Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel) (6 page)

Chapter 9

The Asian woman in the tight green dress was not here for the conference. She clung to Garin as they stood on the lawn across the street from the Madison Arms, pretending to admire the capitol building.

“I’m hungry,” she told him, clicking her manicured red nails against his plastic-coated name badge. “You went to lunch without me.”

“You were still in bed, sweet Keiko. And you eat so little anyway. Like a bird.”

She pouted. “I’m bored, Gary. You said I’d have something to do while you were at this convention. All these anthropologists—”

“Archaeologists, Keiko.”

“They’re boring. So many of them are...old.”

Not nearly as old as I, he thought.

She playfully entwined her fingers with a loose strand of his hair. “Can’t we go see something?” She leaned close and whispered into his ear. “A movie? A dirty one? Is there a zoo? I adore penguins.” She sucked in her lower lip. “No, not the zoo. It might rain, and I just had my hair done. We could go to a mall with boutiques. I love to shop. Somewhere, Gary. Please?”

He’d met Keiko in Chicago, where he’d been for the previous two weeks on business. A waitress at a restaurant he frequented, he’d taken her back to his hotel one night, and she’d been returning there ever since.

Garin appreciated athletic and inventive young women, and so Keiko had been a fine distraction. But he didn’t need her to be a distraction now. He reached deep into his pants pocket and pulled out a small clear envelope filled with white powder. He pressed it into her hand. “This should ease the boredom.”

She smiled wickedly. “Share it with me?”

“Not now. I’m meeting a man here, and then there are a few lectures I intend to catch.”

She pouted, but he could tell it was a put-on face. “All right, Gary. I’ll go to our room and
ease the boredom.
” This last she said trying to parrot his voice. She tilted up on tiptoe and kissed his ear. “And then maybe I’ll go shopping by myself and spend a lot of your money.”

He listened to the gentle
shoosh
of traffic behind him, slowing, probably due to the light changing, and then in the lull he heard Keiko’s shoes
click clack
across the pavement as she returned to the hotel.

Garin stood motionless for several minutes and took in the other sounds. A jackhammer started up somewhere out of sight, chewing into asphalt; honking—taxis everywhere had the same tone, it seemed; the faint burst of a siren that just as quickly stopped; the laughter of a child playing nearby on the grass in the shadow of her mother. Madison sounded “wholesome,” at least on this cloud-scattered day. Wholesome and a little...he used Keiko’s favorite word...boring. But he read the news and knew that here, in front of the capitol building, there were rollicking protests...over government, taxes and whatever other causes stirred up the residents. Campouts in the rotunda. Often they played out on the national networks. And there was the university, with its notorious Halloween weekend to consider. Still, the city seemed rather decent; the kind of place boring people could raise boring families, could grow old and die and decay beneath the earth.

He watched the little girl. She’d scooped up a long green beetle and studied it, smiling and letting it walk from one of her fingers to the next. A burst of giggles, and she squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger, and brushed the pieces away.

“Over there.” A man who’d crossed from the hotel strode past Garin, indicating a bench under a sad-looking honey locust.

Garin waited a few beats before following him.

The mother called to the little girl, took her hand and left the lawn to follow the sidewalk deeper into the city. A cloud overhead brightened with a sliver of lightning, followed by a quiet rumble of thunder.

“Willamar,” Garin said as he joined the man on the bench, a comfortable space between them. The other benches were occupied, these with capitol employees who had brought their lunches outside.

The man’s name tag read W. Aeschelman, marking him as a participant at the archaeology conference. He saw Garin looking at the badge and unclipped it and put it in his pocket. “I don’t suppose I need this here.”

“No,” Garin agreed, taking his own off and palming it.

“I recognized you immediately from the description they sent me,” Aeschelman said. “You stand out in this crowd, Gary Knight. My associates said you have attended our gatherings in New York and overseas.”

“I’ve been to a few.” Garin had not signed up for the conference with his real name, nor had he given it to Keiko. “Aeschelman.” Garin drew out the surname. “Your family is from the Aeschel Valley at the Swiss–German border.”

“My grandfather,” Aeschelman admitted. “How would you know that?”

“I know Germany.” Garin pinched the bridge of his nose hard, as if that twinge of pain might push away a memory. Garin was born in Germany, bastard son of a knight who had little to do with him. He found more of a father figure in the company of an old man who sometimes claimed to be a wizard.
“Wir Deutschen tun unsere arbeit im schatten hell Wisconsin sonne, ja?”

“I don’t really know Germany,” Aeschelman returned. “And I don’t speak German.”

“Pity. Though some consider the tongue guttural, I think it the most beautiful language.” And a beautiful country, though Garin thought it better five centuries ago.

They sat quietly as a woman leading a dozen teenagers walked past. She pointed at the capitol building. It was probably one of those tours students were forced to take at the tail end of the school year, Garin mused.

“The capitol’s architect, George Browne Post, graduated in 1858 from New York University.” Her delivery was monotone, as if she’d spoken it too many times. “It remains the tallest building in the city.”

Garin thought of Keiko, who would have called the tour guide boring.

“Many pieces are being exchanged this weekend, most of them small and easy to transport. Several of them quite rare and exceptional. I’m looking forward to this auction,” Aeschelman said after the tour group was well beyond them. “Some very rare things, actually.”

“I’m looking for one item in particular. I emailed you about it.”

“And I am assured it is among what has already been secured.”

Garin’s palms itched with anticipation.

“What you want is likely not the most costly of the offerings this time, but pricey nonetheless, I’m sure.”

Money didn’t matter to Garin. It came and went. He’d lost and gained fortunes and was currently flush. “I want to see it first, a private viewing before it’s up for auction.”

“The pieces are coming in tomorrow. Though hopefully, what I am looking for will be acquired today.”

“How many buyers?”

“Only eight besides yourself and myself, so ten in all. Two of them are attending the conference as we are. One is acting as a broker, doesn’t have the resources himself. But his patron is well-heeled. I have nothing to sell this time. Like you, I am just buying.” Aeschelman leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “There was to be one more buyer.”

Garin knew the number of buyers would be low this venture; the fewer people involved, the less chance their illicit business would draw attention. In larger cities, especially in Europe and in Japan, a few dozen serious collectors would be invited, and the bidding wars could be fierce. Garin had attended several of the “meetings” and had purchased small, expensive things to ingratiate himself with the market and the people who ran it. Nothing he particularly wanted, but it was all a means to get him in deeper and thereby eventually get what he was really after, which according to Aeschelman would be within his grasp tomorrow.

“One of the archaeologists who died?”

Aeschelman didn’t answer.

Garin waited a moment, then asked, “Where will this take place? The auction?”

Aeschelman lowered his voice. With the traffic sounds and the jackhammer and a radio one of the picnickers had turned on, Garin could scarcely hear him. He leaned closer. “In a large hotel suite, Governor’s Club level, during the banquet. Not everyone at the conference attends those things, meal functions—expensive and dull and only three choices of entrées.”

“Enough people there, enough people absent,” Garin observed. “So none of those actually attending the conference will be missed either way.”

“Precisely.”

“You said there was to be one other,” Garin pressed. “What about—” He raised an eyebrow, always curious, leaving his question hanging. He wanted to know which one of the fallen attendees had been involved in—and now removed from—the competition.

“A mistake, Mrs. Elyse Hapgood,” Aeschelman returned. “She made a mistake.”

“The woman from this morning?” Garin watched the tour guide lead the teenagers up the capitol steps. She was still pointing to this and that, still lecturing. Thunder rumbled again. “Who took—”

“I took care of her.”

“Poison? Did you use poison?”

“It’s only detectable in autopsies, tissue samples, and only in the best labs if it is done quickly. Never shows up in the blood. It degrades fast, and so it will be gone by the time the Madison coroner makes the first cut. Usually they chalk it up to a heart attack or stroke.”

“So she’s dead, this Mrs. Hapgood.”

“Not yet. Two more hours at best, I should think.” Aeschelman flexed his fingers. “That’s the beauty of it. The stuff draws the death out long enough—”

“—so that the poison is gone by the time it is over.”

“Yes,” Aeschelman said. “There is nothing for the coroner to find. I’ve used it a few times before. I use any means, Mr. Knight, to get what I want.”

“And you poisoned her...why?” Garin rested the back of his neck against the top rung of the bench. Aeschelman was dangerous in daring to admit this to him. Garin nearly asked why he would do such an imprudent thing and draw the attention of Annja Creed. “Why eliminate Mrs. Hapgood’s pocketbook?”

“Pity I had to do it. She had provided many items for our auctions in the past. I purchased one of her Babylonian demon jars a year ago. She provided us another demon jar this weekend. Intact. She was more of a provider than a buyer. She knew how to acquire things and give us leads for rare pieces.”

“Then why—” Garin persisted. He wouldn’t ask again, not wanting to provoke Aeschelman. Yet he had the sense that the man wanted to talk about it.

“In the end, I felt we had more to lose by keeping her. I wanted to be rid of her, that’s all. I just wanted to be rid of her.” Aeschelman stood and rubbed his hands on the sides of his pants, retrieved his name tag and looked toward the hotel. Then he squinted up at the darkening sky. “I wanted to be rid of her because she was talking. Talking. Talking. Talking. I was the one who invited her into our circle, and so it was on me to do something about her. She had connections and leads, most certainly. But she also had a big mouth. I overheard her discussing with a few of the other archaeologists yesterday on the mounds outing, dancing much too close to the topic of our circle. Couldn’t let her keep talking, you understand.”

“I completely understand,” Garin said. So Aeschelman’s confession was actually a warning to him: play by the rules or don’t play at all. Keep the artifact smuggling ring a secret or die. But Aeschelman didn’t know Garin had his own set of rules, and poison or guns or any other sort of lethal weapon would not truly hurt him. “I understand completely, Willamar.”

“Good, Mr. Knight. You were recommended to me, but I do not know you.”

“Some of your associates do.”

“Yes, they say you favor medieval relics. I just want to make it clear that we are a clandestine group.”

“Crystal.” The dying woman was of no concern to Garin, but he suspected Annja would meddle. Three deaths at the conference would be too much of a mystery for her to ignore, and she would wrongly think that they were connected. “I want a good look at it. Beforehand. I want to make certain it’s real before I spend my money.”

“Everything within our little circle is real, Mr. Knight. You should know that by now.” Aeschelman reached under his collar and tugged out a leather cord. A gold disk hung from it, twice the size of a silver dollar and thick, gleaming despite the gloomy day. Similar in appearance to an Olympic medal, but clearly made of real gold, Garin imagined it must feel heavy hanging from the man’s neck. It was shiny and smooth, and the image of a beautiful bird had been pressed into the center of it. “This is real. I acquired it Thursday night from an archaeologist Mrs. Hapgood told me about. He was not able to come to the conference this weekend, but a few of his acquisitions will be available. Not this one, though. This one I am keeping for myself.”

“The medallion is striking.”

“And genuine. Everything within our circle is all real, I assure you.”

“Your medallion, is that—”

“Mayan, Mr. Knight.” Aeschelman tucked it back under his shirt and extended his hand. Garin shook it. “I will let you know when the items arrive tomorrow. You will get a close look at what you’re interested in. A private viewing, as you—and your money—have requested.” He turned away and walked toward the Madison Arms, pausing only to wait for a break in the traffic.

Garin waited several minutes, listening to the thunder, watching the people gather up the remainder of their lunches and scurry into the capitol as the first big drops of rain fell.

Garin didn’t mind the rain.

He crossed the street at a leisurely pace, his palms still itching in anticipation.

Chapter 10

The soda went down fast, the caffeine lessening her headache, but not chasing it away entirely. Food—that would do the trick. Annja was famished, having eaten little at breakfast and not yet found time for lunch. She was so hungry her fingers faintly trembled. Hopefully, she and the detective would stop for a bite in Lakeside. “Linner,” Rembert called it, a late lunch/early dinner. It would give her an opportunity to better look at the material in the folder. She’d call Rembert then, let him know where she was.

It was onerous to read in the unmarked Impala. The rain had started just as they left the station, intermittent big fat drops plopping heavily against the windows. They hadn’t traveled more than a handful of blocks before the sky opened up. The hammering rain and slapping, dragging wipers—which were in need of replacing—made it difficult to concentrate.

Some pages were printouts with food smudges in the margins; some newspaper clippings with tiny type—about two unsolved murders, judging from the headlines; an assortment of note paper of various sizes—all with Edgar’s handwriting on them and more smudges. There was a photocopy of an old fishing map, with words scrawled on it that were so small they were impossible to read with the car moving and the rain coming sideways now. Difficult to read practically anything at all except the large print, the way Detective Rizzo kept changing lanes and speeding and slowing, tires sluicing with the deluge.

But what she could make out intrigued her— sketches of Mayan symbols—birds, creatures that were half man, half jaguar, feathers, suns—and Edgar’s annotations all around them.
Lakeside
was circled at the bottom of one page, along with names and phone numbers that at the moment were undecipherable.

“Why are you letting me see this?”

Detective Rizzo didn’t answer immediately, changing lanes instead and adjusting his rearview mirror. They were a few miles beyond the edge of the city now, headed east. “I figured you’d want to...being a close friend of Professor Schwartz’s and all. I remembered you telling me that, more than once, about the ‘close friend’ part.”

“What about your regulations and Lieutenant Greene?”

He shrugged, his shoulders seeming too broad for the car.

“Are you going to get in trouble for taking me with you?” She liked the detective and it concerned her that her presence might cause problems for him.

“’Cause I didn’t bother having you sign any papers for a ride-along?” He snorted. “I’ve filled out more than my share of paperwork.”

“I’d just hate—”

“For me to get my wrinkled ass handed to me? Lady, I’m sixty-six, the oldest officer on the whole damn force, and the higher-ups have finally coaxed me into retiring. Suggested I be reassigned to nothing but desk duty if I don’t hang it up. So I put in my request. I’ve got exactly two weeks until my retirement party, where I’ll—”

“—turn in your badge and gun.”

He grinned. “Nah, the badge is a keepsake. Once you get a badge with a number on it, well, it stays with you through your whole life. It gets retired along with you. And as for the gun.” He patted the one in his shoulder holster. “The Glock is my personal sidearm.”

“I bet it will be a good party.” She returned to examining the contents of the folder.

“Same day as my birthday—sixty-seventh. Saves them the expense of two cakes. No, I’m not too worried about regulations at this point.” He paused and changed lanes again. “I do, however, give a very big whoop about solving the murders of two archaeologists...maybe three depending on what happens with that Mrs. Hapgood. Nice note to go out on, don’t you think? Solving a double? Or a triple? Might get me a commendation or some such, picture in the paper and all of that. Might show Lieutenant Greene that age and smarts can win out over youth and pigheadedness.” His expression paled slightly. “No offense to you, Miss Creed, about the youth part. But this’d be a fine note for my swan song.”

“Call me Annja, Detective Rizzo.”

“Only if you call me Manny.”

“All right, Manny.” She pawed through more of the documents, finding a yellowed dot-matrix printout that seemed to have some age to it. A sentence was highlighted, and when she gripped the paper hard and brought it up to her face, she managed to read: “Three Mayan pyramids at the bottom of Rock Lake.” Then she and the words were bouncing again, as Detective Rizzo swerved the unmarked Impala around a semi and stomped on the accelerator.

“Where is Rock Lake?”

He smiled. “It sits right next to Lakeside, which is the town. Rock Lake is the...well, Rock Lake is the lake. And from all this rain, I’d say it’s turning into a huge lake.”

She tried to read more of the printout, but it was a lost cause. She would insist they stop for “linner” so she could get a better look at the material.

He leaned down to reach a small computer that rested low on the dash between the front seats. He typed in some numbers, all the while dividing his attention between the screen and the highway ahead.

“Damn computers.” He looked ready to punch it, but he shut it off, grabbed the radio and brought the mic up, calling the central dispatch. “Run a check for me, will you? It’s an Iowa plate.” He dictated the SUV’s plate number.

Annja noticed that Detective Rizzo’s gaze shot back and forth between the rearview mirror and the road ahead. “We’re being followed?” She’d been so absorbed, trying to read Edgar’s folder.

“Have been since we left the station a block or so behind. Wasn’t sure about it, though, until we were out of the city. Car stays with us with all the weaving, matches my speed.”

The radio crackled a couple of seconds later with an answer, the woman’s voice taut. “Queried the plate and got a hit on NCIC. I’m showing that as an active stolen out of Cedar Rapids, date of entry on the twelfth. Vehicle should be a white Chrysler Sebring convertible.”

“Interesting,” Detective Rizzo returned. “Louise, those plates are on a gray Ford Explorer that’s dogging my wrinkled ass. Request backup ten-eighteen from either the county or state patrol, whoever has the nearest marked units.”