I Hear Voices (3 page)

“La famiglia is more important than gold,”

Granny Annabel snapped.

A snow flurries erupted in my car.

Crap! I could barely see out the windshield.

“I’m sorry, okay? Can we lose the blizzard?”

“I want your promise that you will allow Derek to court you.”

Like that was going to happen. In a desperate kamikaze move, I cut across two lanes of traffic.

Ignoring the squealing tires, blaring horns and profane curses, I pulled into the parking lot of a grocery store and skidded to a stop.

My teeth chattering, I cried, “You win! If he asks me out on a date, I’ll go.” The chances of that happening were zero.

Someone knocked on the driver’s window.

I rolled it down and peered up at the big, brawny motorcycle cop. “I’m having a bit of a problem with my air-conditioner, sir.”

The cop lowered his sunglasses and surveyed the snow coating my seats in utter amazement.

“I’ll say. You should get that looked at.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

With a disbelieving shake of his head, the officer climbed back on his motorcycle and rode off.

“Derek will give you many fine babies.”

A slightly hysterical laugh broke from me.

“Whoopdee-do, I’m all atwitter in anticipation.”

“You will be,” Granny Annabel answered and vanished.

The sooner I got the Tomb Raider out of my life, the happier I would be.

Since the apartment manager had stuck the eviction notice on my door a week ago, I had been moving my stuff to Uncle Aldo’s safe house. A good thief always had one. The quaint redbrick house in downtown historic Glendale was rent free and had a freezer full of food.

Moving in with a friend was out of the question.

I never made any. After Uncle Dante killed my one and only boyfriend, it was just too dangerous. I hated freeloading off my uncle, but it was better than living on the street or going back to a life of crime. Besides, he’d get his cut of the gold and finally be able to buy that villa on the French Riviera he has always wanted.

I had less than a day to tweak my Montezuma’s revenge holographic program and find a proper disguise. I knew that rat bastard had told his detective friend about me and my photo would soon be plastered all over their most wanted list.

You’d think the Phoenix Police Department would show a little gratitude. I had found that missing three year old girl for them and just in the nick of time, too. The sicko pervert had been five minutes away from killing her.

Of course, the fact that her father was Dixon Deeter the head of the notorious Dirty Dozen biker

gang hadn’t won me any brownie points. Or when out of misplaced gratitude Dixon had made me an honorary member of the pack complete with a swell skull tattoo on my butt. The suspicious jerks followed me around for weeks. Hey, I was legit.

The minute I walked through the door, the phone rang. My stomach knotted in alarm. It couldn’t be Sloan, could it? I hesitantly picked it up. “Hello?”

My uncle’s worried voice asked, “Va bene, Zelda?”

“I’m okay. How are you doing?”

“Bene. Bene. Sebastian arranged my release and I’m on my way to the airport. You cannot go after the gold alone. It is too dangerous. I will send Sebastian or Fabian to assist you.”

Fabian, my prissy cousin, had lived with us for a year while his parents were in a Russian prison.

That man couldn’t walk past a mirror without admiring himself. And dig for treasure? It would muss his suit. “No! I don’t need his help. I can do this and Derek Sloan won’t be a problem much longer.”

“He is a dangerous man, bella.”

“If I can handle Uncle Dante, I can handle Sloan.”

“You have always been a stubborn child.”

“I need to find the gold, Uncle Aldo. I can’t… I won’t go back to Seattle and Aunt Sophie’s house of horrors.”

He let out a long sigh. “Si, evil resides there.

Be careful.”

“I always am.”

My uncle chided, “Always?”

Sometimes I did have the tendency to be a bit of a risk taker but it always worked out in the end.

Okay, there were a few times where Uncle Aldo had to ride to the rescue, but I had learned from my mistakes. “I promise I will not take any unnecessary risks.”

“If I do not hear from you every day, I will send Fabian.”

“I’ll call you. Please, I’m begging you, do not send Fabian.”

There was amusement in my uncle’s voice when he conceded, “As you wish, bella. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Uncle. Be safe.” I disconnected before he could change his mind. The last thing I needed was that prissy prima donna mucking things up.

I stared at my image in the full length mirror and grinned. Even Uncle Aldo wouldn’t recognize me. My short spiky black hair was covered by a long blonde wig. The brown contacts disguised my violet eyes and the low cut black velvet dress enhanced my girls, while camouflaging my not so perfect curves. I looked hot. Picking up my silver evening bag, I sauntered out the front door, knowing that gold was mine.

The Phoenix Art Museum was a mad house. Who knew there were so many limos in Phoenix? The dizzying flashes of the photographer’s cameras mingled with the twinkling fairy lights draped over the trees. Ancient Aztec stone statues stood like sentinels at the entrance.

I paused in the shadows and watched the rich and not so famous stroll into the museum and hand the suited guards their invitations. Good thing I was a skilled pickpocket. All I needed was the right mark.

A silver-haired woman stumbled out of her limo, snapped something at her driver and staggered up the walkway. Kinda early to be that drunk, and what kind of idiot wears a white fur coat in Phoenix when it’s already hitting degrees? A pretentious society matron with more money than sense, that’s who. I had found my mark.

I stepped out of the shadows and bumped into her. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you.”

She hissed like a cat and tottered unsteadily on her six inch heels “How dare you touch me?”

Her breath stank of whiskey. “Do you need help inside, ma’am?”

“No! Get away from me.”

Yikes. Her face didn’t move. She kinda reminded me of Joan Rivers with the whole eyebrows in the middle of her forehead thing.

She pointed a dagger-like nail at me. “Get away from me. Now!”

“Yes, ma’am.” I hurried inside and handed the guard my invitation.

Pausing at a display of snake frescos, I watched the society bitch wobble up to the guards. She opened her purse and surprise! Her invitation had mysteriously vanished.

The slender female guard politely informed her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but without an invitation, I can’t allow you in.”

Spewing a litany of foul curses, the woman hauled off and smacked the poor girl upside the head with her purse. The other guard, a big, burly dude, stepped up and got the same treatment.

I looked around and grinned. Everyone in the museum was watching the society bitch’s screaming hissy fit in open-mouthed horror. The photographers were having a field day, snapping dozens of shots of her meltdown. Her feral cat imitation would be plastered all over the morning newspapers and hey who knows, she might even make the evening news, too.

A carefully orchestrated distraction is a good thief’s best tool. After quickly planting my holographic projectors, sound discs and smoke bombs; I turned and watched the show.

A bean pole of a police officer helped the guards wrestle the society bitch to the ground.

Ouch! For such a skinny thing, she had a kick like a mule. The pissed-off cop clapped the cuffs on.

“You’re under arrest for assault and disturbing the peace.”

The society bitch hissed at him, “Do you know who I am?”

The cop dragged her to her feet and answered, “Yes, ma’am. You’re the same woman we arrested for drunk and disorderly at Tarbells last week.”

“I’m going to sue you, the museum and the city for defamation and wrongful arrest.”

“Do what you have to, ma’am.”

“Police brutality,” she screamed at the top of her lungs and spat in his face.

The officer calmly wiped off his face, yanked her out the door and stuffed her in the backseat of his patrol car.

A night in jail would do her a world of good.

Walking casually around the exhibits I made my way over to the medallion. Another ten minutes and it was mine.

The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood up. I turned and my heart stuttered in shock.

Derek Sloan walked in wearing a thousand dollar suit that showed off his muscular body to perfection. An anorexic blonde bimbo clung to his arm.

I eyed her “fuck me” shoes and barely there dress and shook my head. She kinda looked like that hooker I saw strutting her wares on Van Buren.

He couldn’t be that hard up, could he?

“No comment,” Sloan growled at a reporter and towed the bimbo over to the first exhibit, a well endowed stone statue.

The blonde twittered, “Is that a penis?”

Sloan slanted an annoyed look at the statue.

“Yes, it is.”

“I bet it’s not as big as yours, honey balls.”

Honey balls? I grabbed a glass of champagne off a serving tray and took a healthy gulp. How in the hell had he made it back in time?

The Tomb Raider’s steely eyes constantly scanned the crowd. Ha! He’d never recognize me.

Or would he? His gaze swept over me briefly before moving on. Nope. I was safe.

Sloan stiffened, his head snapped around and his eyes zeroed in on my breasts.

Crap! My birthmark was showing through the makeup.

Implacable resolve stamped on his face, Sloan glided towards me with the fluid grace of a predator who was about to make lunch out of his prey.

The blonde bimbo grabbed his arm. “Hey!

Where are you going?”

Without replying, the Tomb Raider shook her off like a pesky fly.

It was time to get the party going. Hiding behind a group of gossiping women, I pulled out the remote and hit the first two buttons.

The lights dimmed dramatically and with a theatrical puff of smoke, the Aztec Emperor Montezuma hovered in the center of the gallery. He wore nothing but a gold breech cloth and a headdress with three foot blue feather plumes.

Montezuma pointed his six foot bronze sword at the

stunned crowd and roared, “Death comes on wings to he who dares to steal my treasure. Whoever enters the treasure tomb disturbs the rest of a God. The Guardians of the dead will protect my gold.”

I hit another button.

An eerie moaning like a chorus of lost souls wailing a dirge echoed around the room. With demented shrieks, a dozen skeletal warriors jumped out of the darkness with blood encrusted swords.

Several women and a couple of men screamed.

“It’s the Rock,” a woman cried and started clapping.

Montezuma

waved

his

sword

around

menacingly. “Who among you dares to take my treasure?”

“Great special effects,” a man called, clapping, too.

Soon everyone in the museum was clapping loudly.

Huh. Not quite the reaction I was expecting.

A hard hand clamped around my elbow. “The Rock? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“So I think Dwayne Johnson’s hot. Sue me.” I jabbed my stun gun in Sloan’s stomach and triggered it.

Grunting in pain, he convulsed violently and crashed to the floor.

I slid the remote into his breast pocket and patted his face. “Nice playing with you, numb nuts.”

“Bitch,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his limbs still twitched spasmodically.

“Sticks and stones.” Pulling on latex gloves, I slid the night vision goggles on and triggered my uncle’s electromagnetic pulse device. Inky blackness fell.

The crowd milled around uneasily.

Several people asked, “Is the show over?”

I quickly walked over to the case, used a glass cutter and removed the medallion.

A woman behind me asked, “Why haven’t the lights come back on?”

“Dammit my cell phone won’t work,” a male voice complained.

At the exit, I glanced back and groaned. The Tomb Raider was already on his feet. He had the constitution of a contrary jackass.

I walked over to my car and slid inside with a grin. A big jackass who had been out maneuvered by little ole’ me and there was nothing he could do to stop me from taking the gold.

The Superstition Mountains are a , foot high bastion of ghosts and legends. The tales of the Lost Dutchman’s mine and Peralta’s gold have lured many into the deep canyons and rocky spires.

Those who dare enter the sacred grounds of the Apache Thunder God to hunt for the legendary gold usually found death instead.

Hundreds of men have vanished in this desert wilderness only a short drive from Phoenix. They were later found with their bodies mutilated and their heads cut off. Was the Thunder God responsible? Do Apache warriors still guard the gold? Or did gold fever make crazy men out of ordinary folks. Only the dead know. To this day hikers still find skeletal remains of the unlucky treasure hunters who got lost and ran out of water.

Me? I was heading into the heart of the sacred grounds. Was I worried about the Apache Thunder God? You betcha. The spirit world is real. I should know.

Some say the Lost Dutchman’s mine lies within the shadows of the forbidding rock called Weaver’s Needle. Would I search for it? Hell, no. Poor Ted North was the last psychic treasure hunter who tried. He had been found a week later half-dead and mad as a hatter.

The sun seeped over the mountains turning the morning sky from lavender to pink. It was a good five mile hike to Hieroglyphic Canyon and I wanted to get an early start before it hit a friggin’

degrees. But, hey, it’s a dry heat.

A hot wind rose with the sun. A newspaper tumbled across the parking lot and slapped against my legs. I picked it up. Emblazoned in bold print across the front page the headline exclaimed; Priceless Artifact Stolen. The Mexican government is outraged that the museum allowed a brazen thief to snatch the medallion in front of hundreds of witness.