by Alex Archer
3
Krauzer cowered back and nearly fell through the open window. Annja caught the director and moved him over in front of the wall and put herself between him and the biker.
“Move,” Barney ordered, waving his arm in a serpentine motion.
“I just saved your life when I took the gun away,” Annja pointed out.
He scowled at her and maybe there was a little hurt pride in his slit eyes. “If I have to, I’ll cut through you to get to him.” He continued moving the knife in the air.
Annja grabbed the big man’s wrist with one hand and popped him in the throat with the open Y of her other hand. When he stepped back, gagging, she nerve-pinched his hand and let the knife fall to the floor, where it stood embedded upside down.
Barney yanked his hand back. She stood between him and the knife.
Shaking his head, Barney sucked in a breath, then said, “You’re gonna be sorry you did that.” He’d clearly meant the statement to be intimidating, but his words came out in a high-pitched squeak. He rushed at her, intending to use his size and weight against her.
Annja swept his lead foot as it came down, putting it in front of the other foot so that he tripped himself. At the same time, she grabbed his jacket lapels, twisted tightly to accelerate and direct his fall, and pulled him face-first into the wall hard enough to break the plasterboard.
Without a sound, Barney dropped to the floor unconscious.
Melanie held her open hands to either side of her face. “Did you kill him?”
“No.” Annja knelt to unlace one of Barney’s boots, intending to use the string to tie him up. She didn’t need him waking while she was trying to deal with the other two in the room.
Seeing how the tide had turned, Krauzer started to reach for the knife.
“Don’t,” Annja warned as she looped the lace around the unconscious biker’s wrists.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Krauzer replied, even as he pulled his hand back from the knife.
“I’m going to do exactly that for the moment.” Annja finished tying the biker’s hands behind his back and rose.
In the hallway, neighbors stood in slack-jawed amazement. Several of them were talking into their cell phones. And some of them were taking pictures and video.
Great. Nothing’s ever private these days. Annja sighed and turned her attention to Krauzer and Melanie. “The police are going to be here in minutes, so this is how this is going to go down.” She looked at Melanie. “You’re going to tell me where the scrying crystal is.”
For a moment, Melanie acted as if she was going to refuse. Then she collapsed onto a nearby sofa and started to cry. “It’s in the bedroom closet.”
Annja turned to Krauzer, not trusting him to be in the room alone with Melanie. “Go get the crystal.”
Krauzer frowned, but he went to the adjacent bedroom, rattled around and came back with a boot box. “Found it. And it doesn’t look counterfeit at all.” He smiled in relief and satisfaction, then glanced at Melanie. “Wow, you and Barney boy are into some kinky stuff.”
“And you,” Annja said, ignoring the comment, “are going to let me examine that scrying crystal.”
Krauzer wrapped his arms around the box protectively. “This is mine. I risked my life to get this. I’m never letting it out of my sight again.”
On the floor, Barney snuffled, waking, then struggled and tried to get up.
Annja plucked the knife from the floor and looked at Krauzer. “I risked my life to help you, and I’m still going to have to deal with the police for hours because of you, so I’m going to get to study that crystal. Otherwise, I’m going to cut Barney free. I figure you guys have time for a rematch before the police arrive. Do you like your chances?”
Krauzer gritted his teeth. “All right, but we should go, not hang around for the cops.”
Pointing at the people at the door, Annja said, “This is probably going out live on television right now.”
Outside, sirens filled the street and grew louder as they neared the building.
“And we’re all out of time for running.”
* * *
“THEY WERE READY to kill each other over this?” LAPD sergeant Will Cranmer looked at the scrying crystal Annja was studying. He was in his early fifties; his hair and mustache were gray and neatly clipped, and he wore aviator sunglasses against the dimming sun.
The spherical crystal appeared to have been cast of yellowish glass and was as big as both her fists put together. Each of its four flat spots were about as large as Annja’s thumb.
Annja leaned against Krauzer’s Lamborghini. “I think kill may be a bit strong.”
She’d had confrontations with police all over the world. They all wanted people to admit to things so court cases would go more easily. She wasn’t going to confirm anything that would possibly bring on more trouble. “The discussion did get heated.”
“There is the broken door—”
“That door is very flimsy,” Annja said. “I’m sure you noticed that.”
“—and the knife—”
“Which belongs to Barney.”
“—who also doesn’t look so good.” Cranmer nodded toward the big biker in the back of a nearby patrol car.
Handcuffs had replaced the bootlace Annja had used to bind the man. Dried blood covered his upper lip and beard.
“That was me,” Annja said. “Barney didn’t want to give up on the knife after I took it away from him.”
“You did that?” Cranmer looked impressed.
“Yeah.”
“Krauzer is telling the detectives that he did it.” The police officer thrust his chin toward the front of the apartment building.
The director stood between two detectives and was enjoying the attention he was getting from members of the local news media, who were held back by yellow tape.
Annja smiled. “He loves telling stories, so we’ll let him have his glory as long as he can hang on to it.” She had responded only, “No comment,” every time a reporter thrust a microphone into her face and they’d quickly gravitated to Krauzer. “But in case Melanie Harp or Barney tell you later it was me, it was me.”
“Good to know. I’ll clue the detectives in.”
Nobody was getting Barney’s side of the story. Or Melanie Harp’s. The actress had tried to get access to the media, but she’d been locked in the back of another patrol car. “So what makes this glass bowling ball so important?” Cranmer asked.
“It’s a prop in Krauzer’s new movie,” Annja said. “It’s the scrying crystal of an elf witch.”
“What’s the movie?”
“A Diversion of Dragons.”
Cranmer crossed his arms and leaned against the car beside Annja. “Fantasy?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t wait to tell the chief.”
“Why?”
Cranmer grinned. “Krauzer kind of mentioned he had a part in the new movie the chief might be great for.”
“So Krauzer thinks a part in a movie is a get-out-of-jail-free card?”
Cranmer nodded.
“Is it?”
“Yep.”
“That doesn’t sound fair, does it?”
Cranmer grinned. “You still believe in fair?”
“That does sound kind of funny, doesn’t it?”
“Everybody wants to be in front of the camera.”
“How about you?”
“I was a bit player in a lot of cop shows when I was younger. I got over it,” Cranmer said. “So tell me about the crystal ball.”
“Scrying crystal.”
Cranmer shrugged. “I’ve arrested fortune-telling con artists with bigger balls.”
Annja raised her eyebrows.
“
I’m a fan of your show,” Cranmer said after a moment’s hesitation. “I was a history major at college before I spent time in the military and became a police officer.” He nodded at the scrying crystal. “I noticed you weren’t just looking at that like it was a prop.”
Annja turned it in her hands, feeling the heft of it and the irregularities along the surface. When she’d first glimpsed the object, she’d gotten a sense of antiquity. After handling it, she was pretty sure that initial impression had been correct.
“I don’t think it is.”
“So what do you suppose it is?”
“Serendipity. Sometimes when you’re looking for one thing, you discover another by accident. You’ve heard of Juan Cabrillo?”
Cranmer nodded “Sailed with the conquistadores, with Hernán Cortés, and later explored the West Coast while searching for a trade route to China.”
“And his last voyage?”
“In 1542 he sailed most of the West Coast and ended up on what we call Santa Catalina Island, intending to stay the winter. Some of his men got attacked by Tongva warriors around Christmas Eve. Cabrillo stepped off the ship and splintered his shin, ended up getting gangrene and dying there. He never made it back to Europe. On San Miguel Island, somebody found a headstone that might have been his.”
“Now I’m impressed.”
“I’ve got four kids. My wife helped them with math and science. I helped them with history and English... They like Chasing History’s Monsters, too. I think my older two boys like it for the other host, but my daughter wants to be you when she grows up. When I tell her I met you today, she’s going to freak.”
He pulled his smartphone from his shirt pocket.
“Do you mind...?”
“Sure.” Annja stood beside Cranmer and he got the phone ready. “Wait!” She reached up and took her hair down and ran her fingers through it. “Okay.” She smiled, Cranmer smiled, and he took the selfie. Twice.
“Thanks.” Cranmer put the phone back in his pocket.
“How does Juan Cabrillo fit in with the elf witch’s scrying crystal?”
“Cabrillo’s logbook of the voyage along the West Coast was never found,” Annja said. “There’s only a concise summation made by Andrés de Urdaneta, a Spanish navigator who also worked on finding a way to sail around the world after Magellan’s crew managed.”
“Another ship’s captain who didn’t finish a voyage.”
“Exactly. Anyway, one of the local professors of history at Cal State has some old journal pages that one of his students said had been in the hands of his maternal grandmother’s family for years. They were an heirloom of some sort, saved in a safe-deposit box that ended up bequeathed to the student in a will. He asked Dr. Orta to have a look at it. Dr. Orta had read I was in LA working with Krauzer, so he called me.”
“He’s a fan of the show?”
“Claims to be, but he’s more interested in history. The papers Dr. Orta showed me claim to be from one of the mates aboard the San Salvador, a man named Julio Gris. Gris was a treasure hunter and in the papers he states that he found a lead to a lost treasure.”
“But this could be a hoax.”
Annja held up the scrying crystal. “It could be, except the papers describe this perfectly.”
4
The papers Dr. Vincent Orta possessed had a sketch of the scrying crystal. The drawing was on the fourth page of Julio Gris’s manuscript. The parchment was old and weathered, unevenly burned along one side, and had turned the amber hue of honey. All twelve sheets were hermetically sealed in individual plastic protectors.
Some of the ink had faded, but Orta had brought the lines back to clarity with a chemical treatment. Annja just hoped that the work hadn’t erased the hidden message she thought might be there.
She sat on a high stool at an architect’s desk in the university classroom Orta had opened for their use that night. He’d also taken the liberty of sending out to a Mongolian restaurant and had ordered enough so that Krauzer could join them for dinner.
Orta had been polite about the unexpected company, but he wasn’t overly friendly to Krauzer, who continued to be loud and obnoxious. The director didn’t notice the snub on Orta’s part, though.
“So that’s my scrying crystal?” Krauzer leaned over Annja’s shoulder to look at the page.
“I believe so.” Once she’d carried the crystal in, Orta had become as excited as she was, and he was just as certain it was the artifact described in Gris’s papers. Krauzer shook his head. “Nah. Doesn’t look anything like my crystal.”
Annja shot him a look. “It’s round. It’s glass. It has four flat spots on it. That,” she said, pointing the chopsticks at the glass ball, then at the drawing, “is this.”
“I don’t see it.” Thankfully, Krauzer’s phone rang and he turned away to answer it.
Orta shook his head. “That man’s an idiot.”
“I heard that,” Krauzer said.
“Good. I don’t have to repeat myself.” Orta heaved a sigh.
“So we’re in agreement?” Annja asked.
“Definitely. I can’t believe you found this.”
“I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t shown me these papers. Sometimes it’s like that. There are places all over the world where artifacts have sat in plain sight for years and no one knew what they were until they started investigating.”
“Do you know where Krauzer got it?” Orta asked.
“Not yet.”
Orta studied Krauzer. “He didn’t tell you?”
“He doesn’t know. He got it from a set designer. She’s out of town on a shopping spree somewhere in South America. I’ve sent emails, so hopefully, when she gets somewhere with internet access, she’ll have more information.”
“There’s not a bill of sale or something? No means of tracing this?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Set designers collect from everywhere and often the objects sit in warehouses—or their homes—until they can find a movie to sell it to. They’re given a budget and, more or less, told to spend it. I’ve also discovered that sometimes the bills of sale are as fictitious as Hollywood. Tracking down where things actually came from can be difficult. Besides, we’re more interested in where this is going to take us. If we find out for sure what this is, we’ll figure out where it’s been.”
A rueful frown pulled at the corners of Orta’s mouth. “Where it takes you, perhaps. One of us still has classes to teach.”
That was true. Annja felt bad for him. She couldn’t imagine being trapped on a schedule without recourse to follow up on an artifact. “I appreciate you calling me in on this. And I appreciate dinner.”
“It’s the least I could do. I haven’t forgotten you agreed to take a lecture for me at some point.” Orta grinned. “That’s got me in pretty solid with the dean.”
“Well, let’s see if we can decipher what Julio Gris was protecting.”
* * *
“ARE YOU GOING to get me out of here?” Melanie Harp pulled at the oversize orange jumpsuit as she sat at the visitation window in the LAPD jail. “This place is horrible, Ligier. They’re treating me like I’m a criminal.”
She spoke in French because using the language made her feel special and because she didn’t want the guards and prisoners around her to listen in.
She ran her fingers through her hair and tightened her grip on the phone that connected her to the man on the other side of the bulletproof glass that separated them.
“I’ll get you out as soon as I can, baby,” Ligier de Cerceau replied calmly. He was always calm. That somber solidness was one of the things about him that had first attracted Melanie. When he was in LA, he was her rock.
He looked as if he was carved out of rock, too. He was six and a half feet tall and broad shouldered. H
is blond curls hung in disarray around his bronzed face, making his bright blue eyes appear startling. Amber stubble covered his square chin.
For the jail visit, he’d claimed to be her lawyer and had dressed the part: Italian suit, nice loafers, a high-end watch and a leather briefcase. Instead of softening him up, the suit made him look even scarier.
“Why can’t you get me out of here now?” Melanie thought she was going to start crying again. Getting fired from the movie was bad. Getting locked up was bad. But there was nothing like coming down cold from an addiction. She was already covered in sweat and she was freezing. She felt as if her insides were about to explode.
“Because they haven’t charged you. Once they charge you, I can get you out.”
“Promise?”
“Sure, baby.”
De Cerceau blew Melanie a kiss and she felt a little better.
“Now tell me about this glass ball you had.”
“I already sent you pictures of it.” Melanie didn’t know what he wanted out of the prop. She wouldn’t even have stolen the stupid thing if he hadn’t told her to. It had been his idea for her to take it after she’d gotten released from the picture. He’d even flown back in from...wherever he’d been before he got back to LA. He didn’t always tell her his business, and she liked that he could be so mysterious. Just ride into town and sweep her off her feet. He’d told her he’d seen her in Fifty Hues of Indigo and had fallen in love with her. That had been so romantic.
“I got the pictures, baby, but I’d like to know a little more about the ball.”
“Why?”
He grinned at her the way he did that drove her crazy, and then he leaned close to the window. “Because I thought I’d steal it back for you, have it for you by the time you get out tomorrow, and we could make the studio pay to have it returned. That way you still get severance and a nest egg until you get a serious role.”
Melanie hesitated even though he always knew just what to say to her. “That’s what we were going to do the first time. That didn’t work out so well.”
“If I’d been here, things would have gone better—you know that—but I couldn’t be here until now. I came as soon as I could.” De Cerceau shrugged. “Besides, this time I’m going to take that director, too. Make the studio pay to get them both back. That way your nest egg will be even bigger.”