Weaver's Needle

by Caroll, Robin;

  “Same thing.”

  “Oh. Well.” She glanced around, cleared her throat, and then took a step toward the row of rooms. “I guess that’s it, then. Stay away from my Jeep.”

  He shook his head and smiled to himself in the dark. “No problem. Good night.”

  “Yeah. Good night.” She brushed past him and unlocked her room. She cut a glance at him over her shoulder before she hustled the door shut behind her.

  Nickolai dug out his room key from his pocket, resisting the urge to peek at the window as he passed her room. He needed to do what he came here to do then get as far away from Landry Parker as possible.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Late for a sale? Even in the black market world, being late to a sell-meet was considered bad form.

  Cobb’s Restaurant and Lounge was smaller than she’d imagined, but its red walls and friendly staff welcomed her. She especially liked the chicken curtains, which she knew her mom would’ve just had a fit over. Loving roosters and hens both, Mom had had quite a collection. From dish towels to salt and pepper shakers, as long as there was a chicken present, Mom would love it.

  Landry glanced around the restaurant again. It’d filled up fast. People in for the marathon, the waitress had told her when she’d requested a table in the corner. She’d been early for the meeting, of course. Picking out the best and most private table, she set her cell phone in her front pocket so she could record without being obvious, and watched every person who came into the restaurant. She checked the time again: 12:35. Officially five minutes late.

  Very bad form for a seller. He was either new to the game or would turn out to be a no-show. Neither boded well for a successful recovery plan.

  The waitress appeared. “Would you like another Dr Pepper?”

  Landry shook her head. “No thanks. I’m good for now.”

  The waitress shrugged and hurried away. The noise level continued to rise, nearly giving Landry a headache. Or maybe it was the climate change. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “Are you the one here about the map?” A man plopped down on the opposite side of the booth. The black vinyl creaked under his weight.

  Landry sat up straight, taking in every detail of the man across from her. Maybe twenty-five years old. Grease-weighted black hair hung in waves down his back. Acne-pocked face and sunken eyes that were wide and glassy, yet dull. Cracked lips. Cigarette smoke–stained teeth.

  “And you are?” Landry leaned forward and pressed the record button discreetly on her cell.

  “My name’s not important.”

  “It is if I’m doing business with you.” She straightened, pushing her posture to be like Marcie’s. “I’m Landry Parker.” She forced herself to extend her hand over the table.

  He hesitated then shook her hand and withdrew his quickly, but not before she spied the tattoo on his wrist of a skull and crossbones. “I’m Allen. Allen Edgar.”

  The name slipped off his tongue easily. Either it was his real name or he had a lot of practice in giving an alias.

  Landry would just bet it was his real name. “So, Allen. About that map.”

  “Do you have the hundred grand? That’s a bargain, you know. The mine is worth a lot more.”

  The waitress appeared at the table. “Can I get you something?”

  “No. No.” He dropped his head.

  Ah, so he was local enough that he was afraid of being recognized. Landry shook her head at the waitress. “We’re good. Thank you.”

  When the waitress had left, Landry focused back on Allen. “Did you bring the map?”

  He lifted his head. “Not until you have the money.”

  She smiled. “You requested cash. That’s a lot of cash to carry around.”

  “Like I said, it’s a steal.”

  “I don’t want to take the map until I pay for it, of course. I just need to verify it before I go to the bank and get the cash.” She leaned back against the booth, shifting to try to make sure her phone recorded well. “You can’t expect me to pay that much money for something without seeing even a glimpse of it.”

  “That’s a bargain price.”

  This runaround needed to come to a screeching halt. Now. “If you really have the map, yes, it’s a good price, but if you don’t have the map, then you aren’t getting a dime.”

  He stared at her with hooded eyes.

  She didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe.

  “Well, I guess I can let you look at it.” He glanced around the restaurant. “For just a minute. Until you pay me.”

  She nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact with him. “You have it, here, Allen?”

  “Just outside. In my car.” He jerked his head toward the window with the chicken curtains. The parking lot sat just beyond them. He moved to stand. “Come on.”

  Landry slipped out of the booth, stopping her waitress on the way out. “I’ll be right back. Hold my booth, please.” She gave the waitress a ten then followed Allen out of the restaurant. When she’d arrived, there had been several cars in the lot but plenty of empty spaces. Now the parking was full. She was a little relieved that it was daylight as she trailed him to his car. That was her whole point in talking to the waitress—so Allen knew someone expected her back inside.

  She worked to keep up the conversation. “So, where did you get the map?”

  He shrugged and led her toward a well-used, road-worn old Ford Mustang. “A friend of a friend of a friend. You know how it goes.”

  She did, but not in the way he meant. “So you got it and posted it for sale?” She kept herself on alert and aware of her surroundings. Walking between cars parked too close together, she made sure to leave herself plenty of distance from him.

  He stopped at the Mustang and opened the trunk with the key. “It’s here.”

  Landry approached cautiously as he pulled out a folder from a backpack. The edges of the folder had definitely seen better days. Much better days. He opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper about eleven inches by fourteen.

  She took a step closer. “May I see it?”

  He hesitated then handed it to her. She leaned in to inspect it, but also to allow her cell to focus. At least, she hoped it was still on and would get a shot of the map. She held it almost directly in front of the camera, inspecting it for Allen’s benefit.

  Cream parchment-feeling paper … yellowed, but by color, not by age. Black marks, trails of dashes. Writing in black ink, but hard to decipher. Landry could make out the words willow, first water, weaver’s needle—

  Allen snatched the map out of her hands. “You’ve seen enough.”

  She needed to decide how to play this. Clearly, the map was a copy, and not even a good one. Just a photocopy. While horrified that someone would risk damaging the original by using a copier, she could understand someone not wanting Allen Edgar to carry around the original. No doubt he was nothing more than a delivery person. If she called him on the copy, he might spook and she’d lose her only lead at this point.

  On the other hand, if she promised to give up the money on just a copy, the seller might think she was an idiot and give her a copy instead of the original. Or give her nothing.

  “So, the money?” Allen clearly didn’t care about her internal dilemma.

  “Where’s the original?”

  “This is it.” He tapped the folder where he put the paper. He shoved it all back into the backpack in the trunk and slammed the lid.

  “That’s a copy.”

  “It’s the map.”

  Clearly, he didn’t understand. “That’s a copy of the map. That’s not the original.”

  Confusion sank into every pockmark on his face. “It’s the map.”

  Oh. Mercy. He didn’t understand. She hadn’t considered this possibility. “The description you posted was for the original map, not a copy.”

  He shook his head. “Look, you know how to reach me. You’ve seen it. One of these went for a million dollars, so a hundred grand is a stea
l. When you get the money, let me know.” He brushed past her to the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. “You have until five tomorrow afternoon, and then I’ll relist it and sell it to someone else.” He started the car and squealed off, his tires kicking up a few loose rocks in his wake.

  Great. Now what?

  Landry pulled out the phone from her pocket, stopped the recording, and saved it. She started it, fast-forwarding to the map. She hit PAUSE. It looked almost as clear on the phone’s video as it had on the copy she’d held. At least she had that.

  But precious little else at the moment.

  She trudged back into the restaurant, and thankfully, her booth still sat empty, save for her Dr Pepper getting watered down. She stared at the picture.

  “That must be a popular thing these days.” The waitress stood by the edge of the booth, looking over Landry’s shoulder.

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Another guy had one just like that in here earlier this week.”

  Had Allen suckered in someone? “Just like this?”

  The waitress nodded. “But it looked really old. It was in one of those plastic, protective sleeves.”

  Like the original would be. Landry tried not to appear too excited. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” She straightened. “He tried really hard to be secretive about it. As soon as I would walk over, he’d try to cover it up.” She chuckled. “As if I would want another map of the Superstitions. Everybody knows how to find Weaver’s Needle.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  The waitress shook her head. “Not from around here, that much I know. There are a lot of people in town for the marathon this week, though.”

  Disappointment threatened to strangle Landry. “Do you remember what he looked like? Anything distinguishing about him?”

  The waitress shifted her small tray to the other hip. “He was older. Maybe sixty or so? I’m not really good with ages. He was going bald. What hair he had left was gray and really thin.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Sorry, we were really busy that day. He paid in cash. Only left me a ten percent tip. Oh, he asked me where he could buy a tent and supplies.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He said he planned on camping out in the Superstition area.” The waitress shrugged. “I told him to try Stop N Shop Military Surplus just down the road.”

  “Thanks.” Landry left a hefty tip and slipped out. She needed to see about some camping supplies.

  He couldn’t ask for a more beautiful afternoon. Seemed like everyone and their brother was in town for the marathon this weekend. Everywhere around Apache Junction this morning had been buzzing about the event’s festivities that would kick off this evening. They’d sure put up enough signs on every street corner in town. Guess it was their annual big event, bringing in tourist money.

  To Nickolai, that meant it brought in more crime. He always hated Mardi Gras at home. People going crazy, doing the stupidest stunts they’d never even dream of doing except during carnival season. There were no off-duty officers in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. It was all hands on deck, 24-7.

  Nickolai drove the thirty minutes to Gilbert, Arizona, with his truck windows down. The fresh air kept him focused. He certainly hadn’t slept well last night. He wanted to blame his sleeplessness on the sounds of motel room doors slamming and the occasional outburst of laughter, but in truth, it was the memory of Landry Parker pulling a gun on him that had him tossing and turning. The bed had been extremely comfortable at the motel, but not enough to cull the image of Landry’s stare from his mind. He’d seen her briefly this morning at the Starbucks down the road, but she’d driven off before he’d even gotten his coffee. Probably best. He had his own plans for the day.

  Plans that currently had him exiting off the 202 Loop in Gilbert.

  A couple more turns and he pulled into the parking lot of the Ironwood Cancer and Research Center. Nickolai strode in through the front glass doors as if he belonged. A young receptionist looked up from her computer screen. Not a single blond hair moved out of place. “Hello. May I help you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m here to see Mrs. Abigail Easton.”

  She tilted her head to the side and gave a puzzled smile. “Are you family?”

  And here’s where it got dicey. He smiled and lowered his gaze to meet hers over the modern counter space. “I actually need to see Joel, her son. I understand he’s here with her.”

  She glanced at her computer monitor and typed on a flat keyboard that made no sound. “Why, yes, Mr. Easton is having an early dinner with his mother in her room.”

  He smiled. “Good, then I had the right information.” Nickolai leaned forward and spoke in a stage whisper. “I was worried I’d messed up the time and Joel would be most upset with me.”

  She returned his smile. “I can’t imagine Mr. Easton being upset. He’s so kind and gentle.”

  “Well, when it comes to his mom, of course.” Nickolai hoped he wasn’t off base.

  The receptionist nodded. “Her room is right down this hall, take the first right, then it’s the second door on your left.” She pointed him in the right direction. “Her name is on the door. You won’t miss it.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.” Nickolai hurried off the way she’d pointed, before she realized he had never met Joel Easton, had no clue if he was kind and gentle when it came to his mother, and had no business here.

  Except that he did.

  Nickolai hesitated just outside the door to Mrs. Easton’s room. Intrusion was rude, no matter how justified. He knocked softly and heard the muffled response to enter. He knocked again, just a little harder. Again came the response from inside. He remained in the hall.

  The door opened, and Joel Easton stood in the doorway. “Yes?” He looked exactly as he had in the picture taken as a still from the hotel’s surveillance video.

  “Mr. Easton, I’m Nickolai Baptiste from New Orleans, looking into the details of Bartholomew Winslet’s murder.” It was times like these that he wished he still had a badge to pull.

  Joel glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll just be a minute, Momma.” He joined Nickolai in the hall, pulling her bedroom door closed behind him. “What are you doing here? I’ve told the police everything I know already.”

  “I’m actually focusing more on the map as I believe it’s the motive for Mr. Winslet’s murder.” Nickolai noticed the two nurses staring at them from down the hall. “Is there a place we can speak privately?”

  Joel nodded. He led Nickolai down another hall and out a side door. He turned as soon as they cleared the sidewalk, moving to a set of benches almost behind the building. “I don’t know what I can do to help you.” He sat on one of the benches.

  “You can answer a couple of questions for me. How did you get the map?” Nickolai pulled out the small notebook from his back pocket. They said you could take the guy off the force but could never get the force out of the guy. He sat on the other bench, facing Easton.

  “It’s been in my family for generations. You know about the legend, right?”

  Nickolai cocked his head. He did, of course, but he wanted to hear it from Easton’s angle.

  Easton sighed. “Long story short: The one person who had found the mine was dying. He was taken to Julia Thomas’s house for her to try and nurse him back to health. She tried to help him, so he drew her a rough map to the mine. He died. Julia Thomas was my ancestor. The map’s been handed down in the family.”

  “So why not have it authenticated a long time ago?”

  “Seriously, man? Because then everyone could find the mine.”

  Nickolai would come back around to that one. “Why did you sell it now?”

  Easton flicked his hand toward the building. “My mom. There’s a new treatment plan going on here, with some really promising results. But it doesn’t come cheap. To get her on the plan, I had to get a lot of money fast.” He shrugged. “That’s all I had. I sold it an
d everything I had to get her the treatment, and in just a week, I can see her progress, so it was worth it.”

  This was way too familiar. Nickolai shifted on the hard bench, looking anywhere but at Easton. He and the man seemed to have too much in common at the moment as Nickolai forced himself not to think about Lisbeth and why, exactly, he’d taken this case.

  A bird hopped on the ground near the concrete curb.

  Nickolai stared at his notes. “Why not uncover the mine a long time ago?” Like back before the Superstitions had been incorporated into the National Park Service so it was government owned. Now, if any gold or anything was found, it would be the property of the United States government.

  Easton stared at the bird, hopping along, pecking at little specks on the ground. “We’ve all looked. At least I know my uncles did. And my grandfather. He searched so hard that my grandmother threatened to divorce him if he didn’t stop.”

  “Then maybe the map isn’t real?”

  “I can’t say for sure, of course, but we’ve traced it all the way back to Julia. There’s no reason to believe it’s not real.”

  “Except that no one can actually find the mine.” Many believe there was never a mine to find—that the gold attributed to the mine was actually derived from the Peraltas Cache.

  Easton clapped his hands, and the bird flew off. “Because it’s hidden well and even with the map, it’s vague. You still have to actually figure the map out. Old Dutchman wasn’t going to make it easy to find, even on his deathbed, when he drew it out for Julia.”

  “Do you have a copy of the map? Not the original, of course, but a copy?” It would help to have an idea what it looked like.

  Easton dipped his head for a moment. “I did, but when I sold all my furniture and moved, it was lost.” He stared at Nickolai. “Sorry I’m not much help.”

  Never mind, a copy of the map wasn’t the issue. “What can you tell me about the other bidder?”

  “Other bidder?”

  “The one bidding for the map against Mr. Winslet. Who was he?”

  Easton’s cheeks turned pink.