Last Breath (4 page)

“No thirty to sixty days plus probation?”

Daria shook her head. “Not in Ereshkigal's world.”

“Guess the rate of recidivism was pretty low.”

“Good point.”

“Okay, then. Guess I'll head on back to the office.” Vita paused in the doorway. “Doesn't this place give you the creeps?”

“No, why?” Daria frowned.

“No reason, I guess,” Vita muttered as she left the room. She stuck her head back in and said, “Dr. B. said to let us know if you need anything.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

Daria rewrapped the goblet and placed it back in the crate, upon which she'd drawn a large number one. On the inventory sheets, she'd located each object she'd found in the crate, and marked it with a number one to designate where it could be found. She moved through crates two, three, and four, and by the end of the evening, her heart was beating so fast she was afraid it would beat out of her chest. Not because of what she'd found, but because of what she hadn't found.

She worked through most of the night, and into the morning. Louise had stopped by with a box holding some dinner, but Daria had not uncovered it. By ten the following morning, Daria was exhausted and shaking with dread. Telling herself she needed to open every crate before panicking, and admitting that fatigue might be getting the best of her, she relocked the room, then the front door, and asked Louise to assign someone from campus security to guard the building through the night. She returned to McGowan house and slept for six hours. She got up, showered, changed her clothes, and returned to the basement, this time asking Louise to join her.

“I realize you're busy, but if you could spare me a few hours,” Daria had asked.

“Of course. What would you like me to do?”

“I need a hand with the inventory,” Daria told her without voicing her suspicions. “But you might want to change your clothes. And bring some bottled water. You might get thirsty.”

Louise did just that, and for the next ten hours, crossed off the artifacts as Daria unwrapped them. At the end of the day, Daria sat at the desk and covered her face with her hands.

“Daria?” Thinking the archaeologist was overcome at having handled so many priceless objects in one day—as she certainly was—Louise patted Daria on the back and said, “I know this is overwhelming, but imagine what Alistair must have felt when he first found these objects. It's like a fantasy, gold and jewels and treasure like you dream about when you're a child and read of such things. Remember the story about Ali Baba and the forty thieves, and their cave of treasure? I feel as if I've walked into it. So I don't blame you for being blown away. God knows I certainly am.”

“Louise, is there anywhere else on campus we might find other pieces from the collection?”

“No, why?” Louise frowned. “No. Nothing was ever taken out of this room.”

“I'm afraid that's not true.”

“What do you mean?” Louise put down the golden mask she'd been admiring and turned to Daria.

“Some of the objects that should be here, according to Alistair's notes, are missing.” Daria ran an anxious hand over her face. “I went through everything last night, but there are items that are not accounted for. They're on the inventory, but not in the crates. That's why I asked you to help me go through it all again today. I needed to make sure.”

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying that between the time Alistair inventoried his find and today, someone's made off with some very important artifacts.” Daria's face was white.

“Are you certain?” Louise looked stunned. “Daria, you counted the crates. There should be fifty-seven. There were fifty-seven, correct?”

Daria nodded her head.

“And you yourself removed the seals from those crates,” Louise continued. “The inventories prepared by Alistair show check marks next to every item. And every item was checked. So why would you think something was missing?”

“Several items checked off on Alistair's list are not checked off on mine. So unless some of the objects were removed and placed elsewhere in the university, or sold…”

“There is no record of that,” Louise insisted.

“Then I'd have to say they were stolen.”

“Stolen!”

“I can't think of any other explanation. As you pointed out, the crates were sealed and Alistair's inventories show that every item was checked off by him—found, examined, then rewrapped and repacked in its shipping crate. But see here…”

Daria pointed to an entry and read aloud. “Two large solid-gold griffins clutching arrows, lapis lazuli eyes and rubies at the mouth.” She looked up at Louise and said, “There should be two. There are none. Not in this crate, not in any of the others.”

“Maybe we missed them somehow.”

“I've looked through every crate twice. When I asked you to give me a hand, it was to help verify my findings. I thought perhaps I was tired; maybe I'd overlooked a crate or two. Which is why I started marking the crates with an X on the corner after you and I went through the contents and checked off every item.”

“Maybe we should go through it all again. Maybe something was misplaced, returned to the wrong crate and you only think we missed it.”

“We've spent an entire day going through every single piece that's here,” Daria said wearily. “I'm convinced.”

“Then convince me,” Louise told her. “We'll take one more day.”

The two women worked until nine that night, then locked the room when they went for dinner. The dining hall had long since closed, so they cleaned themselves up as best they could and drove into Howeville for pizza, which did nothing to revive either of them. They agreed to leave guards posted overnight, and to resume working at eight the next morning.

By three the following afternoon, Louise had to accept what Daria had been telling her for the past twenty-four hours. None of the missing items had been found.

“I'll call the police.” Louise patted her pockets for her cell phone.

“No, not for something like this.” Daria shook her head and starting searching her purse for her wallet. “You're going to need the FBI, not the local police. I met someone who works for them. I have his card in here somewhere, and if it's all right with you, I'd like to call him…”

FOUR

C
onnor dove into the pool and made barely a ripple. He emerged at the opposite end, then began a methodical series of laps. He'd been here at his home in Maryland, surrounded by woods and little else, for the past week. He hadn't spoken to anyone since last Thursday—which was, for the most part, fine with him—but this morning he'd gone into the nearest town and spent nearly an hour in the supermarket. The variety of foods never failed to amaze him. He'd spent nearly thirty minutes in the produce section alone, marveling at all the offerings from all over the world. His last few trips to the Middle East had taken him to places where you had to buy your food every day, since there was no refrigeration where he stayed, and where the selection was limited to what the merchants had for sale that day.

He wandered through the store and was pleased to discover an entire aisle dedicated to organic food where he stocked up on cereals and other goods. At the meat counter, he picked up a few steaks, some chicken, ground beef, pork chops.
What a luxury to have such choices,
he was thinking as he went through the checkout line.
Not to mention a refrigerator with a freezer.

He'd stopped on the way home at the local fish market and treated himself to some blue claws, then stopped again at a local produce stand for tomatoes, corn, zucchini, and hot peppers. When he got home, he put everything away, made himself some salsa, and put it in the refrigerator to chill. Then he stripped down, grabbed a towel from the laundry room, and headed out to the pool.

Unaccustomed to being in one place for any length of time, he'd grown restless. He ran every morning—eight to ten miles, regardless of the heat and humidity—and swam for at least thirty minutes after his run, and again later in the afternoon. Bored, he'd called his boss the previous morning and asked when he'd be getting a new assignment.

“I don't have anything that's quite right for you,” John Mancini had told him. “But it wouldn't hurt for you to have a little down time.”

“I've had over a week of down time. I'm ready to go back to work. I'm bored.”

“So find a hobby. Take up knitting.”

Connor wasn't looking for a hobby. He'd already caught up on his reading and taken care of things around the house that needed to be done. He'd had all the time off he felt he could take. Too much time off meant too much time to think about things he didn't want to think about. Like his dead brother, Dylan, and how he got that way.

He swam his last lap, then drifted on his back to the side of the pool where he hoisted himself up. As he rose from the water, he realized he was not alone. He hesitated for less than a second, then held out a hand and asked, “Would you toss me that towel?”

“And me without my camera phone.”

“Very funny.”

Connor caught the towel in one hand and wrapped it around his waist as he walked toward the lounge where his boss sat. Connor asked, “So, to what do I owe the visit?”

“I was in the neighborhood and just thought I'd stop by.”

“Buddy, there's no one in my neighborhood.” Connor dropped onto the chair next to John.

“True enough. Tough place to find.” John sat upright, one leg on either side of the lounge. “How did you find it?”

“Realtor. I told him I wanted something secluded and quiet. I think he had me pegged for a serial killer, but he found it for me anyway.”

“Well, secluded you got. I'll have to stop back with Genna one of these days.”

“You and your wife are welcome any time.” Connor studied John's face, looking for clues to the reason for his unannounced visit. Finally, he asked, “So what's up, John?”

“You got a phone call last night at the office. Woman asked for you, wouldn't speak with anyone but you. She finally left a message for you on my voice mail.”

“And?”

“And I called her back this morning.” John paused. “You know a woman named Daria McGowan?”

Connor nodded. “Yeah. She called?” He frowned. “And you couldn't have just called me with her number because…?”

“Because she has a problem, one that doesn't fall into your normal field of expertise. But she insisted that she only wanted to talk to you.”

“Something happen to her?” Connor sat upright, aware that John would not be oblivious to his interest. “Is she all right? Did she say where she was?”

“She's fine, it's nothing like that. But she's in a place called Howeville, Pennsylvania, and she—”

“Shit. She's in the States?”

“Where is she usually?”

“Iran, Turkey, Syria…but go on. Why is she in Pennsylvania?”

“She was contacted by the president of Howe University, who asked her to take over a project at their museum. Short version—they want her to set up some displays, exhibits, whatever, in time for the hundredth anniversary of an archaeological expedition that her great-grandfather led sometime after the turn of the century. He apparently found some lost civilization in Turkey and brought back everything he could get his hands on.”

“Cool. Good for her.” Connor smiled.
And good for me. She's within driving distance.
“So where's the problem?”

“The problem is that when she opened the vault where her great-granddaddy's stash has been kept for the past hundred years and started cataloging the artifacts, she discovered that some of the more important pieces were missing.”

“Stolen?”

“She thinks so.”

“So she called the FBI, that's good. We have a whole department dedicated to—”

“I told her all that. But she didn't call the Bureau, Connor. She called you. She doesn't want anyone else. She doesn't want the publicity—feels it will look really bad for the university at a time when things apparently aren't going real well.”

“Okay, I'll drive up there, I'll look things over, see if I can confirm that there really was a theft. If these items have been stored away for almost a century, there's a chance that over the years, a piece was removed to go on display here or there.”

“That's what I told her, but the president of the college says the last curator of the museum was a real stickler. There's no notation of that vault ever being opened. She doubts anyone presently at the school—including most of the trustees—would even recall that these items were in storage there.” John shook his head. “She needs the art-theft team, is what I think. I can have that coordinated, but right now she just wants to talk to you.”

“Did she leave a number?”

John took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and passed it to Connor.

“I'll just give her a call, take a drive up there in the morning, see what's what. We can always hand off the case if necessary.”

“Connor, you don't play well with others. If there's something there, you're not going to want to turn it over to someone else and walk away. I know you.” John rested his arms behind his head and leaned back. “What I don't know is why you'd be so interested in a quiet little antiquities theft case. I admit I'm surprised.”

Connor shrugged. “Change of pace. Maybe I'm tired of running all over the globe, chasing down informants.”

“Nice try.” John closed his eyes. “Next.”

“Maybe I like art. Antiquities. Archaeology. Indiana Jones. All that stuff.”

“Who is Daria McGowan, Connor?”

“She's an archaeologist.”

“That much I know. I've got her background. Education, publications. Important digs. She's very well known on an international level. The Iranians invited her in as a consultant on a big dig. American and female. A very big deal. Not their SOP.”

“Like you said, she's very well known internationally.”

“How do you know her?”

“I met her in Morocco. Last fall.”

“You're involved with her?”

Connor smiled. “I only met her once.”

“You met her one time, in Morocco, and you told her you were an FBI agent?” John sat up, frowning. “A bit risky, don't you think? In that part of the world?”

“Nah. She's an old friend of Magda's.” Connor smiled again. “Magda's been trying to fix me up with her for about two years. We finally met in November.”

“And?”

“And what? We met the one time, and we clicked. It'd be nice to see her again.”

The two men sat in silence for a minute. Finally, John said, “Okay. You drive up there, you check it out. Help her look around for these artifacts; maybe they're misplaced. Mislabeled. Maybe there's been no theft.”

“That's what I just said.” Connor nodded. “That's exactly what I want to do.”

“And if you determine this is really an art-theft case, we'll turn it over to NSAF.” The FBI's National Stolen Art Files unit. “They know the best way to track stolen antiquities, they're the experts.”

“Sounds good.” Connor stood. “You feel like taking a dip, John? I have some extra trunks.”

“No, thanks. I need to be getting back. Genna's been out of town on a job and should be in soon. I'd like to be there when she gets home.” He got off the lounge and stretched. “Next time, maybe.”

“Sure.”

John followed Connor up the steps and into the house. “I'll take a bottle of water for the road, though, if you have one.”

“In the fridge,” Connor told him and began to pull on a pair of khaki shorts he'd left on a chair in the sun porch. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks. You want one?”

“Sure.”

Connor joined John in the kitchen a few minutes later.

“I'll call you as soon as I have a handle on this case,” Connor told him as he twisted the cap off the bottle John had left for him on the counter. “I don't expect we're talking about anything the art guys can't handle, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in seeing Daria again.”

“Fine. Take a drive, check it out, give me a call. With any luck, you'll be able to turn the case over to NSAF within forty-eight hours and you'll still have time to take the lady to dinner.”

“That's what I'm thinking.” Connor grinned. “I mean, how complicated can it be to figure out if a few old statues or pieces of pottery or whatever have been stolen?”

Connor finished his meal just as the sun drifted behind the trees. He sat alone on the patio that surrounded his pool, at a table with four chairs. He tried to remember whether there'd ever been four people sitting at this table at the same time, and couldn't remember that there had been. The most people who'd visited had been a whopping three: his cousins Mia, Andrew, and Belinda. Which would have made four at the table, if they'd been sitting outside. Which in December, they had not been.

He settled back to finish off the beer he'd had with dinner and watch the sun set. When it was almost dark, he took the chairs into the garage where he stored them, and since sudden thunderstorms darkened many an afternoon this time of the year, he folded the table's umbrella. He watched the fireflies dance across the pool, and thought about seeing Daria again.

He'd been truthful with John when he'd said he'd only met Daria McGowan one time. What he hadn't told John was that after that one meeting, he'd dreamed about this woman over and over. This, he smiled to himself, after months of dodging the efforts of their mutual friend, Magda, to introduce them. It wasn't that he'd been avoiding her. It was simply that life was such these days that he'd rarely had the time to say more than hello to any woman who might have caught his eye. Which was just fine with him. Connor had an agenda, and he hadn't penciled in
find woman.
Maybe someday, but not now. Then again, maybe never. Life was too complicated.

He'd seen Daria from his balcony once before the night they'd actually met. She'd looked pretty and fragile and he'd been intrigued. He'd been on his way to the courtyard to meet her when he was called from the Villa to attend a meeting, and had returned after midnight. By the next morning, she had gone. His loss, Magda reminded him at every subsequent visit.

Then, last November, he'd arrived in Essaouira on a Wednesday morning, tired and dusty and craving a hot shower, a soft bed, and a meal such as Magda's chef delighted in preparing for the guests. He thought that Magda had smirked when he arrived at the front desk, but there was a group of French tourists behind him waiting to check in, and he let it go. He'd gone to his room and stripped off his clothes and went directly to the shower. A phone call brought a meal fit for a king, and he ate at the table on the balcony and watched the windsurfers out in the harbor. He fell asleep in his chair, and when he awoke, the tray was gone, his back was stiff, and his head hurt. He'd crashed on the bed, fully clothed, and slept straight through until the next morning.

He'd ordered an American breakfast—eggs, toast, potatoes—and a pot of coffee, and once again sat on the balcony to eat. After weeks traveling from desert to mountain and to desert once again, the view of the Atlantic had been as welcome as an oasis. He thought about borrowing a boat from Cyrus. He'd drop anchor in one of the coves and dive in and swim until his arms and legs wore out, then he'd climb onto the boat and return to the marina.