Conspiracy to Murder

by Heather Graham

  “No, nothing for Fillmore,” Harley said. “Maybe I’ll hang around and read for a while.”

  “Sounds good. Talk soon,” he promised.

  Then he was out the door. The office wasn’t far, and once there, he could leave the car with a young agent in the street. No more than thirty minutes had passed since he’d answered his phone to Egan, but he couldn’t help being a little afraid Yolanda might already have left.

  She was returning home; this was his chance.

  To his great relief, she was there. He learned from the receptionist that Egan was with her in the conference room. He hurried there—just in time to fall in step with Craig Frasier, who’d arrived, as well.

  “Think she has anything?” Craig asked hopefully.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Micah shrugged. “But anything she does have might be worthwhile.”

  “Too true, when we keep stumbling in the dark. Literally. In the basement and below at the museum.”

  “Someone knows the museum—and knows it well.”

  They’d reached the conference room. When they entered, Egan and the handsomely dressed man who had accompanied Yolanda Akeem rose to meet them. Yolanda started to rise; they quickly urged her to remain seated.

  “Gentlemen, Ms. Yolanda Akeem and Mr. Tom Duffy from the State Department,” Egan said. “Special Agents Craig Frasier and Micah Fox.”

  Everyone sat then.

  “Thank you for being here,” Micah told Yolanda. “We know you don’t have to speak with us. We’re grateful that you’re willing to do so.”

  Yolanda Akeem was an attractive woman, probably approaching fifty. Her eyes and skin were dark, a testament to a rich and diverse background. Her appearance was dignified, almost regal.

  She nodded. “I would have spoken earlier, if I’d thought I had something of value to say,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “I spoke with that silly policeman when Vivian Richter was attacked. He wanted to know if I believed that mummies could come to life—if I thought that curses were real! They are real, of course, when we are cursed with foolish people!”

  “We weren’t in charge of the investigation then, Ms. Akeem,” Egan said.

  “Yes, I know. And I spoke with Special Agent Fox before, when we were both reeling from the loss of a dear friend.” Yolanda Akeem looked over at Micah and smiled sadly. “So, so sad. So much trouble. Such a terrible time.”

  “Yes, a terrible time,” Micah agreed.

  Yolanda waved a hand in the air. “Everyone running and rushing—and Henry barely cold. And then, of course—the insurrection! Children mewling that they are not privileged enough. A mountain out of a molehill. But…safety first, always. Yes, it’s a tough world and there are very real terrors and threats. But in this case…”

  “Yes.”

  “My friend, Special Agent Fox, believes that something about this entire situation, and about the tentative conclusions we’ve managed to reach, isn’t right,” Craig said. “Frankly, we may be looking too hard at the wrong suspects.”

  Yolanda Akeem hesitated. “I wish I could say, ‘No, you’re wrong.’ But, you see, there’s a bad taste in my mouth, although I don’t understand why. The expedition was going well, or at least I thought so. Henry had worked in my country many times before. We loved him. And his students…they were charming. I was happy to work with them, too. The people from Alchemy…well, I overheard them having arguments with each other over money now and then. How much was being spent, where they needed to save. Of course, it was funny because Mr. Richter was the on-site CEO for the company and he was watching pennies, while his wife… She’s a true dreamer and scientist, I believe. Money meant nothing to her.” She grinned. “Henry ignored them all. Arlo Hampton tried to remind everyone that he was the main Egyptologist for Alchemy. Still, despite the little spats, it all seemed to be going well enough. But then… Henry died.”

  “You were at the camp that night?”

  “I was. Belinda was going to go into town with Harley and Jensen, but she’s engaged, you know. They will marry soon, I hope. Video chatting with her fiancé was a highlight for both of them. Belinda used my equipment for her chats. I was doing paperwork, and she was with me.”

  Micah glanced at Craig. It seemed that they could definitely scratch Belinda off any list that had to do with Henry’s death.

  “But you saw Henry.”

  “I saw Henry. Just for a few minutes early in the evening. I also saw our young interpreter, Satima Mahmoud, with Mr. Rosello. Joe, yes, Joe Rosello.”

  Micah nodded. Joe was already off their list. He’d been on the zombie walk—and he’d been costumed as a zombie, not a mummy.

  He couldn’t believe he was even thinking that way!

  Yolanda suddenly frowned. “Perhaps trouble was in the air. I heard Satima arguing with Joe. They didn’t usually argue. They were beautiful people, you know? Both of them. But that night Satima was tired. She just wanted to go home. Joe kept saying that he wanted to finish the work. She said the work wouldn’t go away, and she had family she had to see. So it was…a hot, troubled evening. Yes, hot in the desert, of course. But the Richter husband and wife were arguing, and Satima and Joe were arguing. Henry was busy with his new treasures. Arlo wanted a bigger role, and I think he saw Henry as a means to that end, but he knew he had to leave him at some time. He was testy… That evening I wanted nothing more to do with any of them. Satima was…almost nasty to me! If I’d hired her, I would have fired her right then and there. I speak many languages. My father was Egyptian, but my mother was Mexican and French. I can interpret nicely. I wish I’d been the one doing that job.”

  She looked at them all and released a long breath.

  “I will admit that I wasn’t crazy about Vivian Richter, but I’m sorry she was hurt. Arlo… I’m sorry he was hurt, too. After Henry’s death, he got his own way with Alchemy and the exhibit, but he did not seem like a bad person. Did he do all this? Why? For position? For glory? They say that he is going to die, most likely. He was not found as quickly as Vivian.”

  “We don’t know if he was guilty,” Egan said. “Or if he was a victim.”

  Yolanda shook her head. “I’m sorry. I know nothing more. And I did not mean to be…unhelpful. You may feel free to call me with more questions if you wish. I am returning to Cairo, but I will be accessible to you, if I can be of any more help.”

  Everyone rose, bidding one another goodbye.

  Then the man from the State Department and the Egyptian liaison were gone. Egan, Craig and Micah were left to look at one another.

  “This is the first I’ve heard of everyone fighting,” Micah said. “Even when I was in Cairo, it didn’t come up. Of course, everything was chaos then.”

  “That could explain,” Craig began, “why Ned Richter wasn’t sitting at his wife’s side the entire time she was in the hospital. If they’d been fighting, I mean.”

  “And maybe he wasn’t with her yesterday,” Egan said. “Check into it. And also, we’ve got people hot on the trail of the interpreter, Satima Mahmoud. Let’s hope they’ll be able to find her. They work hard at keeping up good communications with the police, here and abroad.”

  “What about Arlo Hampton?” Micah asked. “Anything? He made it through the night?”

  “He’s alive, yes, hanging on. Unconscious,” Egan said. “Doctors… Well, I’m used to speaking with medical examiners. Seems I understand them a lot better than the guys who treat the living. Anyway, Arlo Hampton’s still alive but they’re not sure about neurological impact.”

  “The guy could end up a vegetable,” Craig said.

  “He could pull through all the way. They had to put him in a medically induced coma. When they bring him out of that, we might learn something. Anyway, he’s alive, but he’s sure as hell not going to be working soon,” Egan said.
r />   “Let’s trust that he makes it,” Micah said quietly.

  “I guess maybe we should try speaking with Ned Richter and Joe Rosello again,” Craig said.

  “Rosello came out squeaky clean,” Egan reminded them.

  “Yes, but I don’t think our missing interpreter is so squeaky clean,” Micah said.

  “You really think this Egyptian woman—who isn’t even in this country—is involved?” Egan asked, puzzled.

  “Yes. But I haven’t figured out how. She can’t be found. I’m hoping that doesn’t mean she’s dead,” Micah said.

  “Joe wasn’t playing a mummy yesterday. We know that. But I agree with Micah,” Craig said. “It’ll be interesting as hell to find out what was going on between him and Satima Mahmoud.”

  * * *

  “I’M SO SORRY. You sound terribly depressed,” Harley told Jensen.

  He’d called early, right around eight. Of course, by eight, half of New York was already bustling, but with no real plans, Harley had actually thought she’d be able to sleep in.

  And simply enjoy the fact that she lay in sheets where they’d been together, where Micah’s scent still lingered.

  But she was glad to hear from Jensen; he was still trying to function, despite all else.

  “Well, of course, I’m depressed,” Jensen Morrow said over the phone. “Cops all over the place. It’s necessary, I guess. Vivian came around fast—got better, survived!—but I understand Arlo’s in bad shape. On the other hand, if Arlo did kill Henry and tried to kill Viv, he deserves whatever’s happening to him.”

  “I don’t think he did it, Jensen. He didn’t commit any crimes yesterday, at any rate. I saw the mummy in the street, or a mummy in the street, and—”

  She broke off. She suddenly knew what had been different about the mummy in the street and the pictures of Arlo Hampton as a mummy, passed out, almost dead, on the museum floor.

  She wasn’t sure it would be wise to share that information with anyone other than Micah, Craig and the police.

  Jensen didn’t seem to notice that she’d abruptly stopped speaking. “I’m here at work,” he continued. “Let’s see, Ned Richter is due in, and—you’re not going to believe this!—Vivian Richter is coming with him. She’s barely out of the hospital. She may be a bitch on wheels, but she’s a trouper, I’ll give her that. The woman loves her Egyptology! Needless to say, Arlo won’t be here. And it’s lonely without him. None of our buds are around. Belinda and Roger are busy with their own work. Talked to Joe—he left town this morning. He’s scared. He thinks the mummy in the crowd was after him. And that might be true. Who knows? But if the mummy was Arlo, then none of us has anything to worry about. Right?”

  The mummy in the street had not been Arlo Hampton. Arlo was tall. The mummy hadn’t been very tall.

  “Jensen, I don’t think Arlo was guilty of anything.”

  “Some criminologist you are! You want to believe the best about everyone,” Jensen muttered. “Are you going to come in and keep me company and help me ward off mummies?” he asked.

  “I—I was going to spend some time with Craig’s girlfriend.”

  “The lovely Kieran. So the two of you are going to dig deep into all our minds and figure out which one of us is the sicko? Whoever it is has to be crazy as a bat. I can see the defense in court. ‘The bacteria made me do it!’”

  Harley couldn’t help smiling. “Defense attorneys. It’s their job. But, yes, bacteria. It can affect the mind.”

  “Should I leave town?” Jensen asked her seriously. “Man, I love this place. I know I can come off as a jerk sometimes, but I love this city and this museum. I loved the expedition, too—until Henry was killed. But I can’t let all our work fall apart, Harley. It meant too much to Henry. And it’s too important for future generations.”

  “You’re right,” Harley agreed. “The cops—”

  “Are idiots. Whoops, sorry. Maybe the Feds are better.”

  “Killers make mistakes—and they get caught,” Harley said.

  “And sometimes they don’t.”

  “This time, they will.”

  “You haven’t seen the half of it. The stuff here, Harley, it’s ironic that it all started with a murder, isn’t it? Amenmose, I mean. Maybe you can figure out who killed the guy. That was the major thing for you on our expedition, right?”

  “Yep. I still find it incredibly interesting that he was killed, and yet he was rewarded with the kind of tomb that would allow him to move into the afterlife,” Harley said.

  “Come in today! I’ll meet you at the doors. You’ll be safe. Lots of cops around. I’ll get you any piece of research material you want that I can find! I’ll be like your apprentice!” Jensen said.

  “Okay,” Harley agreed. “I’ll text you when I’m at the entrance.”

  She ended the call and glanced around the room, running her hands over the sheets. So much for luxuriating in memory.

  She hurriedly showered and ran out, anxious to get to the subway and up to the museum.

  Despite herself, she found that she kept scrutinizing the crowds of people who thronged around her. It was still morning rush hour. People were everywhere, on their way to work and school.

  She was looking for a mummy, she realized.

  That was ridiculous, she thought. And yesterday, it didn’t seem bizarre at all that there’d be a mummy around; a mummy fit right in with the zombies.

  Rush hour on Monday. Not likely that a mummy would be running around. Then again, it was New York, and people might see a mummy and merely shrug.

  No mummies appeared—and she had to admit she was grateful.

  As she neared the museum, she texted Jensen. He texted back that he’d meet her at the entrance.

  Jensen and an NYPD officer were at the door; Jensen explained who she was and Harley showed the officer her ID.

  She was allowed to come in.

  It felt strange to walk through the entry with Jensen when everything was so empty. He told her there were at least ten police officers in the building, along with what he believed were “fledgling” FBI agents—probably bored to tears, but assigned to watch over the museum. Jensen talked about the museum itself with great enthusiasm; he just couldn’t resist. She already knew that the facility was devoted to ancient civilizations, from Mesopotamia to Rome to Greece and ancient Egypt and other societies. He explained that he considered it a homage to humanity creating civilization; there was even a wonderful new section on the development of humans, back to the hominidae or great apes speciating from the ancestors of the lesser apes. “When this is…when this is solved, when things are back to normal, when life at least feels normal, you really have to come and spend a day here, just touring around, checking out the exhibits. It’s a phenomenal museum. And I’m so happy to be here, except now the rest of the scientists, curators, historians—and even the café and gift shop employees!—hate us.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “Nope. It’s true.”

  “When life does get back to normal, they won’t hate you. And, as we’ve noted before, I’ll bet all the insanity’s going to make the museum more popular than ever. It has a really wicked mystery story now,” Harley reminded him.

  “Well, anyway, let’s head back. In one of the prep clean rooms, there are some papers Henry’d been working on. Plus, there are a number of mummies in the room—still in their coffins, for the most part, except for our ‘screaming’ mummy, the one we saw with Henry before he…died. Anyway, I have a meeting with the museum director in a few minutes.”

  “Gordon Vincent,” Harley murmured.

  Jensen nodded. He glanced her way and sighed. “Yeah. They don’t know if Arlo’s going to make it or not. If he does, I heard he’s probably going to be arrested.”

  “He didn’t do it,�
� Harley said again.

  “But—”

  “I’m telling you. He was a victim. Like Vivian.”

  “Well, from your lips to God’s ears, right? Anyway—and honestly, I wouldn’t want something to come about this way—I believe I’m going to be promoted to curator director for the Amenmose exhibit.”

  “Oh. Wow,” Harley murmured. “Congratulations. Well, I guess… I mean, I understand, no one would want things to work this way, but wasn’t Arlo employed by Alchemy?”

  “Yes, but he was being offered the permanent position here,” Jensen said.

  They walked by the temple and the exhibits that were usually open to the public, then went to the employee section of the museum and one of the rooms next to Arlo’s lab.

  “It’s mainly artifacts,” Jensen said. “But that desk has boxes of Henry’s notes. No one could read his scribbled handwriting as well as you could. Maybe you’ll find something. I’ll come back as soon as the meeting’s over and we can go to lunch. Not in the museum, I’m afraid, since everything is closed down today. But I’m sure we can think of someplace you’ll like.”

  “How about the sandwich shop over on Sixth?” Harley suggested. “It’s a five-minute walk.”

  He gave her a thumbs-up and left. She listened as the door clicked shut.

  This room didn’t require “clean” suits, but it was climate controlled. Harley assumed it would be taken for granted that anyone in the room would have complete respect for ancient sarcophagi, bodies and other artifacts.

  For a moment, she just looked around.

  Many things were still crated. There were just so many artifacts that they were switched in and out of the display. Some of the sarcophagi—the magnificent, beautifully designed and painted outer coffins—had been unpacked. They’d withstood time and climate well, since they were made of hardwood and precious metals.

  Shelves on the wall held numerous canopic jars; others were heaped with jewelry. One shelf contained dozens of statuettes and, carefully set in a corner of the room, was a pile of chariot wheels, the body of a chariot and a set of harnesses.