The Inquisitor's Key bf-7

by Jefferson Bass

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “But some people would argue with you. Some people think you could get DNA from the bloodstains on the Shroud of Turin. I don’t think so; I don’t think the Shroud is authentic — I think it’s a clever medieval forgery — and I don’t think the stains on it are really blood.” I decided to see if Inspector Descartes had any sense of humor. “On the other hand, if the Holy Sponge is authentic, it might contain traces of Holy Spittle, along with some DNA.”

  “The Holy Sponge? Please, what is this Holy Sponge?”

  I explained.

  “Incroyable,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “What would really help,” I went on, “would be dental records: X-rays of the Holy Teeth.”

  The inspector stared at me as if I were insane, then — when he realized I was joking — he laughed. “I like that,” he said. “Oui, X-rays of the Holy Teeth would be very helpful.”

  “Oh!” My joke had reminded me of something serious. “We sent two of the teeth to a laboratory for carbon-14 dating, to see how old they are. We should get the results any day now. I’m guessing the teeth are only seven hundred years old, but if the lab says they’re two thousand years old, the bones suddenly become much more interesting.”

  “What bones?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what bones’? The bones I’ve just been talking about, Inspector.”

  He repeated the question. “What bones?” He held out his upturned hands. His empty hands. Now I understood his meaning. “Where are these special bones?”

  “I have no idea, Inspector. But I think if you find the bones, you’ll find the killer. What’s the French expression that means ‘Look for the woman’? Cherchez la femme?” He nodded. “How would you say ‘Look for the skeleton’?”

  “Cherchez le squelette.” The word sounded almost like “skillet.” “Of course we will search for the skeleton. But I don’t understand, Docteur. Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell the world that you found these bones and explain that you need to do more tests to know if they are Jesus?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Of course I want the truth. I always only want the truth.” For a moment I feared that I’d angered him, but he didn’t look mad; only intense. “Come.” He stood abruptly, beckoning to me to follow him. He led me into the chapel, where the forensic technicians seemed to be looking for the controls of the electrical winch that had hoisted Stefan into the air. Descartes studied the suspended body; then his gaze shifted to the fresco on the wall behind it, the wall above the altar. The painting showed a rosy-cheeked cherub hovering in the sky, beaming, as if delighted by the body hanging a few feet away. The detective shook his head slightly. “I don’t believe in angels or miracles or Holy Sponges, Docteur. But I do believe in the truth. La vérité.” A weary look clouded his eyes, and I wondered if he was thinking about the dead art-forger again. “I just have difficulty to find it sometimes.”

  “How would you say it, Inspector—‘Cherchez la vérité’?”

  He smiled slightly. “Oui. Exactement. So yes, please, tell me the truth about why Monsieur Beauvoir was so secretive.”

  “This is just my opinion,” I stressed, “but I think Stefan wanted to keep it a secret because he was afraid someone else would take credit for the find; someone else would get the glory — some bureaucrat at the palace or the Ministry of Culture or wherever. I think he wanted all the glory for himself. Stefan wanted to be the one in the spotlight.”

  I heard the whine of an electric motor. Overhead, the beam twitched and Stefan’s body jerked as the cable spool began to turn. As the wire unwound, the beam descended, slowly spinning in the glare of the theater lights.

  Stefan had gotten his wish. He had taken center stage, and he was in the spotlight.

  CHAPTER 22

  Miranda was quiet on the walk back to her hotel, which was fine by me.

  She looked tired and sad. I felt tired and sad, too; also confused and unsettled. I was shocked and puzzled by Stefan’s murder, but I wasn’t traumatized by it; he was a colleague, true, but I’d barely known him, so finding his body had been almost like stumbling upon a murdered stranger. No, my confusion and distress had more to do with Miranda. Was there something going on between her and Stefan after all? Had she lied to me about that? If she had, what else had she lied to me about? And was Descartes right — had his murder, and our involvement, made Miranda’s private life my business?

  Perhaps it had, I concluded reluctantly. I was wrestling with what to say when I looked up and noticed where we were. Ambling on automatic pilot, we’d reached the Palace of the Popes. Miranda stared bleakly at the stone façade; silent tears sprang from her eyes and rolled down her face. “God, I hate this place,” she whispered fiercely, not so much to me as to herself, or perhaps to the palace. “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, or at least to Disney, when I first saw it. The glory and the glamour, I totally fell for it, you know?” She laughed bitterly. “I was too dazzled to see that Stefan was just playing me. Probably using me to get to you — wanting to add your forensic heft to the project to give it more credibility. It never occurred to me to suspect him of that. I only suspected him of wanting to get into my pants again.”

  It was, I supposed after my initial shock, as good an opening as any to the conversation we needed to have. “And did you want him to?”

  “No. Well, maybe. But not really.” She shook her head. “God, what a mess. Would you let me just talk for a while? Can you just listen, and not interrupt, and try not to judge me?” She took my arm and led me to a bench at the edge of the plaza. “I hadn’t thought about Stefan for years; I really hadn’t. So when he first got in touch with me about this, I barely even remembered who he was. He had to say his name twice, and add ‘in France.’ But after that, it was like this seed started to germinate — ha, shades of Zeus and Leda; the seed of unfinished business, somehow. Digging around in the Palace of the Popes sounded cool, and so did a paid junket to France. But I got this nervous, hopeful feeling, too; this hope that maybe we could somehow get rid of some of the scar tissue we’d created six years ago, when Stefan’s wife showed up and I left Guatemala in disgrace.” I nodded; I wasn’t entirely sure I understood, but I’d been instructed not to interrupt, and I wanted her to know I was listening.

  “So as soon as I get here, Stefan starts talking about how glad he is to be working with me again. How sorry he is about what happened in Guatemala. How grateful he is to have a chance to become real colleagues. I tried not to make too much of it; it sounded good, but I couldn’t help wondering if he was working me a bit, trying to get into my pants again. And he did make a pass at me that night on his balcony, but I turned him down, just like I told you. But what I didn’t tell you about that night is, I didn’t burn the bridge completely. I was willing to consider the possibility that there actually could be something there — something genuine with Stefan — after all.”

  I nodded, biting my tongue to keep from asking if Stefan had given her reason to hope for more. It was almost as though she’d read my mind, though. “He kept dropping hints along those lines,” she went on. “Talking about what an opportunity this find was. How we could publish off it for years. How it could open all sorts of doors for us. Turns out death’s door was the only one, huh?” She took another deep breath. “There’s another thing I haven’t told you. Stefan came to my hotel room last night.”

  I broke the no-interruptions rule. “I know.”

  She looked miserable. “How?”

  “Descartes told me.”

  “Shit. I’m sorry you didn’t hear it from me first.” She looked down at the cobblestones. “About ten o’clock last night, Stefan calls me, says he’s on his way home from dinner and can he swing by for a minute and talk to me about something. I say okay. He shows up at my room with a bottle of wine, and he’s all funny and charming, and I let him talk me into having some wine with him. A couple glasses in, I’m feeling relaxed and happy, and then he starts k
issing me. And this time, I’m not planning on turning him down. But then he starts whispering stuff in my ear about how he wants to run away with me. How we can get out of the rat race of academia. Live somewhere beautiful and exotic. Travel the world. Write novels, raise orchids, do whatever the hell we want. At first I just figure he’s trying to sweet-talk me, but he keeps on and on, so finally I ask him what the hell he’s talking about — it makes no sense to me; it sounds crazy and juvenile. So then he gets defensive and mad. He gets up and storms out.”

  “That’s it? That’s all that happened?”

  “Almost; not quite. As he’s walking out the door, he turns and says, ‘You have no idea what I’m offering you, Miranda. The door’s opening tonight. Right now. I’m stepping through it. I’d love for you to go with me.” He stands there looking at me, just…waiting. Then he shakes his head, steps into the hall, and shuts the door behind him. And then he’s gone.”

  “Let me get this straight. He wanted you to leave the hotel with him, right then, at midnight, to seize some golden opportunity?”

  “I think he did. I keep turning and turning those words over in my mind, and that’s where I end up every time.”

  “Did you tell Descartes this?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how seriously he took me. Or whether he even believes me.”

  Suddenly I felt dizzy, almost sick. “If you’d gone with Stefan, you might have ended up hanging in that chapel with him. Nailed to the back side of that beam.”

  “Yeah.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The mistral had come roaring back at nightfall, churning through the leaves of the trees in Lumani’s garden. I tossed and turned for hours, chasing sleep without catching it — like a donkey forever pursuing a carrot suspended just beyond its nose. I was finally getting my first taste of it when I heard a tapping at my door, so light it was all but drowned out by the wind. I sat up in bed, instantly on full alert. “Hello? Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Dr. B.”

  “Miranda? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Sort of. Not really.”

  Switching on the bedside lamp, I scrambled out from under the covers, fumbled with the lock, and opened the door in my T-shirt and surgical scrub pants. Even by the low light spilling from my room, I could see how ravaged her face looked. “You look like hell.”

  Normally, this would have prompted a smart-ass response, but she simply nodded and crumpled against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her back. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head. “Do you want to go get some coffee or something to eat? If we can find someplace that’s open?” She shook her head again.

  “I just don’t think I can be by myself. Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” The room wasn’t designed for company; the only places to sit were the bed and a narrow wooden chair in the corner. I nodded toward the chair. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but what I’d really like is to just sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, but I got really creeped out in that hotel room. I could still smell Stefan’s cigarettes and cologne in there; still feel his presence.” She drew a deep breath, then blew it out through pursed lips. “I just so desperately want to sleep. Would you mind if I slept here with you?”

  “Miranda, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “Maybe not, and I’m sorry to ask, but I really don’t want to be alone.” Her eyes looked sad and weary. “Just sleep. I promise. Please? I need a friend right now, not a boss.”

  Five minutes later I was sharing my bed with Miranda, and I knew there’d be no sleep for me. I was lying on the far side of the bed, on the edge of the mattress, my thoughts and emotions swirling. I focused on my breathing, making it as regular as possible. Three seconds a breath. In-in-in. Out-out-out. In-in-in. Out-out-out.

  The covers rustled, the mattress shifted slightly, and I felt Miranda press against me. She spooned up behind me, her knees tucked into the bends of my legs, her chest and belly against my back. She wrapped one arm around my shoulder and laid a hand on my chest. She patted my heart—tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump—and I swear, it beat in time with her touch. Gradually her body went slack and her breath grew deep. With each breath in, her belly swelled against me; with each exhalation, the hair on the back of my neck stirred.

  Her body twitched slightly — a dream, or some neural synapse firing at random — and she took a deeper breath, then settled more closely against my back. Despite the bizarre and bloody events of the past twenty-four hours, the feeling of her body snugged against mine gave me a profound sense of well-being and comfort. A line from Meister Eckhart popped into my head: “If the only prayer you ever say is ‘Thank you,’ it will be enough.” Lying there with Miranda spooned up behind me — alive, unhurt, and important to me in ways that I didn’t understand fully, or perhaps was afraid to face — I prayed again: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  CHAPTER 24

  When i woke, she was gone. On the nightstand, I found a note in Miranda’s small, neat script. It said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Underneath the thanks, these words: “A souvenir. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but maybe it’s important.” I tucked the note — an odd souvenir, I thought, or at least an odd inscription — in the drawer of the desk.

  A few minutes later, as I was brushing windblown leaves off a chair in the garden, Jean appeared, a cordless phone in his hand. “A call for you.”

  Inspector Descartes was on the line. “I have something interesting to show you,” he said. “Can you come to my office?”

  “Yes, of course. I was just about to have breakfast. Tea, toast, and strawberries in the garden. Can I eat first, or do I need to come right away?”

  “You can eat first,” he said, then, “or…I could come there. We could talk over breakfast.”

  “I’ll ask Jean—”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said, and the phone went dead in my hand.

  * * *

  Descartes took his coffee black and concentrated: a small shot of espresso so dense he could almost have eaten it with a fork. Turning one of the lounge chairs by the fountain to face the sun, he set his espresso and a plate full of strawberries on a small table, then settled into the cushions, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Ahhh,” he grunted happily. If not for the threadbare dress clothes, he might have been settling in for a day of Riviera sunbathing.

  I sat in an adjoining chair with my cup of tea, now cold, along with two pieces of crusty toast slathered with cherry preserves. I sat without eating, waiting to see what he wanted to show me. He was in no hurry. His breathing grew slow and deep, and I wondered if he was going to sleep. “Inspector, you wanted to show me something?”

  “Mmm? Ah, oui, of course.” I was glad I’d asked. “Yes, it’s right here.” He patted his shirt pocket, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper. With almost maddening slowness he unfolded it and peered at it, then handed it over. “Yes, I thought you might find it interesting.”

  It took a moment for the name on the letterhead to sink in, but once it did, my adrenaline surged, and my eyes raced down the page.

  “We found it in the office of his apartment,” he said. “We almost missed it. It was in his fax machine. It’s the report—”

  “I know, I know,” I interrupted. “Good God.” I reread it, just to be sure I hadn’t misunderstood. “Or maybe I should say ‘Jesus Christ’ instead.” What I held in my shaking hands was the report from Beta Analytic, the Miami lab where we’d sent the teeth for C-14 dating. The figures practically leaped from the page: “1,950 +/- 30.” According to the lab, the teeth — the teeth I’d pulled from the skull in the ossuary — dated back to the year A.D. 62, plus or minus thirty years: the century in which Jesus had lived and died. “So they might be the bones of Christ after all.” My mind was racing as fast as my pulse. “You
said you found this in his fax machine. Had it been faxed to him, or had he faxed it to someone else?”

  He smiled. “You would make a good detective, Docteur. The answer, I believe, is both. We looked at the machine’s archive, the log, I think you call it. He got a fax from Miami around eight P.M. on Saturday. Right after that, between nine and nine thirty, he sent three faxes.”

  “Three? Did the first two fail?”

  “No. All three went through. They were to three different places. Rome, London, and the United States.”

  “Damnation,” I said. “I think Miranda was right — I think Stefan was up to no good. He made such a big deal about keeping the bones secret, but the minute he got the lab results, he ran to the fax machine. Have you tracked the numbers yet?”

  “We’re working on it.” He frowned. “There’s some bureaucracy we have to go through to get the records.”

  “Do you know where in the United States?”

  “Ah, oui. The city is Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte?” I was stunned. “My God. Some guy in Charlotte got in touch with me a week ago. Asked if I would examine some bones and artifacts from the first century.”

  Descartes sat up straight, no longer sunbathing. “Who is this guy? Where do we find him?”

  “His name”—I rummaged through my mental trash bin—“is Newman. Dr. Adam Newman. Director of the Institute for Something-or-other. Ah: the Institute for Biblical Science.”

  He took out his notepad and wrote down the name. “You know this place, this institute? It’s a serious scientific institution?”

  I shook my head. “I’d never heard of them.” Suddenly I made a connection. “But Stefan had heard of them. I showed him the letter they sent me. He warned me to stay away from them — said they were religious nuts, and if they disagreed with my work, they’d try to damage my reputation.”