The Pretender (The Soren Chase Series Book 2) (16 page)

“This is my job, Sara,” he said. “I get to the bottom of things. We’ll find Alex; I promise.”

Wallace strolled into her office, looking annoyed.

“Not eavesdropping, but I thought I heard you say the word ‘lead,’” Wallace said. “The rest of my crew has come up with jack shit. Good Christ, but they have a lot of fucking excuses.”

Sara handed him the police report. He scanned it and whistled, looking back at Ken.

“Remind me when this is over to offer you a job,” Wallace said.

“I have a job.”

“I know what they pay you,” Wallace said. “Trust me, I can do better.”

Ken looked wary, as if he wasn’t quite sure if Wallace was serious. “According to the police report, the docent arrived in the morning to find everything in place,” he said. “The alarms were on, the doors were locked, and everything was where it should be. Except for this knife.

“The police didn’t have much to go on. Even the video cameras in the place showed nothing unusual. They suspected it was an inside job so they investigated the staff of the museum pretty thoroughly. They got nowhere. The case is still unsolved.”

Wallace was staring at the photo.

“Is there any significance to the knife?” he asked.

Ken shook his head.

“Doesn’t say,” he said. “The report describes it as ‘extremely valuable,’ but that’s about it. There’s nothing on its history.”

“McDermott!” Wallace barked. “Get the hell in here!”

Alice appeared in the office, and he handed her the police report.

“Here’s a photo of the knife you couldn’t find,” he said. “Make some copies and give them to the other morons who weren’t coming up with anything. Then scour the goddamn Internet until you fucking find something. Understand?”

Alice looked angry, but she glanced at Sara and swallowed whatever she was going to say. She took the folder and hurried out.

“You’re being a little harsh, Wallace,” Sara said.

“We don’t have time to dick around,” Wallace replied. “They should have been able to come up with that on their own. McDermott is smart, but she needs more experience. She will be anxious to prove herself now.”

Sara stood up.

“Maybe she will, but I’m not going to just wait until she does,” she said.

Wallace nodded.

“I’ll guard the fort while you’re gone,” he said, apparently anticipating her plan. “If there’s any word, I’ll let you know.”

*****

Sara was expecting something similar to the federal museums on the National Mall, but the Hillwood was an entirely different kind of experience. The museum was made up of a stately mansion built nearly a hundred years ago, and several smaller buildings on the grounds.

The mansion was beautiful, a Georgian colonial with a large and elegant property. It was known for its gardens, but since it was winter, those were closed off. The inside was just as impressive as the outside, with high ceilings and intricate decorative touches, and Sara wished she had time to walk around the place. But with each step, she heard the word “Alex” echoing in her head. What was he going through? Was Rakev hurting him?

She forced herself to focus on the present as she and Ken approached a docent standing in the entrance hall. It was hard for Sara not to be distracted by the opulence of the room itself. The black-and-white, marble-tiled floor was buffed to a shine, and she looked over to see an intricately carved side table, presided over by the painting of a Tsarina.

Ken pulled his badge out of his pocket.

“I’m Detective Sharpe with the Arlington County Police Department,” he said. “We’re here to see Lenka Dvorakova.”

The docent’s eyes widened as she looked at the badge.

“Certainly,” she said. “Right this way.”

They passed through other rooms, each decorated with priceless paintings, Fabergé eggs, and items that had belonged to kings and tsars. Which made it even stranger, Sara thought, that the thief would take a knife and leave all this behind.

Finally, they arrived in a small room near the back. The docent opened the door that led to an office packed with books on nearly every shelf.

“Ms. Dvorakova?” the docent asked.

A surprisingly young woman emerged from the back office. She had strawberry blonde hair and a welcoming smile. She wore thick glasses and a matronly outfit that made her look at least a decade older, which Sara suspected was the point. Perhaps she was used to people not taking a young woman seriously.

“Detective Sharpe?” the woman asked, extending her hand in greeting. “I was so pleased to get your call. I hope you’ve brought news about the case?”

“We may have a lead, yes, but I can’t tell you much right now,” Ken said. “I’d just like to know more about the object, if I could.”

“Of course,” she said, and ushered them into her office, which was even more crowded with books than the outer room had been.

They sat down in two chairs that looked almost as old as the ones displayed in the museum, though Sara assumed they were replicas. Dvorakova picked a binder off her desk and handed it to Ken. He opened it to show Sara pages of photos of the knife they’d seen in the police report.

“I don’t know what else I can tell you, but I’m happy there’s a lead,” she said. “We’d quite given up hope that it would be recovered, you see. We were all so very upset when it went missing.”

“Were you director then?” Sara asked.

Dvorakova seemed to notice her for the first time.

“I’m sorry, Detective . . .” she asked, extending her hand.

“This is Sara Ignatius,” Ken said. “She’s a civilian consultant.”

“You’re an expert on Russian art?”

“Not exactly,” Sara hedged.

“Well, no, I wasn’t director then,” Dvorakova said. “I’m afraid the last one left not long after the robbery.”

“As I said over the phone, we want to understand more about the knife’s significance,” Ken said. “The police report describes it and indicates its value, but unfortunately doesn’t detail any of its history.”

“Oh,” Dvorakova said, and a shadow flitted briefly across her face. “Why would that matter?”

“If the thief was just after money, there are many other things he could have stolen,” Sara said. “We want to understand why he took the knife. It may help us firm up our theory on who took it.”

Lenka appeared to accept this explanation, nodding her head, but she didn’t seem pleased by it.

“Of course. Well, it was acquired by Ms. Post in 1954 after she’d returned from the Soviet Union.”

“After she returned?” Sara asked. “I thought she obtained most of her collection while she was there.”

“Quite so,” Dvorakova said, nodding her head. “But during her time in the Soviet Union, she earned a reputation as a collector. She was contacted by a seller in the United States after her return.”

“Do you know who?” Ken asked.

Dvorakova frowned. “Well, it has a bit of a sensational history, to be frank,” she said. “It isn’t something I enjoy talking about.”

“Sensational how?” Sara asked.

The woman twisted her hands in her lap. “Ms. Post was contacted by a man named Peter Chkhenkeli, a Georgian immigrant. He gave her details about the knife and its history, and said he could no longer care for it. It appears he was part of a traveling show, and it was displayed along with other artifacts from Russia and nearby countries.

“Naturally, Ms. Post was skeptical as to its value, but Mr. Chkhenkeli was persuasive. She eventually traveled to Oklahoma and bought the knife.”

“It was authentic?” Sara asked.

Lenka nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “But there was a tragedy shortly after Ms. Post left with the knife. There was a tornado outside Edmond, Oklahoma, and . . . the town was fine, but the show was completely destroyed. Mr. Chkhenkeli and the rest of his family were killed. Unfortunately, there were some rumors at the time . . .”

Dvorakova fidgeted in her chair. “When Ms. Post returned, she was shaken,” she said. “Something Mr. Chkhenkeli told her frightened her. As a result, she directed that all records of the sale be destroyed, and that the knife not be displayed. Ever. We thought she just didn’t want to attract the wrong kind of attention—”

“But you did display it,” Sara said.

“Emily—the former head of the museum—found it packed away in the archives five years ago,” Dvorakova said. “It was a lovely piece. It was decided that so much time had passed that the circumstances surrounding it didn’t matter.”

“But obviously they did matter,” Sara said, her voice heating up a little. “What did Chkhenkeli tell her that scared Ms. Post so much?”

Dvorakova tried to appear dismissive. “It was nonsense, really,” she said. “He said the knife was cursed.”

“Cursed?” Ken asked.

“You must understand, the knife was such an amazing piece,” Dvorakova said, a little desperately.

Sara wasn’t sure what made her ask. “What happened to Emily?” she asked. “You said she left. Why isn’t she running the museum any longer?”

“She had a bit of breakdown, I’m afraid,” Dvorakova said. “She claimed she saw things . . . in the museum.”

“Things?” Ken asked.

“Nightmares, Detective Sharpe,” Dvorakova said. “She came in here raving shortly after the knife was taken. She said she knew who did it.”

“That isn’t in the police report,” Ken said sharply.

“We told the first policeman who came,” Dvorakova insisted. “But he said it might hurt our credibility during a trial. He strongly urged us not to mention it again.”

Ken and Sara shared a look. She couldn’t help but think of the man who had taken Alex. He’d been dressed as a police officer.

“Shortly after that, Emily was placed in a facility,” Dvorakova said. “Unfortunately, she died not long after. I’m told she took her own life.”

Sara doubted that. She leaned in toward Dvorakova.

“Who did she say took the knife? I don’t care if it sounds crazy. What did she say?”

“It was nonsense, really,” Dvorakova said. “I can’t imagine why you care.”

“Let us decide what’s relevant, Ms. Dvorakova,” Ken said.

She looked at them skeptically.

“She said it was a man who could move through walls,” Dvorakova said. “She called him—and I still remember this vividly, the poor woman—‘a man made of smoke.’”

Soren’s first mistake was screaming right before plunging into the icy river.

As soon as he hit the river, he swallowed a mouthful of freezing water. He came up coughing and sputtering, aware that he was being rapidly swept downstream.

He tried to keep his head above water, but the current dragged him under again. He panicked, afraid that if he went down, he might not be able to come up again. A few people died in this river each year, usually because they’d either foolishly jumped or accidentally fallen in.

Soren flailed his arms, trying to stay afloat, but the undertow from the falls was too strong. He managed to take a quick breath before the water closed over him again. The current was deceptively powerful. He tried to swim against it, but it was as if he were grasped by an invisible hand that kept pulling him down. His clothes felt like weights that were dragging him under, making him wish he’d fashioned a fake outfit he could now shed. He was being yanked farther underwater even as he tumbled downstream.

He hit a rock, feeling a sharp pain in his side, and then was tugged beyond it. Soren opened his eyes underwater, attempting to see where he was going, but the water was too muddy.

His lungs were screaming for air, and this time he tried to swim in the direction of the current, hoping he could move diagonally to escape it. But just as he neared the surface, his foot snagged on a rock, trapping him. He tried to yank it out, but it was wedged in tight. He could see the shimmering surface of the water just above him, almost within reach, but he couldn’t get there. He was stuck.

He was going to die down here.

Except he wasn’t.

As he scrambled to break free, he realized why Friday had pushed him in. He was thinking like an aussenseiter. No matter what happened in this river, it couldn’t harm him. Humans needed to breathe air—but pretenders didn’t. His lungs were the imitation of lungs; Friday had just said as much. They were demanding air they didn’t require.

He stopped struggling. It took all the self-control he could muster to stop fighting to get to the surface. His chest hurt until finally he opened his mouth and sucked in water. He felt it spill all the way into his stomach. His vision blurred and he started to black out. He felt like he was dying.

But after a few minutes of pain, he realized he was just floating in the water. He could keep floating there as long as he wished. He wasn’t breathing. He no longer needed to breathe. His vision snapped back into focus and if anything, it seemed clearer than before. He looked down and saw where his foot was trapped.

He fought off the urge to panic again. There was no need to be scared. He was fine. He reached down, and after some effort, extricated his foot. He began tumbling downstream again, carried away by the current.

This time, he didn’t bother to fight against it, but let it carry him underwater. All he did was try to avoid the sharp rocks. He managed to escape several but hit a few others. After a couple of minutes, the current slowed and he was able to swim to the surface.

As soon as he broke through, he instinctively gasped, wanting a lungful of air. That turned out to be another mistake. His stomach and lungs were filled with water and there was no room to accommodate anything else. He began coughing and vomited up the river water as he swam to shore.

He dragged himself up onto a sandy shore, spewing water as he went. After several agonizing minutes, the vomiting stopped. He was lying in the sand and breathing in gasps.

“Enjoy your swim?” Friday asked.

Soren looked up to see her standing near a tree several yards away. He scooped up a rock from the sand and winged it at her. The shot would have hit her in the head, but she snatched it out of midair and laughed.

“I’m pretty sure nobody threw rocks at Obi-Wan,” she said.

“I’m sure whomever he was training didn’t get tossed into a river.”