They usually didn’t have to lift the body out. The machine could penetrate anything organic, including a coffin, and most mummies could be scanned intact. But this mummy lay in a wooden crate that was too big to scan. Worse still, the body had been unwrapped and was now fully exposed, held together by strips of linen.
When the conservators at the Brooklyn Museum first saw the mummy’s condition, they were appalled. An unwrapped mummy was a throwback to the gruesome practices of the Victorian age. Back then, unraveling was a form of entertainment. Members of high society would sometimes host “unwrapping parties,” followed by champagne and a midnight supper!
On one ghoulish evening, Dr. Augustus Granville stood before the Royal Society of London in 1825 to “scientifically autopsy” an embalmed Egyptian woman. He added a theatrical touch—candlelight, with tapers made from the same kind of wax used to preserve the deceased. The British archaeologist Flinders Petrie set a new course in 1898 by using an X-ray machine.
Holly looked down at the desiccated cadaver before her.
Usually, lifting a mummy was like moving a person in a sleeping bag. Roman-era mummies often had wooden planks aligned along the spine under the wrappings to keep them rigid. But this one was no longer tightly bound.
Holly adjusted the surgical mask over her nose and took hold of her corner of the sling. They had improvised with a bed sheet, threading it under the bones to use like a hammock and swing the body up onto the table.
“Now it’s going to shift around a lot,” Holly warned. “You have to be ready.”
The three assistants picked up their ends of the sheet.
“One, two, three . . . Lift!”
They gently cantilevered the sling and lowered it onto the scanning bed. After they were done, Holly bent over and reexamined the ancient figure.
The linen was degrading a bit, but there was no real damage to the bones. Almost like clockwork, a young assistant’s stomach began to heave. He started tearing at his surgical mask.
“Excuse me!” He coughed and rushed out.
As the door swung shut they could hear him retching loudly in the next room.
Opening up a mummy case always resulted in an utterly unique eye-watering aroma of ancient resin, embalming spices, and organic decomposition. Carter had once described the smell as “two-thousand-year-old potpourri mixed with the odor of a ripe garbage can.”
Holly looked down at the slim body. The phrase “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” popped into her head. Fragile wrappings clung to the rib cage—the torso was festooned with strips of linen the color of dried coffee. The leg bones were all rickety knees and delicate shins. Only the feet were intact, with parchment-like skin stretched over them.
The cadaver still looked very human and appeared to be grimacing in pain, its teeth protruding. The head was tilted at an angle that, if it had been alive, could only have been interpreted as agony. The scalp was covered with patches of russet hair, and the skin on the mummy’s face was remarkably smooth, the texture of glove leather.
“OK, go on . . . all of you . . .” Holly sighed, pulling off her mask and making shooing motions to dismiss her assistants. They scrambled out gratefully.
After everyone left, the room was silent.
“This will take just a moment,” she quietly instructed the figure on the slab. “We need to know more about you. Then we’ll let you rest. I promise.”
Holly usually talked to her mummies. Some people questioned her about it, wondering if she was a little batty. But she explained that it was a gesture of respect. These former human beings had gone to considerable expense and effort to ensure that their afterlife would be comfortable and dignified. Who was she to thwart their final wishes?
The radiologist was waiting behind the glass window to begin the scan. She joined him in the adjacent room, which served as a control booth.
“This is one patient who won’t be squirming around,” the young radiologist said with a grin.
“I can guarantee this one’s not budging.”
He pushed the button and they watched the ancient figure slide into the machine.
“It’ll take about twenty minutes. Mind if I step out for a sandwich?”
“Sure, no problem,” Holly agreed. “Why don’t you set the timer for a few minutes longer. Because he’s dead, we can get a lot more detail without risk of overexposure.”
“I’ll set the clock at forty-five minutes. The body will come out automatically. But I should be back.”
“OK, don’t rush.”
Holly sat down on a chair and watched the monitor. Every angle of the figure—both internal and external—would be scanned. They would image the body at 2-millimeter thicknesses at 1.5-millimeter intervals. New techniques in the medical field were helping Egyptologists every day: radiography, computer tomography, endoscopy scanning, electron microscopy, and even DNA testing. Looking at the high-resolution images, they would be able to determine what the man died of and any medical conditions that he suffered from while still alive.
But all that would come later. Right now, there was really nothing to observe. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes to rest.
Holly woke up with a start, surprised to find herself in the hospital imaging room. She had been dreaming about the gala. Her body was stiff from being immobile, and she was again aware of the fatigue from the late night. The lab was empty. She looked through the window and saw that the mummy was still inside the machine.
The door behind her opened. But it wasn’t the lab worker. There was a handsome man standing there. Tall, possibly in his early fifties, dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks.
“Sorry to disturb. The attendant said I could come in.”
“How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a Dr. Hollis Graham.”
His voice was soft, and he gave a slight smile. Holly sat up, adjusting her white coat.
“I’m Dr. Graham.”
“I’m Ted VerPlanck. I believe your friend John Sinclair told you I would be in contact.”
“Mr. VerPlanck, nice to meet you! I was expecting to hear from you, but not in person.”
“I called the museum and was told you could be reached here. I was wondering if we might talk after you are finished?”
“This scan will take a few more minutes, so I have time now.”
“Excellent.”
“Won’t you sit down?”
She offered him the only other seat in the room, a rolling stool. He perched there and started explaining how a rare Egyptian sardonyx cup had been stolen from his home. Did she think it could be recovered?
Halfway through his account Holly realized that he was talking about the Sardonyx Cup—the famous artifact that had been fashioned from an Egyptian drinking vessel, carved from a single block of sardonyx. Holly had always assumed the chalice was in a museum in Europe, not a private collection!
“What did the police say when they looked at the crime scene?” Holly asked.
“I didn’t call them.”
“Why not?”
“There can be absolutely no publicity,” he replied brusquely.
“I assume you have photos of the object.”
“Yes, for the insurance records.”
Holly considered that for a moment. He didn’t look like someone who was involved in insurance fraud. But she had her reputation to consider.
“I must admit, I’m not comfortable with this.”
“Why?”
“The theft at the Met. You are telling me the two events occurred the same evening?”
“Yes.”
“If so, the police may already be involved in this case. It’s not a matter for private investigation.”
“I am very convinced the events are not related.”
“Well, there is always the FBI Art Crime Division if you want to investigate quietly. Why not go to them?”
“I can’t do that.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?�
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He flushed, clearly embarrassed by the question.
“Certainly not!”
The timer on the control panel began to beep. The scanning process for the mummy was nearly complete.
“I’m sorry, but I have to take care of this.”
“Of course.”
He followed her into the other room, as if waiting for an answer. The digital display was counting down the last ten seconds. Holly looked around. Still no sign of the technician.
“So you’ll help me find it?” VerPlanck pressed.
Completely absorbed, she didn’t answer.
“Dr. Graham?”
“Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive,” she said, glancing up at him. “But no. I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.”
“You won’t?”
“Not unless you tell me the whole story.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. VerPlanck. But the way I see it, you should go to the police.”
The machine beeped, and the mummy began to appear. The skull, with its horrible grimace, slid out first. VerPlanck recoiled and stared at the bundle of rags and bones. As the body emerged, the stench increased. VerPlanck stumbled backward toward the door, holding his handkerchief to his nose.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Dr. Graham. Thank you for your time.”
15 Desbrosses Street
A CELL PHONE WOKE Tipper VerPlanck. She opened her eyes and realized she was still in Conrad’s bed. A clock on the night table said three p.m. She and Conrad had been naked since they finished lunch. He was snoring gently, exhausted from their strenuous activities. She pushed his heavy arm off and felt around the floor for her phone.
Her ring tone was the hit song “Society Girl”—written for her by the lead singer of the band the Blades. Tipper’s fingertips made contact, and she slid the cell phone out from under the bed.
“Hello,” she croaked.
“It’s Charlie.”
Who the hell was Charlie? She thought about it for a long, fuzzy moment.
“Charlie Hannifin.”
“What do you want?”
“Is now a good time to talk?”
“Actually, no.” She groped for the bedsheet, pulling it around her. Then she suddenly remembered.
“Wait!” She asked, “Do you know anything about the Sardonyx Cup?”
“That’s what I’m calling about.”
Conrad stirred next to her and mumbled something unintelligible. She turned away and whispered, “Charlie, did you steal it?”
There was a long pause.
“Not personally, no.”
Tipper gasped.
“I never agreed to anything! We were just talking.”
“Is there a way we could meet?” he asked.
Tipper looked over at Conrad. His face was crammed into the pillow and he was snoring with his mouth open.
“Sure, I’ll meet you at the Red Parrot.”
There was a long pause.
“Where’s that?” asked Charlie.
“Tribeca.”
“You’re kidding!” Charlie said in disbelief. “Are you still seeing that rock star?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Charlie, just meet me at the Red Parrot in an hour.”
Red Parrot Bar,
Vestry Street, New York
WHEN TIPPER WALKED into the Red Parrot, the bartender called out his usual greeting. He was a longtime acquaintance—but not of her uptown world. A gold earring dangled from one earlobe and he wore a red bandanna knotted over his bald cranium.
“Simon, get me something for this hangover.”
He looked at her critically and moved his head side to side with pursed lips. His eyes were calculating.
“Was it hard liquor or wine?”
“What?”
“Last night. What’d ya drink?”
“Both,” she said woefully.
He slid his hand across the bar and patted hers sympathetically. There was a small plastic ziplock bag hidden under his palm. He slipped it to her and then moved away to pick up the vodka bottle.
“Vodka? Or something more exotic?” he asked innocently, holding up a bottle.
Tipper sat very still, her palm covering the drugs.
“Simon, I just got out of the clinic.”
“Hey, no pressure. I’m going to make you a fabulous cocktail and you just sit there.”
He turned his back and began to shuffle bottles. Tipper felt the small plastic bag burning a hole through her palm.
She tried to clear her mind. She had been foolish to drink so heavily at the gala. It had started her on another bender. As far as drugs went, it would be very stupid to begin that all over again.
But her life was horrible. Her Upper East Side friends didn’t call anymore, and Conrad’s downtown friends treated her like a fossil from Madame Tussauds. No, actually she felt like a mummy: wrinkled outside, dead inside.
Tipper slid off the bar stool and headed to the ladies’ room. Simon turned around and glanced at the space where her hand had been. The bar was empty.
“Back in a moment, Simon,” she called over her shoulder. “If someone comes in asking for me, tell him to wait.”
“You got it, honey.”
The ladies’ room was at the back of the large space, marked with a Queen of Hearts playing card tacked to the door. She entered cautiously, making a lot of noise. You never knew what was going on in there.
Charlie walked by the Red Parrot twice, thinking he had gotten the address wrong. Then he realized her genius. Who would find them in a dump like this?
“May I help you?” The bartender eyed him speculatively.
“I’m meeting someone. I guess she hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Is it Tipper VerPlanck? She’s inside. Can I get you anything?”
Just then Tipper appeared looking very bright and cheerful. Surprisingly normal.
“Hello, Charlie. Glad you found me.”
He was relieved. At least he wasn’t going to have to sit in here alone.
“Can we get a table?”
“Sure.”
Even though the place was empty, she walked to the back booth and sat down. Charlie sat on a banquette with his back to the wall.
In a moment, Simon appeared holding a small round tray with two drinks. He swooped it down with a flourish.
“Here you are. Drink slowly. These are strong.”
The liquid was light apricot in color, served in martini glasses.
“What’s this, Simon?”
“I’m calling it the Park Avenue Peach.” He winked at her and walked away.
Charlie looked at his glass with distaste. Tipper picked hers up and took a big, long sip.
“Damn, that’s good! You should try it.”
Charlie said nothing.
“Did you have anything to do with the theft at the Met?” Tipper asked in a whisper.
“Absolutely not.”
“What about Ted’s Sardonyx Cup?”
“Not personally. I knew about it.”
“Charlie, I want no part of this scheme of yours!”
Tipper was angry, her voice starting to rise. Charlie said nothing and just slid an envelope across the table.
“What’s that?”
“It’s yours. Keep it. When we talked, the cup had already been stolen.”
She opened the envelope and gasped.
“It’s a check for fifty thousand dollars!”
“That’s right.”
“I never agreed. And here you go and steal the damn thing from my apartment.”
“Well, not technically. It was done by professionals.”
“I don’t want any part of this, Charlie.”
“OK, keep the check or don’t. But if you tear it up the money will just go to waste.”
Tipper opened the envelope and looked at the check again.
“It’s signed by Marco International. Who’s that?”
“A shell company in Italy.”
“I can’t even cash this! I’ll get caught. The money will show up in my bank balance.”
“Open an account in Gibraltar.”
“I don’t know how to do that, Charlie.”
Charlie stuck his index finger in the drink and tasted it. He made a face.
“Tipper, everybody knows how to do that.”
“Well, I don’t, and I can’t see myself actually asking Ted to show me how.”
Suddenly that struck them both as funny, and they laughed a little too loudly about it. It broke the tension.
“OK. Look, I can show you. No reason to let this money go to waste, Tipper.”
Suddenly, she was on her guard.
“What, exactly, do you want me to do? Leave the kitchen service entrance open for your friends?”
“Not really.” Charlie leaned in close. “Forget about Ted. You know a lot about art, right?”
“Yes, my college degree was in fine arts.”
“And you know a lot of people in this town. They all have important art.”
“Yes, everybody has fabulous paintings. But I don’t want to get involved in stealing art.”
“You don’t have to get involved. We just have a casual conversation from time to time. The same kind we always have.”
“What do you mean?”
“I say, ‘How’s Ted?’ And you say, ‘He’s in France until the end of the month.’ Bingo. Done. That’s it.”
“That’s it?” said Tipper. “And you pay me?”
She held up the check and scrutinized it as if it might be counterfeit.
“It’s good money, Tipper. You could earn enough to get away from Ted for the rest of your life.”
Tipper drained her glass and reached for his. He hadn’t really touched it.
“So you want me to spy on my friends?”
“Are they your friends? Really?”
His tone was sympathetic. She didn’t answer.
“Seriously,” he said. “Nina Barker told Ted that you were cheating on him. I heard your co-op board had a meeting about asking you to leave because you were dealing drugs.”
“I never dealt drugs!”
“I know you didn’t,” he assured her, patting her hand.
“So what’s your point?”
“My point is, who in hell has been nice to you lately?”
The Stolen Chalicel Page 9
