Over Maya Dead Body

by Sandra Orchard

  The service started with Jack’s favorite hymn, “Amazing Grace,” then person after person streamed forward to share how Jack had touched their lives. One family was the recipient of a Habitat for Humanity home he’d spearheaded and designed. Several were from organizations working in the developing world that Jack had partnered with on various humanitarian construction projects. Some had had Jack as a baseball coach in bygone years. Others had had him as a Boys Club leader and got the crowd laughing with tales of the pranks Jack loved to play on them.

  Still others had been helped by Jack’s mentoring on various personal matters. All remarked how he’d always been quick to lend a helping hand or offer a listening ear or a word of counsel when sought. His greatest desire was to honor God and help others with the time, skills, and wealth he’d been given.

  I sighed with the uncomfortable realization that my own life was pretty self-centered by comparison. I practically lived and breathed my job. Didn’t spend nearly as much time with friends as they’d like. Sure, I helped out at the drop-in center once a week teaching art, and yeah, deep down I longed to ignite in them the creative spirit my granddad had nurtured in me, but I didn’t want to overcommit, not when I still had Granddad’s murderer to track down.

  “Where were you?” Nate’s quiet question jerked me out of my thoughts.

  I looked at him blankly. “Pardon me?” That’s when I clued in that people were already meandering out. “Oh.” I shrugged. “Just thinking about what people may say about me when I die. ‘She was a dedicated agent.’”

  “You’re so much more than that.”

  I shook my head. “Not really. Granddad used to urge me to follow my dreams. But after his murder, dreams of changing the world with my art morphed into dreams of becoming an FBI agent and tracking down his killer. Not exactly the kind of world changing I’d once envisioned myself doing, but the world needs people willing to stand in the gap for justice too, right?”

  “Yes. But that’s work. Where do you live?”

  My heart thumped. I knew he was quoting a line from one of my all-time favorite romances—Sabrina, with Harrison Ford. But he was totally serious.

  “We’d better join the family,” I all but blurted, “or I’ll earn another scolding from my mother.” I winked, hoping he wouldn’t notice how much his question had rattled me. Sure, I knew I was a workaholic, but my reasons were noble. Tanner at least understood that much.

  28

  Showtime.

  Tanner’s one-word text mobilized me into action.

  Once Mom understood what was at stake she’d forgive me for ducking out of the post-service reception. By the time they all got back to Preston’s she was bound to have heard about the excitement at Charlie’s this afternoon. Still, I avoided her line of sight as I signaled Isaak to meet me at the exit.

  Nate was still glued to my side, which was a good thing because he was also my ride.

  “What’s up?” Isaak asked.

  “Tanner has eyes on Devin Fields. Entered the pub fifteen minutes ago. Was swaying like he’d already gotten a head start drinking. Tanner’s already alerted local PD.”

  “I didn’t manage to get the search warrant,” Isaak said.

  “Doesn’t matter. The package is addressed to Hill and Dale Architects, and Frank Dale gave me permission to open it.”

  “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go talk to this guy and get that package.”

  Nate and I jumped into the Land Rover and Isaak tailed us in the personal SUV he’d ferried onto the island.

  “There’s Tanner,” I exclaimed, pointing.

  Tanner loitered on the sidewalk with a clear view into the pub.

  Cars lined the street, so we circled the block and parked farther up the hill. A van pulled in behind us. The cheery passengers spilled out, appearing eager to begin their Saturday night festivities. We waited for them to saunter inside before approaching Tanner.

  “We need to inspect the package first,” Isaak said. “If we’re looking at antiquities, then he’ll be our collar. If the firebombing is all we have on him, then it’ll be the local cops’ turf.”

  “Forget that,” Tanner said. “He targeted two federal officers. That makes it our turf.”

  “Besides,” I added, “we don’t have authority to break into his truck to retrieve the parcel. We’re going to have to convince him to hand it over.”

  “There’s a cruiser idling around the corner,” Nate said.

  “I asked them to be ready to pull Devin over if he made a run for it,” Tanner explained.

  “Okay, give Serena and me two minutes to get into position by his truck,” Isaak said. “And then you two can flush him out.”

  “Be careful,” I said to Nate. “If he tosses Molotov cocktails, chances are he also carries a weapon.”

  “That makes us even.” Nate winked.

  But the reminder he was packing heat left me feeling more unsettled. I kind of liked the litter-pan-scoop-wielding Nate who could joke about the gun pointed at his chest. I smiled at the memory of the time I’d mistakenly pulled a gun on him. Then again, if it were anyone but me with a finger on the trigger, I guess I’d be happy he traded his scoop for a gun.

  The back alley was dark, with random patches dimly lit from light seeping out the odd window on the buildings along it. I pointed. “The truck’s there.”

  “You stand by the driver’s door, and I’ll flank the rear door of the pub,” Isaak ordered.

  I glanced through the truck’s window. The parcel still sat in the same place on the seat. Excitement welled up my chest. In a few minutes, I’d finally have some answers.

  Standing there in the dark, waiting for Tanner to deliver our man, seconds felt like minutes and Dali’s melting pocket watches painting took on a surreal meaning for me. Then . . .

  Shouts erupted. A siren bleeped. Footsteps pounded down the alley.

  “Grab him,” Tanner shouted.

  Devin sprinted through a patch of light, and I raced to intercept him. I tackled him to the pavement, dug my knee into his back, and waited for the fight to drain out of him, then wrenched his arms behind him and cuffed him under the glare of the headlights of the cruiser that followed Tanner and the suspect down the alley. “You’re under arrest.” I rose and hauled Devin to his feet, reciting his Miranda rights on the spot because there was no way I was waiting until we got back to the station to question this jerk. I wanted to get a look at what was inside that parcel.

  “Good work, Jones,” Tanner said, sounding out of breath. Nate and two uniformed police officers gathered around us as well.

  “I can’t believe you let him get away from you.”

  “That was my fault,” Nate admitted. “We joined him at his table and I said, ‘Remember me?’”

  I grinned. “I’m guessing he did?”

  “Yup, bolted faster than you can say expeditiously.”

  “Ha, Mr. Sutton would be proud.” Sutton lived in our apartment building. He was a retired English professor and every morning he shared a new word with the residents and urged us to use it. Expeditiously was the one he’d passed along as I was leaving for this trip.

  “This is your fault,” Devin said to Nate, his speech slurred.

  “How do you figure?”

  “Carly loved me. Then you came along and messed with her brain.”

  Whoa, Nate was his target? Not Ben?

  “I never even met Carly before this afternoon,” Nate said defensively.

  Devin shook his head in wide, exaggerated wags. “You’re lying. Her boss said you came around asking about her.”

  “Frank?” I exchanged a glance with Nate. Frank told us he didn’t know if Carly was dating anyone. But if Devin asked him about Carly seeing anyone else, they were clearly acquainted.

  “Yeah, Frank.”

  Okay, maybe this was more convoluted than it seemed. Maybe Frank used Devin’s jealousy to his advantage. Only . . . if Frank was our antiquities buyer, why give me the go-ahead to
open the parcel?

  Unless it was a plant. He could’ve wrapped something else in the same packaging, something that wasn’t illegal, and given it to Devin for us to find. “Where did you get the parcel from?” I demanded.

  Devin shot me a confused look.

  “The parcel in your truck.”

  “Oh. My mom gave it to me to bring to Carly. She works at the post office.”

  Just as Marianne had supposed. It would be easy enough to verify. “When did Frank tell you about Nate’s interest in Carly?”

  “I’m not interested in Carly!” Nate interjected.

  “Sorry. Supposed interest,” I corrected.

  “At the office yesterday afternoon. I stopped by to give her a lift home, only to find out she took the day off and didn’t tell me. That’s why I asked Frank if he’d seen her with another guy. She’s been kind of distant for a few days.”

  “Uh, dimwit,” Tanner interjected, “her mother’s fiancé just died and they found the body. A little understanding instead of suspicion would’ve saved you from the bracelets.”

  He shook his head. “No, there’s a guy. I heard her on the phone when I showed up last night and then she tells me she wants to cool it.”

  “She’d just found out her brother was dead,” Tanner snapped back. “Did it occur to you that she didn’t have the energy to deal with your insecurities on top of her own pain?”

  Devin shrugged. “I guess that could’ve been it.”

  “How’d you know where Nate would be?” I jerked my chin toward Nate.

  “I didn’t. I took flowers to the house. You know, on account of her brother. Her mother told me she was at Charlie’s place.”

  I nodded since Marianne’s statement had already corroborated that much.

  “So I brought the flowers there. Only she wasn’t by herself.” Devin’s gaze shot daggers at Nate. If he hadn’t been handcuffed, I had no doubt he would’ve gone for his throat.

  I glanced at Special Agent Jackson, who was standing off to the side recording the conversation in his notebook. “And that made you mad,” I said to Devin, stating the obvious for the record.

  “I went crazy! I sped off and picked up my buddy and got the bottles ready and then we waited in my truck around the corner for the bozo to come out.” He ducked his head. “I just wanted to scare him. You know?” His head snapped up once more. “But then he goes and shoots at me. That’s when my friend saw Carly in the house with another guy.”

  “That was me and Detective Moore he saw. Not Carly.”

  Devin blinked, his eyes a tad blank, as if he couldn’t quite register his mistake.

  “She wasn’t there?”

  “No,” I said, which was more or less true since I didn’t know when exactly she’d escaped out the bathroom window.

  Like a light had switched on in Devin’s brain, he suddenly grew animated. “So . . . she doesn’t know what I did? I could still have a chance with her.”

  Tanner shoved him toward the waiting police car. “When you get out of jail.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Devin, I need you to open your truck so I can retrieve the mail belonging to Hill and Dale.”

  “Key’s in my pocket.”

  Tanner did the honors and handed me the fob. I blipped it unlocked and returned the key.

  Isaak snapped on latex gloves, photographed the stack of mail on the seat, then lifted out the lot and took a cursory glance around the cab.

  I reached past him, activated the lock, and closed the door. “Inspect the parcel at the station?”

  “Yes.”

  Tanner handed Devin to the cops for transport.

  “You and Nate may as well take the rest of the night off,” I said. “Get some dinner. I could be hours yet.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve got nothing better to do,” Tanner said.

  “Me neither,” Nate concurred. “Besides, I’m your ride.”

  “I could drive you back to Preston’s to pick up your rental,” Tanner offered. “Leave the Rover for Serena.”

  “The rental.” How could that lead have slipped my mind? “I never heard back from Officer Lennox about who returned the damaged rental car Thursday morning.”

  “I got the report on that,” Isaak said. “Dead end. It was one of the state troopers who came to the island to investigate Jack’s death.”

  “And that automatically makes him innocent?” Nate asked. “Haven’t you ever heard of corrupt cops?”

  “What was his name?” I asked Isaak.

  “Alan Moore.”

  “Really? Interesting.”

  “Sounds dodgy,” Nate said, adopting one of my aunt’s expressions. “Moore had to have overheard Martha’s call. I did. Why not fess up on the spot?”

  “He may not have heard. He was focused on Carly and Ben at the time. And at the Boston airport he watched Charlie like a suspect, not a partner.”

  “And he didn’t arrive on the island until the day after Jack died,” Isaak added.

  “All that tells us is he didn’t kill Jack,” Nate said.

  “Well, if he didn’t, it’s doubtful he’d be worried my snooping would uncover evidence to incriminate him,” I reasoned.

  “Maybe not in Jack’s death, but what about the smuggling ring?”

  I yanked open the car door. “Let’s see what’s in the parcel before we go there, because if Charlie was smuggling antiquities and Moore was in on it, risking exposure by investigating his partner for drug running seems pretty insane. Don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know. Didn’t you once tell me antiquity smuggling operations typically run a lot like terrorist cells? With members of the various parts of the operation not knowing those involved further along—or back—in the time line?”

  Yeah, okay. It sounds like something I said. It was one of the reasons we were usually careful about not making arrests too soon. Arresting a minor—easily replaced—underling in the food chain only served to tip off the people running the show that we were on to them before we had enough intel to shut them down.

  Charlie was likely such a cog. But one who knew too much.

  The question was, who or what had tipped off the ring’s mastermind?

  29

  I followed Special Agent Jackson and the police cruiser transporting Devin to Oak Bluff’s police department in the Land Rover while Tanner drove Nate to Preston’s to retrieve his rental. Devin would spend the rest of the weekend in Dukes County Jail in Edgartown, which was no country club for convicts despite the gorgeous Main Street facade. But first I had a lot more questions I wanted to ask him.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one with questions.

  Mom phoned, having just heard about the afternoon’s attack. “Do you think it’s safe for Ben to stay at the house with you and Ashley?” Mom asked in a hushed tone. “Can’t the police put him in protective custody or something?”

  What was I, chopped liver? “You don’t have to worry, Mom. The attacker was after Nate, not Ben.”

  “What?” she shrieked.

  I pulled the phone from my ear to soften the blow. Okay, I could’ve phrased that better. I nodded to the officers escorting Devin to an interrogation room to await the officer who’d been investigating this afternoon’s fires.

  “Mom, I need to go. Nate will explain when he gets there.” I clicked off before she could grill me further. I bypassed the interrogation room and followed Isaak to a back room. The rest of my questions for Devin could wait until after I looked inside the package.

  Isaak dusted the parcel and lifted more than two dozen prints. He then removed the outer layer of brown wrapping paper and repeated the process on the interior layer, managing to lift a half dozen more prints.

  I handed them off to the expert who’d compare them to the prints taken from Charlie’s body and then I scooped up the PD’s camera to take pictures of what was inside the box.

  “Ready?” Isaak asked me, grinning.

  “Get on with it!”


  He slit the tape sealing the cardboard box and gingerly plucked at the packing paper inside.

  At the sight of an ancient vase, I gasped and lowered the camera for a closer look. “It looks almost identical to the Fenton Vase in the picture Jack had been carrying.” I studied the images on the side of the vase of a Mayan ruler sitting cross-legged on a bench, wearing an enormous headdress, pointing to a basket full of corn. Such a crime. “To think if an archeological team had excavated this vase, it may’ve significantly deepened our knowledge of the Mayan culture. Instead, thanks to some looter, the context of the find—the key to our understanding—has been lost forever.”

  “I suspect the looter would’ve been more concerned about putting food on his table,” Isaak said.

  “True enough. And it doesn’t help when indigenous people can make more money digging for terra cotta than farming. What irks me is the entitled attitude of the collectors who fuel the market.”

  “Is it genuine?” Isaak asked as I picked it up to examine the bottom then the interior.

  “We’re going to need an expert to make that judgment call.” Estimates pegged the number of fake Mayan pots on the market these days at 85 percent. Even U.S. museums were suspected by some of unwittingly displaying the odd forgery.

  I phoned Preston and explained the situation. “Can you give us your opinion on its authenticity?”

  “Tonight?” He didn’t sound as if he liked the idea of venturing out again.

  I guess I should’ve expected the reaction. Professors kept different hours than law enforcement.

  “Tomorrow is fine,” Isaak said.

  I relayed the message to Preston and told him I’d touch base with him again in the morning.

  Isaak took over the camera and snapped more photos of the vase, then inserted the memory card into a printer in the corner of the room and printed copies.

  A knock sounded at the door and our fingerprint expert let himself in. “We have a positive match. Several in fact.”

  “To Charlie Anderson’s prints?” I clarified.

  The man consulted the paperwork in his hand. “That’s right. Three thumbprints. Two index finger prints and a pinky.” He handed over the paperwork.