Brooklyn Knight

by null

  “Gentlemen, I assure you, the only thing I know about my survival is that I’m overwhelmingly grateful to whatever force from beyond or accident of physics spared me any injury.”

  “Spare us another evening of your ten-dollar vocabulary.”

  “Jimmy, please,” answered Knight, forcing his tone to convey the sense that he was in some kind of shock, “try to understand. I was almost killed. I’m lucky to be alive.” The professor gave the large man a moment to let his words sink in, then added;

  “I mean, did you question it two years ago when those men were shooting at you down in Red Hook? Do you remember that? How many rounds did they expend in your direction? Wasn’t it over a hundred? And yet you came through it without a scratch?”

  “What’s that—”

  “Can you explain your survival that day with anything outside of ‘luck’?”

  “Don’t change the subject… .”

  “I’m not changing the subject.” Wearily, the professor inhaled sharply, then let it out in a sad, slow drizzle. Closing his eyes against the harsh lighting in the gray interrogation room, he said, “I’m trying to defend myself by using an example from your life to try and explain this moment in mine. I mean, tell me, do you actually think I shot those men?”

  “No—”

  “Am I under suspicion of having tried to blow up my own museum?”

  “No,” LaRaja took over. “Not yet.”

  The professor’s head snapped back slightly. Thinking he had gained control of the conversation, he was surprised by the shorter detective’s response. Knowing he was being manipulated into asking his next question, still Knight could see that he had no choice other than to do so.

  “ ‘Not yet’? Bless all the tiny monkeys—not yet? And just what in Heaven does that mean?”

  “It means,” Dollins took over smoothly from his partner, “that there was an explosion in a public space. That this is the age of terrorism. It means that you can expect to find the feds in ‘your museum’ when you get there tomorrow. And, lastly, it means that as the only witness to, or at least, the only survivor of, the blast, I’m sure they’ll have a few questions they’d like to ask.”

  “I know one I’d like to ask,” LaRaja cut in. His manner shifting, it was evident to Knight he was about to change the current line of questioning. Picking up the pen near the pad he had been waiting to use, he asked, “Tell us, just what was that slab those fellows were trying to make off with?”

  “It’s known as the Dream Stone,” answered the professor with relief, hoping things were finally going to start moving forward. Shifting easily into academic mode, he said, “It contains, inscribed upon its face, three distinct alphabets. Ancient Phoenician, Attic Greek, and one completely unknown to mankind. The tablet was discovered somewhere in the region of Jordan, back in 1855, ’56. I don’t recall the date exactly, but—”

  “That’s fine,” answered LaRaja, cutting Knight off in an attempt to keep him focused. “Doesn’t sound like anything much to a layman like me, though. So, tell us, Professor, why would anyone want it? Can we assume that it’s valuable?”

  “Sounds hard to fence,” Dollins threw in. “Me bein’ an ignorant cop and all, I’m sure I shouldn’t even make any guesses. But if I were to, I think I’d say this sure sounds like a one-of-a-kind type’a thing—right?” When Knight nodded in agreement, the detective asked;

  “Could it be somethin’ outta Indiana Jones? Some kind of map to an ancient treasure or whatever?”

  The professor began to dismiss the notion mechanically. He could be excused doing so. The hour was late, he was tired, and ever since its discovery well over a hundred years earlier, the Dream Stone had decreased in value until it had been relegated to a back, forgotten corner of the museum’s basement. Of so little interest it was considered undisplayable, it had almost been relegated to serve as one of the museum’s outdoor garden displays. The only reason it had not was that it had been decided it would be simply too uninteresting to the public to be worth the bother.

  But then, before Knight could dismiss Dollins’ words out of hand, the facts of the phone call he had taken atop the Empire State Building that afternoon came rushing back to him. His eyes lighting wide, even as a part of his mind cursed himself for not thinking of the fact earlier, the professor answered;

  “My dear Detective Sergeant Dollins, you know, in light of recent events, you just might be onto something.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Although it took him almost another hour, Knight finally managed to relate the entire story of the Dream Stone to the two detectives. Along with Bridget’s help—starting with the facts of its discovery—he brought them through the years up to his conversation with Ungari. He also informed them about the probable staggering importance to archaeology of the doctor’s find in Syria as it related to the possible role the Dream Stone might play in eventually unraveling the mystery of Memak’tori.

  The professor also chided himself.

  Not your finest moment, Knight, he thought. I mean, there you are, returning to the museum after hours to inspect the very piece that was at that same moment the center of attention of a highly sophisticated group of thieves and you could not connect the dots? You’re getting too old, my friend.

  Indeed, with Dollins eyeing him suspiciously, while LaRaja inquired aloud as to how the professor could not have made such a patently evident connection sooner, Knight merely shrugged. Taking a deep breath, he looked at the pair of detectives sheepishly, holding his hands up open before him as he explained;

  “What can I tell you, fellows? I’m a museum curator, not Sherlock Holmes. I admit the whole thing is leaving me looking somewhat less than brilliant—”

  “Yeah,” growled Dollins. “Somewhat.”

  “But, I would also think,” Knight added, his voice taking on a defensive tone, “that you’d take into consideration the fact I’m still a trifle shaken. I’m not used to seeing human beings gunned down, let alone blown apart, you know. I do feel much the fool for not making the connection earlier, but I also feel I certainly have the semblance of an excuse.”

  “Hard to believe, Professor, smart guy like you, that you wouldn’t be thinkin’ on that hunk’a rock after you saw that was what they’d been takin’.”

  “Oh heavens, Detective Dollins, I freely admit I’ve been thinking about the Dream Stone ever since I realized that was what was being stolen, but honestly, it’s your job to look at why they were stealing it. I was mainly worrying about how much damage it might have sustained.”

  “Damage … ?”

  As Dollins asked his one-word question, Bridget chimed in;

  “You’re right, Professor. After all these years of everyone thinking it’s useless, if it was to be ruined now, now when it could finally—oh my God, what did happen to it, sir? Is it all right? Are the engravings all still intact? What if the stone itself suffered some internal damage from the explosion? Or a hairline crack—one that could fracture if it were even jolted too severely.”

  “I don’t know,” answered Knight, his tone one of anxious concern. “I was never given a chance to examine it. The police arrived right after the explosion, and I was rushed out of the museum so—” Breaking off, the professor cursed under his breath, then added;

  “I mean, those idiots, they dropped it, then set off their damnable explosives somehow—”

  Knight stopped speaking so abruptly both Dollins and LaRaja leaned closer involuntarily, waiting for whatever revelation had just occurred to him. As quickly as he went silent, though, the professor turned from one detective to the other just as sharply, posing them a question that actually frightened him.

  “Good Lord,” he blurted, his eyes going slightly wide, their usual deep blue draining somewhat pale. “Do you think … could they have been trying to destroy the Dream Stone?”

  “Why would they?”

  “I, well … it was just a thought—if they couldn’t have it, making certain no one else could �
� oh, I really don’t know.” His voice as sincere as humanly possible, he added, “But, my word, could the stone still be in danger?”

  “You’d know more about that than we would, Piers,” answered LaRaja softly. “You, or this Dr. Ungari. Do you think we could get in touch with him now?”

  “Well, maybe not at this moment,” the professor told the detectives. “Soon, though—I’m certain. He was most eager to get his hands on the Dream Stone. I don’t know his exact itinerary. How long it would take him to book a flight, reach an airport even. He was in the middle of the desert when I spoke to him. I couldn’t tell you where he is right now.”

  “But he’s coming to New York?”

  “Yes,” Knight assured the officers. “It was his intention. He most likely is en route here right now. As I said, he was in a tremendous hurry to see the stone.”

  “And why is that, Piers?” When the professor turned to LaRaja, the smaller man’s soft eyes went incisive once more as he asked, “I mean, if all he needs is to use this thing as a translator, couldn’t you just send him a photograph?”

  “Christ, yeah,” added Dollins, his tone one of revelation. “If that’s all he wants, if he just needs the damned thing as a translator, and he’s in such a hurry and all, why blow all the money and time it takes to come here to look at it? Why would he bother? What sense does that make?”

  And suddenly the thought that had been nagging at the back of the professor’s mind all day came roaring to the forefront. In the age of computers, of scanners and e-mail, why did Ungari feel the need to leave the multiple sites he was overseeing, wasting time and running up unwarranted expenses in a world of limited funds, to fly halfway around the planet to make a personal inspection of the Dream Stone?

  “I, I don’t know,” answered Knight honestly. Silently staring at his hands for a moment, the professor remained lost in thought, then finally continued, asking, “Now that I think about it, it actually doesn’t make a great deal of sense—does it?”

  “Professor … ?” All three men turned at the sound of Bridget’s voice. As the trio stared, she asked, “Wouldn’t the same thing apply to the thieves?”

  “I’m not certain I understand,” Knight admitted. “What exactly do you mean, my dear?”

  “I was thinking … if the Dream Stone doesn’t have any intrinsic value, then why steal it? Like the detectives said, those men could have just taken a photograph of it, or made a rubbing of the characters. But they didn’t.”

  “But what’s your point, miss?” asked LaRaja.

  “Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. The professor and I, we think of the Dream Stone as an archaeological treasure. You’re thinking of it that way because we’re your only source of information on it this far.”

  “So, what’re you thinkin’ now?”

  “I’m thinking, Detective Dollins … if they were willing to destroy it all along, then why not just copy it, destroy it, and leave? They could certainly have gotten away faster if they hadn’t been carrying a hundred pounds of rock—right?”

  And, thought Knight, that was exactly it. Looking at his assistant with a degree of respect he would have thought it would have taken her far longer to coax out of him, he pursed his lips, nodding unconsciously, then said;

  “Out of the mouths of babes …”

  “What’dya mean, Professor?”

  “You as well, Jimmy. You’re both correct. Can’t you see it? For some reason I freely admit I cannot fathom as of yet, the Dream Stone itself, not the characters engraved upon it, must have some worth previously unsuspected.”

  “But how could that be,” asked LaRaja. “Didn’t you just get done telling us that you and your boys at the museum have been studying the thing for over a hundred years?”

  “The piece, because of its resemblance to the Rosetta Stone, was studied as if it were another Rosetta Stone. What I mean is, if you find something that looks like a car, and performs the functions of a car, you think of it as a car. You don’t expect it to be a sponge, or a toaster oven. But—”

  Once again Knight stopped in mid-sentence, much to the annoyance of the two detectives.

  Both men knew the professor from previous dealings between the museum and the police. They respected him as a scholar and had come to expect the stereotypical kinds of behavior the world had grown used to seeing in academic types. Still, the hour was late, and they had yet to gain any information either of them saw as useful in solving the case they were actually concerned with—the reason there were four fresh bags of meat and bones in the city morgue.

  Both detectives realized that men often died over priceless objects—especially thieves. But, these thieves had killed one another at the moment of their triumph, and in a somewhat ridiculous manner. That was not what was frustrating Dollins and LaRaja at that moment, however. Rather, it was the fact that both detectives were quite certain Knight was concealing something from them. A police officer reached the rank of detective sergeant through one of three means: long, hard work, extreme luck, or political connections. Neither Dollins nor LaRaja had ever considered themselves either very lucky or well connected. They had both been on the job for dozens of years, had worked thousands of cases, interviewing witnesses and suspects from every walk of life, men and women of every color and religion in, at last count, some forty-three different languages.

  It was the kind of work that developed certain instincts in a man. Both detectives knew the professor was cooperating with them … but they also knew he was not telling them everything. Thus, in their minds, his most recent pause could be signaling that he had just had some sort of revelation or that he was once more stopping himself from saying the first thing that had entered his mind until he could edit it properly.

  Finally, Knight broke his self-imposed silence. His eyes coming back into focus once more, with a snap of his fingers he said;

  “I really probably should examine the Dream Stone … now, I mean. Immediately.”

  “What are you thinking, Professor?”

  “I’m thinking, Detective LaRaja, that I and the rest of my kind have obviously missed something extremely important about what we all thought up until now was nothing more than a worthless hunk of rock. One man is traveling from the other side of the world to inspect it when he simply could have made use of it from photos. Four other men are dead, and as best we can tell for much the same reason.” Rubbing his eyes, Knight took in a deep breath, let it out, then added;

  “Yes, I really do think I should inspect it now. If there’s some problem, tell your superiors I insisted on the grounds that I wanted to check it for damage—which, actually, I wouldn’t mind doing as well.” Standing from his chair as if all had been decided and agreed upon, he stretched his shoulders a bit, cracked his neck, then asked;

  “I know the Dream Stone was brought along as evidence. So, where do you gentlemen have it right now?”

  “It’s been checked into the property room.”

  “Well, why don’t we head there, eh?”

  But then, before either detective could answer the question, a piercing siren slashed its way through the gray interrogation room, echoing throughout every other room, hallway, and stairwell in the building as well. The men all recognized it as a standard New York City fire alarm.

  They were also all quite certain they knew, considering the way their evening had been going so far, from exactly where the alarm must have been set off.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Denny,” barked Dollins, throwing his massive body up and out of his chair, “get Bridget outta here—move!”

  No one argued. As partners, both detectives knew they were responsible for the safety of any civilians in their charge. Bridget had to be their first concern. Dollins, younger than LaRaja, single where his partner was married, took the riskier of the two immediate jobs from which both men knew they had to choose. At one time LaRaja would argue such choices vehemently. After a stern lecture where his wife ganged up on him with Dollins,
however, he learned to live with the inevitable.

  “Knight,” the large man bellowed as he grabbed up his coffee cup, “you’re with me—let’s go!”

  Any other time—under normal circumstances—both detectives would have been exiting the building, working to get those under their protection to safety. That night, however, was different. Though none of them had any proof, there was no doubt in the minds of any of the three men that something—somehow—had gone wrong in the property room. Though none of them had the slightest proof, they were all certain that if the building truly was in flames, the fire must have started there—and that no matter what was the actual reason for the blaring alarm, for some reason they could not fathom, the Dream Stone was behind it.

  “Lead on, Detective,” answered Knight, making a flourish with his right arm. “It’s your building.”

  And the damnable piece of rock was the only reason Dollins was willing to take a civilian into danger. As far as he was concerned, there was something suspicious about everything that had gone down that night. On every occasion the Brooklyn Museum had needed the cooperation of the police for anything, his brain reminded him, Knight had always been in the middle of it. And, the detective had always walked away from each situation, from every one of their encounters, feeling that he had been in some manner played—never told the entire truth.

  “This way.”

  As the two men reached the door directly behind LaRaja and Bridget, the professor called out to the older detective, admonishing him;

  “Take care of her.” As Knight’s eyes locked with Bridget’s for a moment, he gave her a grin meant to bolster her courage, adding, “After all, she has quite a great deal of work to do in the morning.”

  “I’ll certainly see what I can do, Doc,” answered LaRaja, a wry smile crossing his face despite their situation. It was but an instant’s respite, however. Once out in the hallway, the older detective directed the redhead toward the front door and kept her moving until the pair disappeared into the crowd heading in that direction. Dollins and Knight forced their way in the opposite direction, against the current, moving into the first stairwell they could reach.