Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel) (5 page)

He politely nodded and turned away, pausing at the flower arrangement to pluck out a pink carnation, snap off the stem and slip the bloom into the lapel of his jacket.

Chapter 7

“The Thai salad with lobster and shrimp cakes, and the club sandwich on sourdough.” Garin folded the menu and handed it back to the waitress. “And a glass of white soda, whatever brand you carry, no ice.”

She filled his water glass and took his order to the kitchen. The restaurant was upscale and understated at the same time; a place he could recommend if the food lived up to its hype. Linen tablecloths everywhere, linen napkins expertly folded to look like swans, instrumental music so soft it was just above a whisper to not intrude on the diners’ conversations. He stared at the lemon impaled on the rim of his glass.

He’d chosen a table off to the side, but where he could still have a view of the lobby. Annja had left the hotel minutes ago, her cameraman on her heels. Apparently he wasn’t fast enough to catch her or persuasive enough to share her company as the man had returned, shaking his head and disappearing out of sight.

Garin took a sip; the chilled water felt pleasant on his tongue.

It was a mistake, he thought—not by any means coming to the conference, but showing up during her lecture, announcing his presence. And then saying such ominous things. He hadn’t intended to do that. But seeing her picture inside the program book, hearing people talk about “that Annja Creed,” had made him act impulsively. He was amused, listening to the gossip, some admiring Annja and thinking she was a great role model for young people considering careers in archaeology, others saying she was a sham specializing in fringe topics and shouldn’t have been given speaking slots.

None of them, he suspected, knew just how intelligent and talented...and how dangerous...Annja Creed really was. He certainly didn’t underestimate her.

“Damn it all,” he said and downed the water in one long pull, then sucked on the piece of lemon. He’d allowed his ego to come to the fore. He could have let the weekend pass quietly, meeting with his contacts under her nose and out of her sight, all the while keeping tabs on her to make sure she didn’t interfere with his plans. He hadn’t needed to stand at the back of her room so she would be certain to spot him.

Nothing but things that don’t concern you. And nothing, if you listen to all the gossip in the halls, but death.
Yeah, that statement would surely get her to leave Wisconsin—not.

Coincidence that they both were in Madison this weekend? A divine accident? He
needed
to be here, that was given. But her?

She was here...for what? To speak to peers, many of whom didn’t respect her? To escape
Chasing History’s Monsters
and her television-host duties for a time? Or could she—possibly—be aware of what might transpire in the shadow of this conference? Had she caught on to it, and was that the real reason she was here?

To foul his plans?

The server placed the soda and salad in front of him, added a little ground pepper. He drank the soda quickly, thirsty for whatever reason today. Nerves? Over Annja? Hardly, he thought. Garin speared a lobster cake and chewed on it slowly, letting the flavors seep onto his tongue. He appreciated a good meal, among the other fine things his long life had afforded him.

And Garin had been enjoying his life immensely. He’d been
cursed
with eternal life ever since he’d failed to protect Joan. A curse? He’d only considered it that in the beginning. Now it was a blessing, one he didn’t want to give up. If he had his way, Annja’s sword would be broken up again if it would guarantee he’d never die. He wanted her alive, so that someday that might come to pass. Dead, who knew where the sword would end up? He was as much tied to it as Annja.

But why did she have to be here? This weekend?

“The salad is quite good,” he told the server when she brought his club sandwich.

“One of our specialties,” she said, smiling kindly.

“And another soda, please.”

She took his empty glass and disappeared.

Maybe it hadn’t been a bad play after all, revealing his presence to Annja and making the quip. If she didn’t already know about the dark side to this conference, his appearance might rattle her enough she wouldn’t catch on and discover why he was really here. And she had these deaths to deal with; he’d never known her to let something like a little mystery just sit. One of the victims apparently had been a friend of hers. She’d be focused on solving that, leaving Garin to his business.

“Pity,” he said as he wrapped his mouth around the sandwich. “Pity to be forced to mourn a friend.”

However, if, by chance, she knew why he was really here, knew about the shadowy bits, all the more fun he might have. Garin enjoyed a good game and the opportunity to outplay Annja Creed.

And he especially enjoyed winning.

He was nearly finished with his meal when he saw a particular fellow cut through the lobby.

Garin dropped two twenties on the table, dabbed at his lips with the napkin and sauntered out.

Chapter 8

Annja paced in the lobby of the police station. It had taken her a few calls to find out where Peter was taken, and then she had to hail a cab to take her there. Madison boasted five police districts, and he was at the one on South Carroll.

“Good thing it’s tile and not carpet,” said a young officer at the desk. His badge read Phillip deSpain. “You’d have a strip wore off.”

“Sorry.” Annja stopped in front of a bulletin board. She read one of the announcements:

The Madison Police Department’s Traffic Enforcement Safety Team (T.E.S.T.), in addition to other enforcement efforts, will be specifically addressing traffic violations this week in the following areas: Tuesday, East District, Atwood Ave. at Oakridge Ave. (Detour Area Enforcement); Wednesday, South District, 3800 Block Speedway Road (Speed Enforcement).

There was more to it, but the words swam in front of her eyes.

“I have your information, ma’am,” the officer said. He replaced his phone in the cradle. “Peter Chiapont was brought here about an hour ago. They just finished a preliminary interview, so now he’s across the street.”

“What?”
Annja said.

“At the sheriff’s department.” He paused. “For fingerprinting.”

“So he’s actually been arrested?”

“I don’t have that information, ma’am. It’s part of an ongoing investigation, so I don’t expect to have anything for a while. The blotter gets updated in the afternoon. But you can go across the street to the Dane County Sheriff’s Department and—”

Annja was out the door before he could finish.

They were not quite as helpful or friendly as Officer deSpain, but she soon learned that the city police department, though it had holding cells, used the sheriff’s jail. Annja talked to one deputy after the next, finally finding someone who could both assist her and was a fan of
Chasing History’s Monsters.
Her celebrity was convenient sometimes.

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” a deputy told her. “We don’t usually do this so early in a case, but Detective Rizzo gave the okay.”

Detective Rizzo? Was he here? Annja would try to find him after she talked to Peter.

The deputy put her in a small room divided in two by a thick piece of Plexiglas. She sat at the counter on an uncomfortable stool, stared at the phone in front of her and waited. Putting her wrist to her nose, she could smell what trace of perfume she had left. Not enough to mask the smell of this place. It had the pong of previous visitors, cleansers that weren’t used often enough and desperation.

A tap on the Plexiglas roused her.

Peter was disheveled and looked tired and quite a bit older than his forty years. He slumped on his stool and gestured to her phone, picking his up awkwardly because he was handcuffed.

“Peter, what’s going on?” There were a dozen other questions churning in her head, but she started with that. “What have they arrested you for? What’s the charge?”

His voice was thick. “Good to see you.” He paused. “But why...why did you come? Were you appointed, to bring back the scandalous news to the conference?”

Maybe he hadn’t heard her. She tried again. “Peter, what’s going on? What have they arrested you for?”

He held the phone away from his face for a moment, as if considering his answer. She was afraid he’d put it down and walk away, leaving all of her questions unanswered.

“They think I killed Edgar,” he finally said. “They think I—”

“Preposterous,” Annja cut back. Someone killed Edgar, certainly, but it wasn’t Peter Chiapont. “Whatever would make them suspect you?” She remembered the comment someone made about his arguing with Edgar. “You and Edgar are...
were
...friends. Have they officially charged you with murder?”

He shook his head, again holding the phone away. He closed his eyes and let out a breath that steamed the Plexiglas. “Annja—”

“What?”

“They’ve not arrested me for that...yet. And of course I didn’t kill Edgar. I wouldn’t kill anyone. And...Edgar, he was a friend.”

“What are they holding you on, then?” He was in an orange jumpsuit; he’d been charged with something, hadn’t he?

More waiting. “I have a...” He scowled, clearly uncomfortable with what he was going to tell her. “I have a previous assault charge against me. I was...am...on probation. They can hold me because of my priors. At least hold me for a while.”

Priors. More than one. Priors...a term someone used who was either in law enforcement or the courts, or who was on the other side—like the other side of this Plexiglas. She realized she didn’t know Peter Chiapont as well as she thought. More questions warred inside her. Annja wanted to ask him about those “priors,” but that would have to wait. Besides, she could probably find out via public records and an internet search.

“What were you arguing about, you and Edgar?”

He sat forward and dropped the phone on its cradle. Annja furiously tapped the glass, and his shoulders sagged. But he relented and picked up the receiver again.

“Ridiculous stuff, Annja,” he said wearily. “Really ridiculous, unbelievable stuff. Edgar thought he was onto something because of what he found at one of his New Mexico digs. I don’t know what. Or because of what he heard from another archaeologist visiting there. Something to that effect. Thought this ‘great thing’ was tied to up here.”

“In Wisconsin?”

“Yeah.”

“The Anasazi? In Wisconsin?”

Peter shook his head.

“No, the Mayans. Edgar’s specialty was the Anasazi, but he got onto an ancient Mayan kick because of what he heard or came across when he and Papa were together. He was like a father to Gregor, you know? Edgar’s the one who encouraged him to go after his doctorate. They go way back.”

Annja straightened, cradling the phone against her face with both hands. “And you argued about...Mayans?”

“In Wisconsin.”

“You argued about Mayans
in
Wisconsin?”

“No. No. No. Not exactly. We argued about fringe archaeology. About not being taken seriously. Edgar thought this Mayan revelation would be his glorious find, get him into the history books, get him on television, in
Newsweek
and
Archaeology Today.
Make him and Papa famous. What was it he said to me...? Something to mark his presence on the planet, something to prove he mattered, something to leave behind. I told him it would make him a laughingstock. That’s what we argued about. I told him everyone would call him a fool.”

“How bad of an argument?”

He shrugged.

“Bad enough to be overheard, obviously, Peter.”

“Well, yes. Or I wouldn’t be sitting here and wearing this. I stupidly said I ought to bash his fool head in, or was going to bash his fool head in. It was the heat of the moment. That the medical examiner is claiming a cracked skull killed him doesn’t look too good for me, huh? They tell me she’s changing her report from accidental death to homicide.”

“You have no alibi?”

“Depends on what time they think he died, I guess. I was with...someone...for part of last night. And it depends on whether she’ll admit she was with me.” He hunched forward, like a turtle tucking into its shell. “She’s married.”

“This Mayan thing, Peter, do you think someone would kill Edgar over that?”

“Ha!” Peter rolled his eyes. “Seriously? Edgar was an old idiot. It was crazy stuff. He and Gregor thought they’d—”

“He’s dead, you know, Dr. Papadopoulos.”

“Papa, I know. Of a heart attack in his sleep. He should’ve watched his diet, exercised.”

“What about Mrs. Hapgood? Does she have anything to do with Mayans in Wisconsin?” Was she Peter’s potential alibi?

Another burst of laughter. This time Peter threw back his head and his shoulders shook. Annja couldn’t tell if he was laughing hard or if he had started to cry.

“Peter...Edgar is dead. Dr. Papadopolous is dead. And your friend Mrs. Hapgood is in the hospital.”

“Coincidence,” he said, head still back. “All this in one weekend, coincidence.” He sucked in a big breath, held it, then released it in a whoosh. “My friend Annja Creed. My dear friend Annja Creed wants to connect dots when there’s nothing to connect. Coincidence. My dear friend Annja Creed wants to know about the Mayans and Edgar’s mysterious find. I’m here in a damnable jail cell, maybe facing murder charges, and she wants to know about the Mayans. What a dear, dear friend I have in Annja—”

“Peter!” Annja spit his name out furiously. “I’m here to help you! But I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. I had to know what the argument was about. Why the police suspect you. I can’t help you—” and I can’t avenge Edgar, she thought “—if I don’t have enough information.”

“Fair enough. No, Elyse Hapgood has nothing to do with Mayans and she’d just met Edgar in the lobby yesterday. Coincidence. An unfortunate coincidence.” Peter looked at her. “Also unfortunate is me being here.” His eyes were red and puffy. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Sorry for barking at you, Annja. Bad mood. Jail does that to you. False accusations do that to you.”

And my aching head isn’t helping me, she thought. “Do you have an attorney?”

“I picked one out of the Yellow Pages. Nice advertisement. Nice picture. On the young side, probably good judging by her fees. She’ll be here in—” He looked at the clock on the wall. It was covered with a mesh cage. “About an hour.”

“Do you need me to call anyone for you?”

“I’d like to know if Elyse is okay.” He snickered, but it was a sad, nervous laugh. “Other than that, no. I think enough people already know all about this. A few hundred of them back at the hotel. And their wives and husbands and children and neighbors. Probably my neighbors by now, too. Soon they’ll all be passing my mug shot around. Ain’t the internet grand?”

“I’ll see if I can find out anything about Mrs. Hapgood for you.” She gave him a rueful smile and picked through the rest of her questions, deciding what to pose next. “Peter, I—”

But she didn’t have the opportunity. A door opened on Peter’s side of the room, accompanied by a loud, nasally buzz. A deputy walked in and motioned to him.

“Gotta go,” Peter told her, hanging up the receiver.

Annja hung up and stared at the phone.

Where next?

Back to the hotel...

“Miss Creed?”

She turned too abruptly and winced, adding to the ache in her head. “Detective Rizzo.”

“Manny’ll do.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Your friend tell you much?”

Had he been listening? “Too much and not enough.” She shifted on the stool so she could look directly at him. He’d changed clothes since this morning, a different shirt, no jacket. “Can you recommend a car-rental place, Detective?”

“Going somewhere?”

Yes, she thought. But where? What was her next step? “I prefer it to calling another cab.”

“I can give you a lift. Save you the time and the money.”

“Back to my hotel?” She intended to poke around there for clues and answers.

“Actually, I was thinking Lakeside.” His face took on a serious mien.

“Lakeside? Where is—”

“Professor Schwartz was there, stayed for a couple of days before he ended up at the bottom of the stairwell. Hotel records said he’d been a guest of theirs on and off over the past year.”

Annja stood.

“A fellow by the name of Gregor Papadopoulos was there with him this last time and one time before,” Detective Rizzo continued. “Damned interesting, eh? So I think I’ll check it out. Not far from here. Care to join me?”

“What about your partner, Lieutenant Greene?”

“Arnie’s back at the hotel. The conference breaks up Sunday night, Monday morning. Only got two and a half days before all those archaeologists spread to the winds. He’s giving me what he thinks is the grunt end of this. He’s taking the cushy side in the air-conditioned hotel.”

“Lakeside,” Annja repeated.

“It’s about thirty-five minutes from here, less if I push it. Just off I-94. And I tend to push it. I won’t ask again.”

She nodded. “Absolutely.”

He thrust out a folder. It was the one that had been in Edgar’s room.

“I’ll drive. You can read.” He held the door open for her. “And you can buy us a couple of sodas from the machine on the way out. I want one with caffeine.”

Annja gladly reached into her pocket for a handful of coins. A dose of caffeine might be good for her, too.