Conspiracy to Murder

by Heather Graham

  “Yes, and we think someone was terribly jealous of Henry—which is why he was killed. Now it seems that someone is trying to kill Vivian and Arlo—who are also hardworking and respected members of the Egyptology community. But…”

  “But what?”

  “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t believe that Arlo and the mummy on the street were the same person. I just don’t believe it. And Arlo was the one to walk Micah and me all around this place the other day. Do you think…?”

  “Think what?”

  “There’s another motive? There’s something we’re missing?”

  “Of course. That’s always possible.”

  “Love, hate, greed, jealousy. Vengeance,” Harley murmured.

  “Ah, vengeance. For what? And against whom?”

  Harley made her way to the small aluminum desk in the far corner of the room. It was made so it could be constantly sterilized, but still allow for a notepad, pens, tablet, computer or whatever else the scientists and lab techs might need to accurately notate their work.

  She opened the first drawer, which held a large plastic container of sanitary wipes.

  She opened the second drawer. There was an unused notepad and a case of pencils.

  There should’ve been a computer somewhere. A tablet. Even a voice recorder.

  There was not.

  Harley opened the third drawer. And there she saw, shoved against the back, a small, almost archaic, flip phone.

  She pulled it out and studied it carefully. It had the look of a phone that might be bought at any convenience or drug store—pay as you go. She hit key after key; nothing on it denoted ownership. She went to contacts.

  Her own number was there, along with the numbers of others who’d been on the expedition.

  “Kieran,” she said slowly.

  “You found something?”

  Harley looked up at her. “Maybe. I think I may just have found a way to reach our liaison, Yolanda, who hasn’t been seen since the night of the party. And I think we might have a connection to our long-missing interpreter, Satima Mahmoud.”

  * * *

  “IN 1524, NEW YORK was called New Angoulême by the Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano,” Micah said to Craig as they traveled deep into the underbelly of the museum. “The first recorded exploration by the Dutch was in 1609. In 1664, English frigates arrived and demanded the surrender of the city. Peter Stuyvesant sent lawyers to arrange the capitulation—the Dutch and the English liked to go at it in those days. Well, come to think of it, over the years most European powers went after one another. Anyway, it was in 1665 that the city became New York under English rule.”

  “A lecture on New York history while we’re looking for mummies—which happen to be a good bit older than the city,” Craig said.

  “True, but my point is that although it’s not old in comparison with some cities in Africa, the Middle East, the Far East and Europe, New York is old. And while it all started downtown—Wall Street, Broad Street and so on—it’s been many years since people came up to this area by subway. And down here in these tunnels, especially with so many routes now abandoned, it’s just a jungle.”

  “Yep. And hey, love my city and all…but you just gave away the fact that you were some mean historian before you were a special agent.”

  “Actually, I’m complaining. This is like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Micah said, and he sighed, leaning back against a wall to catch his breath.

  He nearly fell backward.

  “What the hell?”

  “Hey!”

  Craig made a grab for Micah’s arm; Micah caught hold of him just in time to keep from plunging through a decayed section of wall.

  They both half fell and half stumbled into the remains of an old subway tunnel.

  The posters on the walls were peeling, but they were magnificent; they advertised Broadway shows opening in the 1930s. There were stairways to nowhere crafted of wrought iron and beautifully designed.

  “There!” Micah said, gesturing with one hand at something extremely modern that marred the time-travel look of the place.

  In a corner where plaster and paneling had decayed with time, there was a pile of insecticide containers.

  At least fifty of them.

  Enough poison to kill… God alone knew how many people.

  * * *

  “THERE HAS TO be some evidence there, right? Something?” Harley asked anxiously.

  She was seated at a corner table at Finnegan’s, along with Micah, Craig and Kieran. Crime scene crews had gone into the offshoot of the abandoned subway station, and they were studying every piece of evidence—primarily the containers of insecticide—with every technique available to them to find out who had used them. Or at least where and when they’d been purchased.

  No one had answered when they’d tried to reach Yolanda Akeem or Satima Mahmoud; Egan had people working the phones as well, trying to find a way to pin down the locations of the women’s phones via the contact information.

  Now it was a matter of waiting.

  And it was still Sunday. Although it was late, they had friends in the kitchen, so they were able to enjoy Sunday’s traditional roast.

  “Here’s the thing. We’ve known that Yolanda Akeem was here in New York. She was at the museum when everything happened with Vivian,” Harley said. “And after they questioned her briefly, she left.”

  “She was visible on security footage,” Micah reminded her.

  “I think we definitely have a problem, and everyone’s part of it—the museum and the Egyptian Department of Antiquities, as well as our government and their government,” Craig said. “The truth was left to slide.”

  “Murder is ugly. No one wants a part of it,” Micah murmured to Harley.

  “Were any artifacts stolen?” Kieran asked.

  “No. Not that I know of,” Harley replied. “And what about the motives for any of this? Jealousy, as we already discussed? I keep thinking that a longing for glory seems obvious. Too obvious? The people who would’ve been jealous of Henry were Arlo and Vivian—and they were the ones who were attacked.”

  “And you don’t think I was an intended victim?” Joe Rosello asked. “Rather than you?”

  Harley looked up and smiled. Joe and Kevin had arrived together, all cleaned up and out of their zombie makeup.

  Micah and Craig had risen; Kevin brought a couple of extra chairs to draw up to their table and then left telling Joe he was going to arrange for two more meals.

  “You were an intended victim,” Micah told Joe flatly. “Had to be. The culprit couldn’t have known that Harley was going to be there. Harley didn’t know it herself until she talked to Kieran and found out about the zombie walk and that you’d be there.”

  “But…we should be safe, shouldn’t we? I heard Arlo was the culprit and that he’s in the hospital—and they don’t know if they can save him or not.”

  “It’s true that Arlo is in the hospital. And many people believe he was the mummy and that he was guilty of trying to kill Vivian. She did, after all, say that a mummy had come to her.”

  “Was there time for the mummy to have reached the museum and attacked someone else to create a new mummy?” Kieran asked.

  “You did say that you were right behind him, getting to the museum,” Harley said.

  “I’m afraid that yes, there was time. I followed the mummy, but I was still some distance away when I saw him go down to the basement area of the museum. Then, of course, I stumbled around down there myself for a while. They need to wall all of that off, because if they don’t, they’re going to lose some curious fifth-grader down there one day.”

  “I’m taking a leave from my job,” Joe said. “I’m getting out of here tomorrow morning. When this is all over, I’ll c
ome back. I called the museum I’m working at and they understood.”

  “That might be your best move,” Micah told him.

  Joe let out a long sigh. “Thank God! I thought you were going to tell me I wasn’t allowed to leave town.”

  “We’ll need your contact information. However, you were in full sight of thousands of people most of the day. It would be very hard to prove you had any involvement,” Craig said.

  “Thank God,” he muttered again.

  Kevin Finnegan returned to the table. The talk shifted back and forth between the zombie walk and the situation at the museum.

  Suddenly they all seemed to realize it had grown very late.

  “I’m going home so I can get out of here in the morning,” Joe said. “You all take care.”

  “We need to know where you’ll be and how to reach you,” Craig said.

  “You bet. Just no sharing anything that’s gone on,” Joe said.

  “No sharing,” they all swore at once.

  “I take it you’re getting Harley home?” Craig asked Micah.

  Kieran looked at Harley—who refused to look back at her.

  She didn’t know. Was he seeing her home? She’d thrown herself at him last night; maybe he’d changed his mind about her during the very long day.

  “Yes, I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Micah said. He managed to keep a straight face. Harley was surprised that he could.

  Actually, she was surprised that she didn’t flush. She just smiled sweetly at Kieran, who was obviously amused, intrigued and, Harley hoped, glad that she and Micah seemed to be getting on very well, indeed.

  As he drove her home, there was so much to say; so much speculation in which they could indulge.

  But they didn’t talk at all.

  The minute they reached Harley’s place and closed the door to her apartment, they were in each other’s arms. Micah impatiently shed his Glock first; Harley shrugged out of her jacket, grabbing for his shirt as she tore at her own buttons.

  Micah drew the shirt over her head before she could get to the last of the buttons. She had her hands on his waistband and his belt buckle, while their lips merged in a deep and fiery kiss that was also sweet and breathless and filled with laughter.

  There was a fair amount of awkwardness that went along with stripping so quickly, with wanting nothing more than to touch, to feel, to kiss…

  Clothing wound up strewn all over the floor.

  Harley hoped there was no one on the street as she raced past the windows and headed for the stairway.

  Micah caught up with her. He swept her into his arms.

  “Oh, no! You can’t…they’re winding stairs. We’ll end up—”

  “I can do it this way!” he assured her, tossing her over his shoulder.

  And he could. He made it up the winding stairway. Dropped her naked on the bed and fell beside her. Still panting, he raised himself on one elbow.

  Harley pushed him back down.

  She rained kisses over his naked body, reaching all around, taking him into her mouth.

  He lifted her up, pulled her to him, rolled with her, kissed and teased and took his kisses everywhere until she cried out. They kissed and laughed in the tangled sheets, and then they were locked together again and the laughter was gone. They were too breathless, too desperate…

  This was new. So new. It had been a long time since she’d chanced a relationship with anyone. It was wonderful because…

  Because it was wonderful.

  She knew with an indefinable certainty that it would always be good with him. They were so easy together. They could laugh, even do silly things, and those things somehow became erotic. She wanted to forget the world and curl up next to him forever, except that one could never really forget the world.

  And, of course, that was it.

  She could be with him—as if he were an oasis—and still talk about the burning sands and the desert around them. She could make love, hot and wickedly wet and exciting—and she could still tell him what she was thinking. They could share confidences and exchange opinions without any risk of betrayal.

  She was in lust…and maybe falling in love.

  “She knows something,” Micah was saying. “I’m sure she does.”

  “She? Which she? Vivian, Belinda, Yolanda or Satima?” Harley asked. She propped herself up on an elbow to look down at him.

  “Satima. I mean Satima,” he said. “As for Yolanda, I think she just wants to keep her nose clean. She hates it that something connected to the Department of Antiquities has negative baggage attached to it. I’d swear she just doesn’t want to get involved with the ugliness of it. Egan is working the diplomatic channel to get her to come and talk to us. As far as we can tell, she’s still in the States. She may not have anything for us, but I’d still love to talk to her myself.”

  “McGrady could have turned her off American law enforcement forever and ever,” Harley said.

  “Sad thing is, he might have been a decent cop. You don’t get to be a detective unless you come up through the ranks or know someone. He has no patience.”

  “And no ability with people,” Harley put in.

  Micah shrugged. “I want to talk to the missing girl, Satima, as well. And now we have a number for her that we didn’t have before—thanks to you knowing where to dig. So to speak.”

  “Ah, yes…dig. The crime scene people would’ve found that phone. I don’t know why Arlo had it where he did—or why he thought he needed a special phone.”

  “It’s a chip phone, good around the world. Maybe that was the intent,” Micah suggested. He sighed, bringing her closer. “I keep feeling we’re looking at a giant puzzle and we should be able to see what it is, what the whole picture represents. Except there’s one piece missing. If only we had that piece.”

  “We will have that piece,” Harley said confidently. “You and Craig, the FBI, NYPD. You’ll find that piece. It’s like…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “Like?”

  “Well, you know my main role in the expedition was to find more clues as to what might have happened to Amenmose. He was murdered. He was buried hastily by someone who loved him. There are many suspects, of course. He was a threat to Ay, who was regent for Tut, and who did become pharaoh in his own right. He was also despised by Tut’s sister and brother-in-law. But nothing I’ve found in any of the ancient stories or records suggests that one of those people killed him. He had a family, and servants, so I guess the suspects are endless. I feel the same way about that as you do—as we both do—about our current case. Suspects everywhere, but it seems impossible to get the real motive pinned down. Or to determine the whereabouts of each suspect at the crucial times.”

  “Process of elimination,” Micah said. “Joe Rosello. People did see him all day long.”

  “Vivian Richter. She got out of the hospital late that morning.”

  “I’d still like to find out if she was home the rest of the day!”

  “But…”

  “Something might occur to her,” Micah said.

  “Everyone, including you, seems to believe that Arlo Hampton is guilty. That he poisoned himself trying to poison others.”

  “Hey, I keep an open mind! You say the mummy who touched you on the street was someone different. I believe you.”

  “We don’t know where Jensen Morrow was today. Or Belinda.”

  “Or—at this moment—Vivian or Ned Richter. Or Roger Eastman. But we’ll know soon.”

  “We will?”

  He smiled at her. “Of course. Craig and I are just cogs in a giant machine, a machine that doesn’t stop. Anyway, I agree with you. Something still isn’t right. First thing I want is a conversation with Satima Mahmoud. Then Ned and Vivian Richter. Then…”
/>
  “It’s about motive,” Harley said.

  “Motive,” he repeated.

  He was done talking.

  He pulled her back into his arms.

  And she lost herself in the feel of him against her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Micah woke to the sound of his phone ringing—somewhere.

  He remembered that he’d shed his clothing downstairs.

  He leaped out of bed and hurried down the winding wrought iron staircase, glancing at the picture windows that looked out over the night, the city and Grace Church.

  He sped across the room, thinking they had to remember to buy drapes—major drapes—before night fell again. Of course, that was being presumptuous, but…

  He couldn’t force his thoughts in any other direction.

  His phone. He dived for his jacket and caught it on the eighth ring.

  “Fox.”

  “Fox!” It was Richard Egan. “We have Yolanda Akeem down here. She’s going to be returning to Egypt later this morning. She’s with a friend of mine from the State Department. I suggest you get in quickly. I’ll inform Frasier, too.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Micah turned off the phone and ran around finding the rest of his clothing. He tore up the stairs.

  Harley was sleepily beginning to rise.

  “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “It’s not even seven,” she murmured. “I guess that’s not so early.”

  “I have to go. Now. They’ve got Yolanda down at the FBI office. She’s leaving for Egypt, and she’s with someone from the State Department.”

  “Go!”

  He ran for the shower. She didn’t follow him.

  They both knew why that wouldn’t be a good idea.

  In a few minutes he was dressed and heading for the stairs. Harley had slipped into a robe to accompany him down. “We should’ve set coffee to brew last night,” she murmured, opening the door so he could leave.

  He paused to kiss her quickly on the lips.

  “We weren’t thinking about coffee. Personally, I’d forgo the coffee for what we did last night. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything. You’re not working today, are you?”