Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel) (13 page)

Chapter 20

“Sandra, my lawyer, doesn’t think she can get me out until Friday. She’s trying to get my bail hearing moved up. Got a formal arraignment coming first. She says that’ll be Wednesday because the docket is otherwise full and one of the judges is up north.” Peter stared at Annja with tired eyes, the circles so dark under them he reminded her of a raccoon. “So much for a speedy system, eh?”

“Friday.” Annja learned a few minutes ago from Manny that Peter had been charged with manslaughter. They were going for the lesser charge, since the district attorney thought proving premeditation might be difficult. “Friday,” she repeated. “That means you’ll miss your diving session in Rock Lake with Bobby Wolfe.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

Annja had wanted to slip that bit in...that she knew about his plans. She was angry and made no attempt to hide it. “I met Bobby—dived with him earlier today, in fact. Nice guy. You were probably going to dive right where he took me. Down about ninety feet, to the mounds.”

Peter’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. He regained his composure, but Annja went on before he could say anything.

“So you said Edgar was a fool, right? You said he was into fringe archaeology, that he didn’t know what he was talking about...Mayans in Wisconsin. A wild-goose chase. But whatever it was that Edgar was looking for at the bottom of that lake, you wanted a piece of it, too. You booked his guide, and you were going to dive down. Bobby had your height and weight, had a wet suit picked out for you, knew where you wanted to go. You’d told him you were a friend of Edgar’s—”

“I am a...was...a friend—”

“You intimated that you were part of Edgar’s cadre. You and Papa. Except you weren’t, were you? It was just Edgar and Papa, their research.” Annja’s face felt warm and she knew her blood pressure was high. She swore she could feel her heart thrumming in her chest. “You weren’t part of it, but you were trying to horn in. You thought Edgar really was onto something.”

Peter mumbled, but Annja couldn’t hear the words. He’d held the phone away from his face to cut the volume of her rant.

“You found out...Bobby said he’d told you...told you that Edgar couldn’t go into the lake, that he didn’t want to take Edgar in, his age and weight, no suit to fit him. And that Papa was afraid to go, claustrophobic, whatever. They were relying on Bobby to cement their great discovery. But you? You weren’t afraid to dive a lake, were you? I know you, Peter. We’ve dived together, in cenotes in Mexico for crying out loud. You can dive.”

He held the phone farther away and looked at the receiver, as if he might hang up on her.

She stumbled over her words, anxious to get them out, to make sure he heard her. “You were going to dive. You thought Edgar was right. You lied to me. You said you told Edgar he was a fool.”

Peter held the phone close now and pressed the palm of his free hand against the Plexiglas that separated them. “I did tell Edgar he was a fool, all right? I said it.”

“But you didn’t mean it.” She lowered her voice. “You really didn’t mean it.”

“The hell I didn’t. He was a fool, an old fool. But a fool for telling me about his theory. A fool for not keeping his mouth shut. And look where he is now...the morgue.”

Neither said anything for a moment. Annja thought Peter was going to cry. His shoulders had slumped forward, defeated.

“Dead is where it got him,” he said finally. He regained a measure of composure and dropped his hand from the Plexiglas. “I don’t know whether his theory was right, Annja, about Mayans in Wisconsin, but he showed me some of his research. It looked solid, believable. Plausible, in fact. He might have been onto something. I thought...yeah...maybe. Someone thinks he found evidence of Mayans in Georgia. They don’t know if he’s off his rocker or is valid. But if Georgia, why not Wisconsin, huh?”

Annja stared at him incredulously. “He was your friend, Peter. If you thought he had a good theory, why call him a fool? Why not support him?”

He was slow to answer. “He wouldn’t let me in. He had Papa. It was going to be Edgar and Papa’s find, with Edgar the primary. He let me get a taste, he teased me with the details out of our supposed friendship...teased me because his work was all so secret and compelling that he had to tell someone. Couldn’t keep it to himself. It was eating away at him. He was so excited. So why not tell a friend, right? He showed me a piece of gold jewelry and said it came from Rock Lake.”

“A gold circle?”

“Three, actually. I saw them Thursday. We got in about the same time. He showed them to me before I went on the Aztalan tour. I talked to Papa about their discovery when we were walking in the park. I thought if Edgar—”

“—wouldn’t cut you in, that maybe Dr. Papadopolous might?”

“Something like that. I tried to talk Papa into including me in the hunt. I volunteered to do some of the research to help. I said I’d do the dives for them. Papa hated the water. His wife drowned in the city pool, you know. He was with her, couldn’t save her. He never went in any body of water bigger than a bathtub after that. I’m surprised he went out on Rock Lake. That Papa would get in a boat at all convinced me that there was something to it.” He paused. “Something. I don’t know what, but something.”

“And Papa wouldn’t cave?” Annja talked softly now, trying to coax more information.

“Not on the tour. He wouldn’t talk much about it on the tour. He was so busy spouting off about the mounds, showing people this and that. So I went to his house after dinner.”

“Papa’s house in town?”

A nod. “I was at Papa’s house—” Peter stopped abruptly and hung up the phone.

“No!” Annja tapped furiously on the Plexiglas. “Pick up the phone! Peter! Talk to me!”

He looked to the door, as if he might summon a deputy to put him back in the cell.

“No!” She stood and leaned close to the barrier. “Peter!”

He relented and picked up the phone. “Annja, I shouldn’t talk to you about this. Any of this. I’ve already said way too much. Sandra, my attorney, she said not to talk. To anyone. I’m like Edgar, huh? Saying too much when I should have kept my mouth shut.”

“Please, Peter, will you just—”

“Just what, Annja? Tell you I don’t have a significant find to my credit? I don’t. Tell you I’ve drawn no great conclusion regarding Egyptian symbolism, my specialty? I haven’t. That I’ve made no remarkable contribution to anything? That I’ve written no book in demand for college courses. That I’ve done...what...that I’ve done nothing significant in my life. I’ve piggybacked my whole career on other finds, followed other archaeologists, worked their digs, gotten grants by following up their projects. Never anything to leave behind. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Don’t you understand?” He was shouting now and gripping the phone tightly. “And here my friend Edgar comes along and tells me about this ‘amazing’ theory he’s been working on. That despite his arthritis and gout and all his other old-man ills he was going to put himself in the books. His name up in lights, as it were.”

“So he told you out of friendship, because he wanted to share his joy,” Annja said. The words were a summation for her. “But he didn’t want to share.” She shook her head. “I understand him, Peter. If it was his discovery, his and Dr. Papadopolous’s, he shouldn’t have had to share. You should have simply been happy for him. Proud. Supported him.”

“Proud? Wouldn’t that be a kick, Annja, me being proud? Of myself. I’ve never been proud of myself. I’ve done some things—”

“What, Peter? What have you done?”

“I was at Papa’s house Thursday night. Went a little after the tour, followed him home. Thought I’d try talking to him again, thought I’d tell him how dangerous the lake was and that he shouldn’t go out on it. That I would dive it for them, that they didn’t need the guide they’d hired. That their guide wasn’t good enough.”

“And he told you their guide was good.”

“Yeah, he told me about Bobby Wolfe. But he wouldn’t let me sign on with them, wanted to keep it just the two of them, him and Edgar. He didn’t want to share the glory. Just like Edgar, he’d tell me about their theory...that Mayans had come all the way up here, that ultimately the indigenous people drove them out, but that they left buildings behind. He showed me some of the research. Just a little of it.”

“And it was plausible.” Annja recalled the underwater mounds. There was nothing Mayan about them.

“I gave up trying to convince him, though.”

“Because he told you to leave,” Annja guessed.

“Yes. So I did. I left, was in the car. I’d put the key in the ignition and somebody pulled up. I waited. I watched. I dunno why. I stayed out front and saw a big man go into Papa’s house, saw them together. The drape was in the way, but I saw the silhouettes. I saw a struggle. I should have called the police, I know. Should have called right then and there. Should’ve gone back to the house and helped Papa. All that twenty-twenty hindsight, right? Instead, I drove away. Papa wouldn’t let me in? Why should I help him? He wasn’t going to help me.” He started sobbing.

Annja realized that while she had considered Peter a friend, she didn’t truly know him. Not at all. He wasn’t as close a friend as Edgar, but still she thought she knew Peter’s heart. Most of her relationships were casual, surface, not letting anyone too close. So she wasn’t aware that Peter had a record—priors—and she never figured he was the type of man to try to take credit for another archaeologist’s discovery...or hopeful discovery. To muscle in.

“I could have done the dives for them, Annja.”

“But they had Bobby Wolfe for that,” she returned softly.

“It occurred to me that maybe whoever had gone to Papa’s house was also looking to get a cut, had maybe overheard us talking at the Aztalan mounds. So I drove around and came back an hour later. I was gonna ask Papa about his visitor. The car was gone, and I went to check on Papa. See if he was okay. I’d decided on another tactic to try to persuade him. The door was open, and so I went in. Papa...he was dead. I assumed whoever came to visit him did it and then put him in bed to cover it up. Then I called Edgar to warn him. Maybe it was about the gold. Edgar was in his hotel room, and I told him it looked like Papa’s house had been searched. Papa’s medallion—” He paused, letting out a great breath that steamed the Plexiglas. “Edgar had showed me the three circles, clearly pieces of jewelry, clearly Mayan. He’d brought them here. And Papa...Papa had four pieces, one of them a bigger piece, a medallion that he’d said came from the same place, and a bracelet. I looked for the medallion at Papa’s, found the box he’d had it in. But the medallion was gone, the circles and the bracelet, gone, as well as his research notes and computer. I told it all to Edgar. Annja, that gold was valuable. Seriously, seriously valuable. Not because...well, not because it was gold, but because of where it came from and that it hints there could be more.”

Annja sat back, trying to absorb everything.

“Some of this will come out,” Peter continued. “It’ll show I didn’t kill Edgar. Whoever killed Papa, well...”

Annja just stared.

“...I think whoever killed Papa killed Edgar.” He switched hands on the telephone, wiped his sweaty palm off on his jumpsuit. “Problem is, nobody is looking at Papa’s death as murder. He had a history of heart problems, and they think he just died in his sleep. The police don’t know it’s probably about the gold.”

Peter could get them to look at Papa’s death as murder, Annja realized; if it came out at trial about Edgar and Papa’s research, the gold and the theory. But to do that, Peter would have to reveal that he was trying to talk his way into their clique, turn their duo into a triumvirate and take a share of the discovery. It would make Peter look bad...but could he look any worse than being charged with manslaughter?

“If you had called the police,” Annja said, her voice a whisper, “when you saw the struggle at Dr. Papadopolous’ house, maybe he’d be alive.” She recognized too late how very hurtful those words were, that she’d put Papa’s death on Peter. “Look, I—”

“You don’t think I know that?” Peter’s face was red with ire. “I know I screwed up.... If I’d done something, I maybe could’ve kept Papa alive.” His voice faded to a mere whisper. “And maybe Edgar, too. If only I’d called the police right away.”

“You’re a fool,” Annja said, not able to tamp down her anger. “Maybe Edgar was right about the Mayans. Or maybe he was on a wild-goose chase. In either case, he wasn’t the fool.”

Peter’s shoulders shook. “Annja, I—”

Peter was a different man to her now. Not the archaeologist she had respected or the man she’d called a friend. He was defeated. Pitiful.

“Mrs. Hapgood.” Annja remembered that people at the conference said Mrs. Elyse Hapgood was with Peter. “Does she have anything to do with this...with
any
of this?” Or was Mrs. Hapgood a puzzle piece that Annja wasn’t going to be able to cram into place?

He shook his head. “Elyse.”

“Not a coincidence, Peter. Everything’s related.”

He shook his head more vehemently. “Elyse had nothing to do with his. She is...was...a friend, a little more than a friend. But I told her about it, the gold and the theory, just in conversation at the park while I was hoping to talk to Papa again. I guess we all talk too much. But I swear she had nothing to do with—”

“Edgar, Dr. Papadopolous, your ‘friend’ Mrs. Hapgood. They’re all related, Peter.”

“Annja, no, maybe not. Maybe—”

“They all knew about the theory and the gold. And they’re all dead.” She stood, still holding on to the phone. “I’d watch your back, Peter. I’d stay in jail, where you’re safe. And I’d pay attention to your attorney. Keep your mouth shut.” Maybe if he’d done that, at least Mrs. Elyse Hapgood would still be breathing.

Chapter 21

Annja knew she had a temper, but she kept it under control most of the time. Now she wasn’t even trying.

Right now she wanted to be angry,
needed
to be angry...over the death of Edgar, and Papa, whom she’d never met, over the death of a potter named Joe, who made works of art and discovered Mayan gold in a Wisconsin lake. She was an admitted adrenaline junkie, and her rage was giving her a welcome boost. She focused on it, felt her heart beating faster, formed fists as she walked from the police station toward the parking lot where she’d left her motorcycle. She could have parked closer, but after dealing with Sully, driving here right after, she wanted to burn off some pent-up energy.

Annja listened to the city as she went, the traffic shushing by, music coming from open car windows—rap, blues, country, rock. There was the loud belch of a bus that pulled up next to her, dispatching a few folks who were going toward an apartment building, probably headed home from work or possibly from dinner, judging by the time. She glanced at her watch; it was nearly seven. She’d hoped to find Manny after she was done with Peter, but he wasn’t at the station. “Out at the hotel and conference center,” an officer told her. “Working a case.”

His last case, she thought, wanting to help solve it for Edgar and herself, but also for the detective. It would indeed be a great note to end his career on. Two blocks to go and she caught a look at an old woman outside an antiques shop. She’d been looking in the window, the shop closed, but now she was looking at Annja, eyes wide and mouth open. Maybe a fan of
Chasing History’s Monsters,
or maybe...

Annja spun, but not fast enough. A man had come up behind her, snub-nosed pistol in his hand. He jabbed her with it.

“In the alley,” he growled. “Now, or I’ll pull the trigger.”

The sword was there in Annja’s mind and she flexed her hand, ready to call it. But not here, right out on the sidewalk with all the people watching.

“No!” The old woman yelled and jumped back, hoping to shield herself. “Police!”

The old woman screamed. She was on her cell phone, calling the police, frantically describing the man with the gun.

“Damn.” The man pushing Annja raised a hand with something in it just as they reached an empty alleyway. She breathed, and then the earth seemed to fall away and darkness reached up to swallow her.

She came to minutes later.

Annja knew she hadn’t been out long, since the sky was still gray. She heard sirens, loud and close, likely coming in answer to the old woman’s call. The man who’d clocked her now loomed over her. They were still in the alley. She’d been stuffed between two Dumpsters. The guy was attempting to hide the both of them from the action on the street. He waved the snub-nosed gun at her.

“You!” he said.

Annja waited, tentatively reaching up and touching the back of her head, her fingertips coming away bloody. “Great.” She was sitting on the ground, the back of her pants damp from whatever garbage he’d sat her in.

“You!” He pointed the gun at her and kicked at something on the ground between her knees. It was her purse, and he’d upended it. The contents were strewn among the litter. Her cell phone was in pieces beneath his heel.

“Great,” she said again. The sword was there, waiting, almost as if it was demanding she reach for it. Annja held back. The man would have killed her if that had been his intent.

He touched his ear with his free hand; she noticed he had a phone bud. “Mr. A.,” he said. “I have her. But the cops are here. Some old woman called them. Sirens going already. Yeah, I’ll get it out of her. I’ll get your gold. Stevie’s bringing the van right now.” He touched the bud again, disconnecting his call. “So, where is it, lady? The rest of it?”

Annja put on a surprised face and listened to the siren, which was passing by the alley. The car didn’t stop. “The rest of what?”

He shoved the gun against her forehead.

“You know damn well what I want.”

The guy was going to kill her, she decided, but not until after he got what he wanted.

“You know what. The coins. The gold your fat friend had.”

“Dr. Schwartz?”

“Yeah, him.” He pressed the gun harder; it hurt. “Quick, lady. Not in your purse.” He moved his foot to step on the plastic enclosing the silver certificate. It snapped. “Not in your hotel room. Where is it and where did Schwartz get it? Tell me now and I won’t have to dump you a long ways from here. Better if your friends find your body, don’t ya think? Where did it come from, the gold coins? Where’s the treasure? We know Schwartz was a friend of yours. Said your name all nice and pretty before he died—”

“You son of a bitch!” He’d killed Edgar. But the thug hadn’t gotten anything useful out of Edgar in the process...other than her name. Her old friend hadn’t mentioned Sully’s What-Nots, nor the lake. She was planning to go along with the brute; he was clearly the muscle and not the brains. The brains had been at the other end of the earbud. That was who she needed to find—the orchestrator—to fill in the final puzzle pieces.

She wanted to yell at him some more, but she was mad and grieving, and suddenly, the sword was in her hand. She turned and swung with all the strength she could summon, hitting the hand holding the gun. She’d used the flat and the impact was loud, his cry of pain sharp. Still, he kept hold of the snub-nosed pistol.

The sirens roared louder. She counted two now. Were they doubling back? They had to be looking for her and this thug. She’d have to act quickly, to deal with the man and get some questions answered before the police found this alley or before Stevie and the van showed up.

She wasted no time. Sweeping the sword up, she rammed him with it. He staggered, and as she was clear of the Dumpsters, she had room to truly work the blade. She angled it again and drove it down, the flat cracking against his shoulder blade. She heard something pop—maybe his shoulder had dislocated, maybe she’d cracked a bone.

A string of expletives ran together as he jerked his gun in close and fired it.

Hot pain stabbed through Annja’s thigh. He’d shot her.

“Where the hell...did you get a sword!”

She reversed her swing, and the blade caught him in the arm. “You bitch! Mr. A. says you gotta live...until you give up the gold.” He quickly stepped back when Annja swung once more, slicing through his heavy shirt and drawing a line of blood. He fired again. This time the bullet connected with a Dumpster.

“Hey! What’s going on down there? I’m calling the police!” The voice came from somewhere above them.

Tires squealed and Annja pressed her attack, rushing him and pinning him up against the opposite wall of the alley, bringing the sword up in both hands and hammering down with the pommel, catching him on the shoulder blade again.

“Who’s doing this? Give me a name!”

His answer was to spit in her face.

Gravel ricocheted against trash cans and the brickwork, and tires squealed louder, heralding company in the alley. Annja looked now, expecting to see a police car, but it was a van, Army-green and speeding toward them.

A dog barked, more yelling and the sirens again.

The van was closing in.

Annja dismissed her sword to free both hands, and she sprung, grabbing the end of a fire escape and hauling herself up, her leg screaming in protest. The tips of her shoes bounced against the roof of the van; it had come that close to the wall, meaning perhaps to run her over.

Or to run over the thug.

She glanced down as she pulled herself up another rung and saw a flash of light from the passenger window. The sirens were too loud to hear anything apart from them, but she knew a gun had gone off. The thug caught it in the chest, and the van rocketed out of the other end of the alley, turning right so hard and fast it rode up on two wheels before disappearing from sight.

A police car followed the van, the sound of its siren so loud it hurt. A second car that was behind it, lights on but no sirens, slammed to a halt. Two officers jumped out, one leaning over the thug, the other standing next the car, mic to his mouth and looking up at Annja and motioning. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. There was too much noise—sirens, shouts from the street, from someone above.

She lowered herself down the fire escape and jumped the last five feet to the ground, landing on her good leg and falling, but picking herself up before the cop could reach her.

“How is he—” Annja started.

“Dead,” the officer answered. “One round in the chest, dead center.”

More sirens. Annja pressed her palms against her ears and leaned back against the brick. “This has been a crazy day,” she said.

An ambulance entered the alley from the opposite end, going nose to nose with the police car. Two paramedics hopped out, one going to the back and opening the door.

“No.” Annja waved at them. “I’m not going to—”

“Ma’am?” This from the officer who had been checking on the thug. “We need you to go to the hospital, ma’am.”

“It’s Annja Creed,” the other officer said. “The woman Rizzo told me about.” He picked up the spilled contents of her purse and tried to make some order of them, then gathered her broken cell phone and stuffed it all in the purse. He nodded toward his partner. “Miss Creed, Larry here will ride with you to the hospital. Is there anyone we can call for you?”

She thought a moment, deciding not to argue and to accept the ride. Her leg throbbed badly, and her pants were wet with muck and blood. “Manny. You could call Detective Manny Rizzo for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She closed her eyes when they helped her onto the stretcher. Its thin mattress felt comfortable. “You don’t have to use the sirens,” she told the paramedics.

But they didn’t listen.