by D J Mcintosh
“This piece was written by Veronica Sills, an entertainment reporter. She was in love with Helmstetter,” Morrow said.
Bennet’s head jerked up. “But he was married.”
I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “That isn’t much of a barrier.”
Morrow closed the book and patted the file. “Last year, Sills donated her personal papers associated with Helmstetter to the library. I’ll leave you to peruse them. Look for the years 1968 and ’69. This was no ardent fan whose feelings got out of control. Some of the letters will leave you in no doubt that he encouraged her romantic notions in every possible way.”
“Last year? Is she still alive?” I asked.
“Far as I know. She lives in Harlem.”
“Do you think she’d agree to meet with us?”
Morrow seemed to have warmed to us. “I’ll call her if you like, and see.”
We looked through the letters and notes, the exchanges between Sills and Helmstetter. I was surprised that Veronica Sills had included them; some contained intimate, explicit descriptions of their lovemaking. Hardly fare for public consumption. Had she done this as a kind of payback?
Bennet read alongside me. “What a cheating pig he was,” she muttered. “I wonder how many other women he was stringing along?”
But it was the last letter that stood out explosively, like a lit match cast into an oil slick. A short note in Helmstetter’s hand:
Darling Veronica,
The flight to Istanbul was turbulent and unpleasant, made all the worse by the knowledge that you and I will be parted for some time to come. I write to you from my hotel room overlooking Pergamon. Will I meet the angel of the underworld tomorrow when I venture into those ancient caves? For that is what my studies lead me to believe is possible.
It’s been a lonely enterprise, the years of work I’ve poured into esoteric pursuits. Impossible to share with any colleagues who would simply laugh at my endeavors. It is for that reason, especially, that your loyalty has sustained me.
If I am to be disappointed in my quest tomorrow I will depart Pergamon.
After that it is on to Eden.
I leave the softest kiss on your lips until I see you again, George
Fifteen
Was the reference to Eden meaningful at all? Could Helmstetter be using it as a form of code to hide his real destination? Or was it an in-joke between the two of them, a mistake to read anything more into it? I took the letter over to Morrow and pointed to the Eden remark. “Do you have any idea what he means here?”
Morrow read the sentence and shook her head. “No. Strange thing to say.”
Perhaps Helmstetter had meant it seriously. The Adam and Eve cylinder seal he sent to his wife was, according to myth, set in Eden. Maybe he thought he knew the original garden’s location. There are all kinds of odd personalities gullible enough to believe they can find the path to immortality, I reasoned, or that the Garden of Eden, Noah’s Ark, and the Holy Grail actually existed. But the clever, ambitious man Lucas Strauss described sounded too cagey to get caught up in fanciful ideas. And yet he’d claimed a direct connection with Faust. I hoped his former lover could shed more light on all this.
After another half hour leafing through the files, we found nothing more relating to Helmstetter. Morrow said she’d connected with Veronica Sills, who agreed to talk with me. I gave Morrow my card, thanked her and we left the library. Bennet was uncharacteristically silent on the way to the subway. She trudged along with an angry expression, hands stuck into her pockets, her bag swinging from her shoulder. “What’s bothering you?” I asked.
“The man was evil. You can see it on his face—those cruel lips. The poor wife probably suffered horribly when she found out he was in love with another woman.”
“You don’t know that. Why are you so sensitive about it?”
She sighed. “I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon at the library putting an outline together and then go to see Strauss this evening and try to persuade him to give me an advance. Then I can get out of your hair.”
I nodded, appreciating her efforts to get back on her own feet. “Where does he live?”
“On the Erie Canal, west of the Adirondack Forest Preserve. He bought an old industrial property there when he retired from show business.”
“That’s a long drive, Bennet.”
“I know. Can I stay with you tonight? I won’t be back until really late. If I can pry some money out of Strauss, I should be able to find somewhere else in a couple of days.”
Without waiting for a response, she waved goodbye and headed uptown.
On my walk home, questions swirled through my mind. Why had cylinder seals and a Ubaid-era statue ended up in northern Iran, so far away from the archaeological sites in southern Iraq? How had Helmstetter come to possess them? I didn’t believe he’d stolen them from Yersan’s family. Not in the manner described, anyway. And what did the allusion to Eden in Helmstetter’s last letter to Veronica Sills mean? Was it a lovers’ code or a real location? How did Trithemius’s book of angel magic fit into it all? I needed to talk it all over with someone, and Tricia Ross seemed the logical choice.
When I called, she said I’d be welcome to come by that evening at seven. In her seventies but still energetic, she’d substantially reduced her teaching load and worked now primarily as a graduate adviser; she spent only a few days a month at U of Pennsylvania. She lived on Long Island, an easy drive after rush hour.
Meanwhile, I stopped by Barnes & Noble to see if I could find anything about the search for the Garden of Eden. One title looked promising: Legend: The Genesis of Civilization by historian David Rohl. Leafing through it, I could see it contained fascinating observations about the early Mesopotamians.
I arrived back at the apartment to find Loki’s bowl upended and water spilled all over the kitchen floor. My makeshift barrier was in pieces; somehow she’d managed to breach it. A suspicious puddle stained the living room carpet and spots of blood were on the hardwood. The vet had stitched up a couple of cuts on her rump; I feared they may have broken open in her struggle to get out of the kitchen. Loki couldn’t possibly have escaped the apartment—but where was she? After a frantic ten minutes I found her cowering under my bed. I coaxed her out with some tidbits of meat and held her until she stopped trembling, cursing myself for having left her alone.
Only then did I notice my desk. My laptop was missing. I set Loki down and opened the file drawers. They’d been searched, and hastily from the look of it. My papers were askew. No effort had been made to straighten them. I made it a practice to keep all my important documents on a flash drive. Ever since my old apartment had been vandalized, I’d stowed my flash drive and passport in a hollowed-out book—a photographic journey of Italy. It sat on one of my lower bookshelves. I pulled it out, thankful to see both were still there. My really precious items—the contents of my childhood treasure chest, along with the rare book I’d rescued featuring precious illustrations by de Ribera—were in the wall safe. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw the safe was intact. As far as I could tell, nothing else had been touched. The thief was after information.
And I had a pretty good idea who it was.
I grabbed my phone and called Bennet. “It’s John. Keep an eye out for Yersan. I think he’s just broken into my place and lifted my laptop. I’m worried he might try to threaten you.”
I heard her suck in a breath. “He’s upping the ante pretty fast then.”
“If it’s him—yeah. This is going beyond some scam; I think you may have been right about him. He’s got another agenda.”
Next I called down to the security guard. He said the only non-resident allowed upstairs in the last several hours was a florist’s delivery man with a bouquet for someone on the third floor. The man had provided ID. I asked him to check whether the flowers had been delivered. A few minutes later he phoned back to say that no one had received flowers.
I considered calling the police and then re
jected the thought. They wouldn’t bother with a simple break-in and the deductible on my insurance was more than the cost of a new laptop. I imagined Yersan was searching for evidence as to who owned the artifacts.
By the time I’d straightened the place up, cleaned the kitchen, fed Loki and taken her out, it was time to leave for my appointment with Tricia Ross. Loki was still on edge, in no state to stay alone again. I got some treats, wrapped her in a warm blanket, and carried her to the car.
A chicken snack wrap and a large coffee from the McDonald’s drive-through at Tenth and Thirty-fourth satisfied my hunger pains. Not my top choice of meal, but I was starving. I offered Loki the last bite but she wouldn’t take it. Clearly she had better taste than I did.
Samuel and I had always chuckled at the name of the Long Island town where I was heading—Babylon. A more different landscape from ancient Iraq’s ornate seat of power couldn’t be imagined. The flat coastal terrain and relatively few trees made everything look stripped down and stark in the fist of winter. Now, in the early evening dark and with no wind, the ocean lay flat and gray; the water lent a salty sweetness to the air. I passed marine yards dotted with the skeletons of old sailing boats, iron hauls and winches, yachts covered with canvas and put to bed for the season, their keels like giant fish fins. It occurred to me how ironic it was that Tricia Ross, a specialist in Near East culture, would choose to live surrounded by water. Perhaps the years she’d spent working in dry, dusty areas had driven her to move here.
Tricia’s house on Virginia Road was a cute, folksy, two-story clapboard. It had a stone walk and a garden that I imagined brimmed with flowers and shrubs in the summer but was now only brittle brown stalks. I arrived a little early and was glad to see her lights on and a car in the drive. Before we left I’d given Loki her medication; the sedative had kept her snoozing throughout the car ride. I opened the window a little to make sure she had air. She didn’t even lift her head when I got out and shut the door.
Tricia didn’t answer the bell. I waited a few minutes and tried again. I remembered she was punctual to the point of absurdity, known for refusing to let students enter the lecture hall if her class had already started. After another wait, I thumped my fist on the door. Still nothing. It was now almost fifteen minutes past the time of our appointment. I pulled out my phone. When the call connected, I got voice mail.
Samuel once told me that Tricia had fallen and broken her hip in Kuwait a few years before, and that she’d had mobility problems ever since. The accident put an end to her working trips to the Middle East. I worried she may have fallen again.
The lights were on next door. I forded the bushes through to the pathway and rang the neighbor’s bell. A tough-looking man in his forties opened the door, glowering, probably because I’d just interrupted his favorite TV program. A heavyset woman I assumed was his wife hovered behind him.
“Hate bothering you but I have an appointment with Tricia next door and even though she appears to be home, she’s not answering the bell. I tried calling her too. I’m concerned something may have happened and I’m not sure what to do.”
He looked across the way to Tricia’s front porch and squinted. “She’s home. I saw her drive in around six.”
“That’s not like Tricia, Jack,” his wife said. “We’ve got her spare key. Why don’t I just run over and stick my head in the front—”
“Nope,” he growled. “I’ll go. Wait here a sec,” he said to me.
When he returned he grabbed his jacket off a wall hook and motioned for me to follow him. “We’ll check the back door first,” he said. “Sometimes she leaves it open. Not much ever happens around here.”
Jack led the way down a narrow flagstone walk running beside the house. I almost collided with him when he stopped abruptly. “That’s weird.” He jerked his head toward a small side window. “She’s never had curtains on that kitchen window.”
It wasn’t a curtain. The window looked to be covered with a bath towel. Jack tried the back door but it was locked. He pulled the key out of his pocket. “Guess it’s the front entrance for us after all.”
We’d made enough noise tromping down the walk and fiddling with the back door that she should have heard us—but the house remained still as a tomb. Jack stuck the key in the front door lock. “Tricia will have my hide for doing this. She’s very private.” He twisted the knob and opened the front door. We stepped into the living room. Jack called out. Tricia didn’t answer. He went through another doorway into what I assumed was the kitchen. I couldn’t see ahead because his bulky figure filled the door frame, but I heard him readily enough.
“Mother of God.”
Sixteen
Tricia was slumped against the kitchen table. Her head drooped on her chest, her ankles were trussed to the table legs, and her arms were bound by a thin cable to the spindles of the chair she sat on. The cable had been tied so tightly her hands were blue. Her mouth was a mass of blood—blood that had spattered onto her white sweater and now dripped from the tablecloth onto the floor. Her glassy eyes stared at nothing. I heard cursing and was barely aware it came from me. My stomach heaved.
“You got a phone?” Jack yelled. “Use it.” He stood over Tricia protectively, part of him desperate to help her, another part seeming to realize she was already gone.
I called 911. I don’t know exactly what I said. When my wits returned, I took a quick look around the room. The kitchen hadn’t been updated for some time. It had old white appliances, a scuffed linoleum floor. Canisters and an open box of chai tea stood on the marbled Arborite counter. A teacup upturned in its saucer, crumpled napkins, and something small and round, all blood spattered, were strewn on the table.
I insisted we go outside to wait for the police. Jack agreed reluctantly. When we did, his wife peeked around their front door. “Everything okay, Jack?”
“Stay inside, Mandy.”
Mandy shrugged on a pink duffel coat and rushed over, wide eyed. “What’s wrong?” she said, staring at Tricia’s front door.
Jack took a deep breath. “Tricia’s dead.”
Mandy stared at him in disbelief and burst into tears. Jack held her in an awkward bear hug until we heard sirens approaching.
A cruiser soon appeared around the bend; in its wake, an ambulance sped down the gloomy, empty street. Jack waved to the cops, who parked in front of the house, jumped out of their cruiser, and hurried over. The ambulance braked behind them.
“What’s up, Jack?” one of the cops asked. His eyes flicked over me.
“Tricia’s in there. Murdered. Some evil fuck beat the shit outta her.”
“Stay with them, Kent,” the cop said to his younger partner. He followed the ambulance attendants inside and returned about ten minutes later. He nodded toward me. “Friend of yours, Jack?”
Jack stepped away as if to disown his acquaintance with me. “Nope. He’s how come I found Tricia. Knocked on our door. I let us into her place with the spare key she gave us for emergencies.”
The cop glanced at me again, an appraising look. “Detective Shea,” he introduced himself. “What’s your name?”
“John Madison. I made the 911 call. I was supposed to meet Tricia here at seven. When she didn’t answer, I got worried and went next door.”
“That your Porsche over there?”
“Yes.”
“Need to see some ID.”
I pulled out my wallet and handed it to him with a sinking feeling. This was not going to go well.
“Jack, why don’t you and Mandy get back home. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
Jack nodded and put his arm around Mandy, who shuddered and pulled her coat tighter around her. They walked to their front door and Jack ushered her inside.
More sirens wailed. Two more Suffolk County police cruisers pulled up. Neighbors ventured out of their houses and stood at the top of their drives, gawking with that mixture of fascination and horror that always seems to accompany a tragedy.
A heavy
set cop got out of the first cruiser and hustled over.
“Babysit Mr. Madison for me, Jeff,” Shea said, handing him my wallet. “Check him out.” He gave me a quick look. “I’ll be back for a talk in a minute.”
“My dog’s in my car,” I said. “I can’t leave her for too long.”
“She’ll keep.”
Jeff’s babysitting consisted of frisking me for weapons, taking my cellphone and key fob, and stowing me in the back seat of his vehicle. He got into the driver’s seat and thumbed through my wallet. He was parked right behind my car in Tricia’s driveway. I could see two front paws, a black snout, and two bright eyes peeping over the front seat. Loki didn’t bark. Her vocalizations were more like a yowl. When that didn’t bring me running she moved over to the window and started scratching at it with her front paws. By the time this day was over, she’d be so frightened I’d never get her calmed down.
Almost an hour passed. The ambulance attendants left. A white SUV arrived, SUFFOLK COUNTY CRIME SCENE printed on its side. A man in a black windbreaker and pants climbed out, nodded toward the cruiser. He took a bag out of the trunk and went in.
Tricia’s murder was such a shock that I hadn’t yet wondered who might have done it. Now the implications of Yersan’s threatening behavior came home to me. Had he caught Tricia unaware, forced her to reveal that Strauss owned the artifacts, tortured her to extract the information? No one could withstand a beating like that. How long had she held out? My mind raced with terrible images. It suddenly struck me that Strauss, and Bennet if she was still at his place, might be in danger too. I knocked on the Plexiglas partition to get the cop’s attention. He shook his head without turning around. “Hey!” I pounded the glass. “Hey!” Still he ignored me.
Shea returned and tapped on Jeff’s window. Jeff rolled it down and they exchanged a few words, but I couldn’t catch what was said. Jeff handed my key fob to Shea, who used it to pop the trunk of my Porsche. He looked inside, shut it, then opened the back door and slid in beside me. “Let’s hear it from your point of view,” he said.
