The Shroud Key (4 page)

Setting the photos back down, I grab the vital stat sheet Cip provided for me which is typed out on Florence Polizia letterhead.

Manion, Andre, PhD—Archaeology/Psychology, University of Chicago, 1982, University of Chicago, 1984

Height: 6’1”

Color: Caucasion.

DOB: Feb 23, 1964

Status: Separated/Divorced

I set the paper back down.

“So check this out, Lu,” I say. “Manion isn’t just an archaeologist. He’s also a shrink. Funny combination. Never knew that about him.”

Lu looks up at me from her food dish.

“Who’s Manion?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Manion is our meal ticket home. He’s apparently gone missing in the desert. Probably outside Cairo where he’s working on digging up the bones of Jesus and who knows what else. I worked with him once before, until he ran out on the dig and me.”

“Jesus …You mean the Jesus Died-On-The-Cross-For-Our-Sins Christ?”

“The one and only. What’s important is that if I find Manion, I just might get a chance at digging up a few treasures of my own. Or perhaps even assisting in acquiring the very relic Manion is looking for. What a payday that would bring in my canine friend.”

Lu coughs something up into her mouth, then swallows whatever it is.

“Isn’t that stealing?” she asks.

“No. Errr, yes. But not like stealing in the classical sense. If those unearthed relics are truly up for grabs then it’s first come, first serve. That’s the law of the desert and the law of tomb raiding. But I am a little confused about one thing: the Professor Manion I once knew would never think of selling out to a private collector. But from the looks of it, somebody’s financing his new dig and that somebody has enough money to not only lure him away from his teaching gig in Florence, but also to simply render himself legally missing.”

“Sounds dangerous. Jesus is one important human.”

“In human terms, perhaps the most important man who ever lived.”

“Then it stands to reason that if this Manion guy is about to locate his mortal body, a lot of people are going to want to have at it. Maybe even be willing to kill for it. You still got a gun, Chase?”

I drink some beer, pat my left rib cage upon which hangs my newly liberated 9 mm.

“As always, Lu.”

“Where you gonna start looking?”

“Not sure. I need to speak to Manion’s estranged wife first since she’s the one financing the search. Word up is she’s in town already. So I guess you could say my search starts right here in Flo.”

“Be careful, and remember, you’re talking to a dog here.”

“Thanks Lu. I trust you won’t tell anyone about our conversations.”

“That would be up to you since you’re the one making this shit up.”

“Duly noted.”

The last items contained in the package are several newspaper clippings.

The first one is lifted from the
New York Times
and it’s dated February, 2002. It shows Manion standing before what I immediately recognize as an ossuary, which is nothing more than a square shaped box carved out of sandstone. It’s about the size of a banker’s box and the lid is gable-shaped. The headline on the piece reads,
Bones of Jesus’s Stepfather Found?

The article describes the controversial discovery of a box on the Israel side of the Sinai which supposedly contains the bones of Joseph, Jesus’s father and husband to the Virgin Mary. The article states that the ossuary has been carbon dated back to the early first century and contains both Aramaic and Latin text of the time. According to Manion, the inscription of the box reads, “Here lies the body of Joseph, father of Jesus and James, husband of Mary.” Naysayers however, say that the bones could belong to anyone since the names Joseph, Mary, James and even Jesus were very common in those days.

“I guess the court is still out on that one,” I whisper to myself. “But then how many men actually had sons named Jesus and James while being married to a Mary, way back in first century Palestine? Couldn’t have been all that many.”

I’m still contemplating the Joseph ossuary when my doorbell rings.

Setting down the article, I slide off the stool, head out of the kitchen, through the dining room which also serves as my writing room. Past the library and its bookshelves, and relic-covered walls, past the living room and its high, wood-beamed ceiling and finally to the stone-covered vestibule.

Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the wood door to a woman. A tall, very well built woman of maybe forty, with short light brown hair and deep blue eyes. She’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and black, lace-up boots. She’s also wearing a matching leather jacket. Strapped over her shoulder is a bag, also made of leather, and perhaps purchased in the Florence leather markets. The kind of bag I might store a manuscript in.

“Mr. Chase Baker?” she says, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling just slightly. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

I have to force myself to peel my eyes off of her. But me, being me, it isn’t easy.

“Can I help you with something, lady? I’m working.”

Lu scrambles up beside me, pressing her muscular body against my shin. She growls which catches me a bit by surprise. Lu usually loves people. Even strangers.

“It’s okay, Lu,” I say.

The woman catches sight of the pit bull, takes a tentative step back. She tries working up a smile. But it’s obvious the dog is making her uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s me who’s making her nervous.

She says, “I thought Detective Cipriani would have told you I was coming?”

I shake my head.

“Must have slipped his mind. Who are you and what are you doing on my doorstep?”

“Do you always act this tough?”

“Only around beautiful women who come calling unannounced.”

“Maybe I should introduce myself,” she says, reaching out and gently touching my arm. “I’m Mrs. Andre Manion. It’s my husband who’s gone missing.”

I stare down at her hand.

“Your husband?”

“Correction,” she exhales, gently retreating her hand. “Ex-husband.”

“So I hear,” I say, still playing it cool despite her luscious eyes. “And what would you like me to do about it?”

“I want you to find him.”

“And then what?”

“Bring him back alive,” she says.

CHAPTER FOUR

She enters into the apartment, her shoulder brushing against mine as she walks past. Setting her bag on the couch, she gives the place the once over.

“Looks like a museum,” she laughs. Then, turning to me, “If you’re making coffee, I’d love some.”

“Is that an order?” I say, playing hard to get. “Because if it is, I haven’t agreed to taking on this job. Looks dangerous enough for me to lose my skin. And I like my skin. It fits nice.”

By all appearances she has no idea about my history with her husband, and that’s the way I want to keep it, at least for the moment. If she knows I went after the Jesus bones with him once before and he had cause to run out on me, no way in hell will she tolerate me getting a second chance to make a grab for them. She’ll just assume I’m some sort of opportunistic grave robber looking to make a quick buck. And the hell of it is, she’d be right.

“That’s not your reputation, Mr. Chase Baker,” she says. “I’m told you are quite handy around an archaeology dig and even handier when it comes to finding a missing person. Both in real life and in your novels.”

“You’ve read my books.” It’s a question.

“All three of them.
Deception
was my favorite. I loved how the detective deciphered clues only by looking at their reflection in a special hand held mirror. Clever. Even your prose was passable. I teach English, you know.”

“The mirror was the book’s hook, Ms. English Prof.”

“Indeed and it’s a good one. It’s almost like you took it from real life.”

“Maybe I did. But how do I know you’re not just trying to butter me up here?”

She cocks her head, which admittedly, is a very pretty head, then bites down gently on her bottom lip.

“I have no reason to compliment you on your work. If I want something from you, I will ask you directly.”

“So why not just ask me politely to help you find your husband?”

She smiles.

“I already have, and so has the detective. I’ve just come to confirm the status of your employment.”

The room falls silent on us, on the many books, on the many pieces of treasure I’ve accumulated over the years in Europe, the Middle East, South America and God knows where else. Skulls, amulets, statuettes, rocks, jars of ashes, and a mirror. A special mirror about the size of a credit card and almost as thin. A mirror that’s broken in half and that I dug up inside a deep pit outside the Third Pyramid within the Giza Plateau back when I was sandhogging for Manion … But that’s only for me to know.

“Think I’ll make some coffee,” I say, heading into the kitchen.

Pulling down the stove-top coffee pot from the shelf over the sink, I fill the bottom with tap water, and the coffee receptacle with Lavazza espresso. I light the gas stove, set the pot on the burner and wait for the magic to happen. When it does three minutes later, I pour the coffee into an espresso cup, grab hold of my already open beer, and carry them back out to the living room.

I find her standing, facing my floor-to-ceiling shelves, gazing upon the books and relics.

“You have quite the collection,” she says. “You remind me of the most interesting man in the world…a real Renaissance man.”

“I’ve heard a lot of women call me a lot of things. But never that.” I hand her the coffee. Then, “So, Mrs. Manion, remind me of your given name again.”

She turns to me, carefully sipping her coffee.

“My first name,” she says. “It’s Anya.”

“Anya and Andre,” I say. “How cute.”

“We were a cute couple. Very much in love. A long, long time ago.”

“Now you are divorcing. Or already divorced.”

She nods, sadly.

“My husband has been carrying on an affair for a long time, Mr. Chase—”

“—Just Chase.”

“Thank you, Renaissance man, Chase Baker … Anyway, my husband has been carrying on an affair that has become his obsession.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, visions of the many women who have come through this door over the years, their husbands still waiting for them unawares back in their hotel room. “Seems like nothing is sacred when it comes to marriage these days.”

She shakes her head vehemently.

“You don’t understand,” she adds. “If my husband were to have an affair with another woman, that would be one thing. We might be able to work that out, and start over. But this one is different.”

“I’m not following,” I say, taking a swig of beer.

She sips her coffee, comes up for air.

“My husband is not carrying on an affair with a woman.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say. “He’s switched teams.”

“No,” she laughs. “I could deal easily enough with that too.”

“Okay, Anya, let’s have it. Who is your missing husband seeing behind your back?”

She finishes her coffee, sets the cup down onto the wood coffee table, straightens up, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s carrying on an affair with Jesus,” she says. “And that’s why I’ve left him.”

I finish my beer, go grab another one, take it back with me into the living room.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You left your husband because he’s overly obsessed with finding the bones of Jesus. Yet here you are standing in my living room asking me to find him? Why not just let him go and get on with his obsession? Live your life? Teach your English classes?”

Her face takes on a pained expression. Like the coffee I just served her is making her sick. She gently sits herself down onto the couch.

“I didn’t say I don’t love Andre, Chase,” she says. “Love
and
care about him. All I said is that our marriage is over.”

“But you still want me to find him for you?”