"Damn shame." I locked eyes with him. "I have a number in mind."
He gave me half a smile, but it was wholly sly. "Thought you might."
"Flat fee, no royalties. One document, the appropriate signatures, and you go your way, we go ours."
"Fine."
"Ten million."
The full smile blossomed. "Does that include the million-dollar finder's fee I promised you, Mike?"
"No. And I want two million because I have run up certain expenses."
"That sounds a lot like twelve million."
"Does it? Math's not my strong suit."
His eyes regarded me through unblinking slits. "What guarantees will you make about the relic itself?"
"No guarantee that it is authentic."
Now the eyes popped wide. "What?"
I shook my head. "No guarantee. You sign off. If this is the biggest fraud since the Cardiff Giant, that's your problem. You make no efforts to authenticate it yourself, you agree not to submit it for authentication or research purposes, and you assume all liability for any purposes you may have in mind for the object."
He let out one blunt laugh. "And all for twelve million?"
I lifted a finger. "Here's what I will guarantee: We will state in public, in no uncertain terms, that the one-and-only Goliath bone has been sold to Harold Cooke. If others come forward claiming to have the authentic bone, no matter how many experts come along in support of this counterclaim, we will stand firm: Harold Cooke bought the authentic Goliath bone from us."
He held up his hands in surrender. "All right. All right. As long as the public believes it to be authentic, whether it is or not is a moot point."
"That's right."
Cooke leaned forward, eyebrows up, his tone conspiratorial. "I'll make a confession, Mike—I've already taken a considerable risk on this venture. I was so certain in my gut that you would come through on this for me, I went ahead with Goliath—my animatronic star is already in the process of being crafted by top Hollywood technicians and Japanese robotics experts with the kind of skills Uncle Sam only wishes he could afford."
"So you're ready for the really big show, as Ed Sullivan used to say."
"I already have the theater rented—the St. John is standing vacant right now, you know."
The St. John was one of the few Broadway theaters actually on Broadway.
"I'll put this on one month from now! While the public's interest remains high." He gestured with two hands as if presenting an act onstage. "I have a revival company on the road doing David and Goliath that I'm bringing in, supplanting them with a couple of names, of course, young pop stars for the key roles of David and Bathsheba, and ... but why I am boring you, Mr. Hammer? You don't strike me as the showbiz type. Can our attorneys meet tomorrow?"
"Sure."
His eyes were gleaming. "Mike, do you know what the most exciting thing in the world is?"
"Yeah. She's sitting at a desk in the other room."
"It's publicity, Mike, the kind of publicity that really, truly connects with the people. For it to work, you need the kind of attraction that really takes hold of the public: Elvis, the Beatles, David Blaine, the Super Bowl, the Super Bowl halftime show—"
"Ever occur to you," I said, "your star attraction is one of the most famous killers of all time—who never killed anybody?"
The money-green eyes glittered. "Ah, but he was about to kill. He had all the potential of terror, a towering giant who could make any of us feel insignificant. And there he stood, there he loomed, with an army behind him that knew what he could do, and a whole new order was about to be ushered in at his command." Sweat stood out on Harold Cooke's face as he recalled the ancient tale.
"Then David messed up his plans," I said.
" Yes. A boy slew a giant, and became himself a giant among men, a king." Harold let his breath out slowly. A beading of sweat stood out on his forehead. "It's still a great yarn, isn't it, Mike?"
I ran my finger across my upper lip and felt the wetness. Damn. This guy was a storyteller, all right, a true showman.
Cooke stood and this time I did, too. "So do we have a deal?"
"I have to consult my clients," I told him. "But I'll recommend they say yes."
"They won't regret it. Neither will you, Mike."
We shook hands again and he left to go back to the wet streets of the big city.
"Someday," I told Velda, as she drifted into my inner office, "I'm going to get a place in the Adirondacks and maybe apply for a job as a constable."
"I'll make you biscuits and chocolate-chip cookies."
"That's the best deal I've made all night."
She was standing at the rain-dripping window when she asked, "Where's the real Goliath bone, Mike?"
"Somewhere safe, baby."
"What about the dupes?"
"Well, we've got one in the closet in the floor compartment, for somebody to steal. And the other two are in the trunk of my car."
She grinned, shook her head and the black tresses shimmered with a reflective cast from the water-streaked glass. "Great security."
"Don't worry about it. I'm going to put you in a cab and send you home. I have one more stop to make tonight."
"And miles to go before you sleep?"
"Something like that."
This time I went in through the loading-dock area, and ducked the NYU research center's front-entry security checkpoint entirely. Mr. Rogers worked days, but he'd left word with the staffers to give me a free pass. So when I lugged the big box with the Goliath-bone dupe down the mostly deserted halls of the building, I was able to keep my .45 under my arm like a big boy.
Dr. Charlene Hurley said to meet her not in the downstairs lab, but in her third-floor office, where I'd never been. The box was awkward and a little heavy, and knocking was a chore. I got no answer, so I tried the knob and went on in.
I was a little early, maybe fifteen minutes, and at first I thought the office was empty, an antiques-furnished chamber that reeked of the kind of heavy money that could hire the best decorators who would never even think of putting anything on the walls except the finest landscapes of Middle Eastern vistas, deserts, oases, bazaars. Each piece of furniture had a small brass tag affixed to an unobtrusive spot, naming the original owner, like the large wicker chair just inside the door with a little tag saying it had come from the study of Robert Louis Stevenson.
Two massive cherrywood desks in different parts of the room indicated that both Hurleys had shared this generous space. I set the box with the Goliath dupe on the nearest of the desks, the cluttered one that seemed currently in use. The neatness of the other indicated it had been the late George Hurley's.
I heard a faint sound that, if I hadn't been in a fancy office in a university research facility, I'd have sworn was the pounding of water-pressurized needles from a showerhead. Then the sound stopped, and a door across the room toward the left opened and a naked woman came out, toweling her hair, unaware of my presence.
A nicer guy would have immediately cleared his throat or spoken up or something. But while I was working on getting my jaw shut again, I got a very good look at the petite, curvy, stark-naked frame of Charlene Hurley. I'd figured her for her late forties, and had probably been right, but she might have been twenty-five, as lush and lovely as her figure was, pale female flesh pearled with moisture, hills and valleys all well worth exploring, the blonde color of her curly head of hair matched below.
"Excuse me," I said thickly.
She looked up, the towel dropping, her eyes huge, and she made a kind of yelp and ducked back in the bathroom.
I went over to the closed door and said, "Dr. Hurley, I'm sorry. I knocked, it was open ... I guess I'm a little early."
"I'm ... I'm sorry." The voice was muffled through the door. "My fault. I'll ... I'll be right out."
I went over and sat on a couch against one wall under a landscape painting of what might have been the valley of Elah and felt like a schmuck. But I
'd be lying if I said the naked image seared in my brain wasn't fun to reflect on.
She came out in a knee-length terry-cloth bathrobe, padding over barefoot on the wall-to-wall carpeting, her hair still damp after towel drying. She had no makeup on, but her features were pretty enough to do just fine on their own. Who did she remind me of?
"Mr. Hammer ... Mike..." She came over, very businesslike, extending her hand and I stood and we shook. "I do apologize," she said.
"No. We'll just forget it."
Like hell I'd forget it.
She smiled embarrassedly. "You see, since George's death, I've been drowning myself in work. With the kids not at the apartment, and ... and George, George's presence, in every room ... I've mostly just been staying here."
She nodded toward the couch where I'd been sitting. "I sleep there, and fortunately ... obviously ... I have a full bathroom here."
"I brought you a present." I nodded toward her desk.
She went quickly to her huge red cherrywood desk and very slowly opened the cardboard box, moving away the bubble wrap. I came over and watched her face closely as she lifted the replica out and held it in her hands—the thing was better than half as big as she was.
Consternation was evident in the tightness of her lips as she turned the femur over, and even as she picked up a magnifying glass to inspect the object even closer.
Finally she looked up at me and said softly, "An excellent reproduction, Mike."
"You sure that's not the original?"
For a fraction of a second, her lower lip drooped as she concentrated, again staring through the glass. Then her head snapped up, her eyes saying she wasn't used to being fooled. "It's a duplicate. Experts could tell. But only experts."
I didn't let her get away with it. "Jolted you a little, didn't it?"
She smiled, setting the fake bone on the desk beside its box. "A very good reproduction, Mike. One of the best I've ever seen. Whoever prepared this is—"
"A real professional," I finished for her. "Who's handled some rare and exotic pieces, even if he makes better money in other areas."
She hefted the replica.
I said, "You'll find the weight is exact. The surface feels identical to the original piece. All the markings from being buried over thousands of years are as nearly perfect as anyone could get it."
She didn't seem quite sure what to say. I watched while she rotated it in her grasp a few times. "Yes," she admitted, "I can see that."
"But you're thinking something else, aren't you?"
Her nod was almost invisible. "Reproductions don't count at all, Mike."
"Well, it was cast from the original," I said.
"And the original is what I need. What we need, Jenna and Matthew and I, to continue our research."
With a little nod that flicked moisture at me from her damp hair, she gestured to the couch and we went over and sat.
"That's the plan," I told her. "We're letting Harold Cooke build his David and Goliath revival around having the 'real' bone, but it'll be a duplicate."
"Isn't that fraud?"
"No. We'll be covered legally in the contract. Cooke couldn't care less about having the real thing—he sells lies for a living. And I'm going to allow another dupe to be stolen, probably by al-Qaeda agents."
She smiled faintly. "I see. Al-Qaeda will claim it has the real bone, and so will Cooke, and eventually all of this fuss will ... blow over. But what about Israel?"
"I've been speaking to someone at the consulate. Unofficially, I've been told that Israel has no interest in the bone, except as an archeological treasure."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"Has a representative from Israel contacted you?" She nodded, not caught off base at all. "I heard from a Mossad representative on the phone just this morning. If Matthew and Jenna give the bone over to me, and I return with it to Israel and do all of the research there, the Israeli government will fund a full excavation in the Valley of Elah."
"Nothing in writing, of course."
"Of course."
"When the time is right, Charlene, we'll swap the duplicate bone for the real thing. But only when this has settled down enough that we are both secure in the safety of those two kids."
I could sense the thoughts that were racing through her mind. Thoughts of the lovely shape underneath all that terry-cloth were sure as hell racing through mine.
Finally she said, "We have a wealthy financial contributor to this university, Mike. Very wealthy. In view of what is happening in Jerusalem, his interest in this matter is quite high. He would be willing to pay any amount to secure this artifact. And would then hand it over to us, naturally, via the university."
"Well, that's great. But what's the catch?"
"He would want to have possession of the bone—temporarily—to authenticate it through his own sources."
I shrugged. "We may be able give it to him, when the time comes."
"I'm afraid he might want it sooner than that."
"He'll have to wait his turn. Anyway, any authentication he undertakes shouldn't cause much further delay. It didn't take you and your husband long to realize that the bone was human, and of the right era."
Suddenly she seemed uneasy.
I put a hand on a terry-cloth sleeve. "All the pieces of this puzzle are fitting in just right, aren't they? That is old Goliath's leg, isn't it?"
She drew in a breath and nodded as she let it out. " There's enough scientific and historic evidence at hand to support that opinion. We don't need your showman, Mike. If we allow the university's benefactor to make his contribution, and—"
"We can't take that risk, Charlene. The Philistines know about the bone, too, you know. And they have people over here in the New York desert—ruthless people, who'll kill instead of trying to buy it."
She swallowed; her eyes were tearing up. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't rip myself to pieces every day, thinking about the sacrifice my husband made?"
"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to—"
She cut in. "One man, Mike, even a man like you, can't hope to deal with this thing."
"How many did it take to nail Goliath?"
"Just David," she said. "Just a boy. But, Mike, it wasn't David's expertise that killed Goliath. A higher power was the agency behind it. People don't want to believe that, of course, certainly a scientist like me shouldn't. It's too simple for our highly educated minds, but it happened—it's history, recorded long ago but with us today, although dismissed by many as just another 'Bible story.' Until now there hasn't been any physical proof—not that it was needed—but it just hadn't been found."
"That's why I want you to tell everyone here at the university, anyone who wants to know, the media included"—and I pointed to the duplicate bone—"that that is a fake, cast from the original, which you believe to have been sold to Harold Cooke."
"I don't understand, Mike—"
"If you are known to have a fake, a duplicate, of the artifact, then you and Matt and Jenna are off the firing line. You're safe. All of you."
She leaned in. Her hand went to my cheek. "And then ... when the time is right?"
"We'll make a switch. You and science and Israel can have the real deal."
"Mike ... oh, Mike..."
Her lips were on mine and they were moist and warm and soft. I tried not to kiss her back. I swear I tried.
She put her arms around me and, with her face inches from mine, she said, "You've done so much for us, Mike ... so much.... "
And she kissed me again.
This time I managed to push her gently away. "No. It's not right."
Her robe had fallen open and the pale flesh and the pert tips of her breasts made a convincing case for saying the hell with it and taking her back into my arms.
Her hand on my face, she said, "Oh, Mike, I've been so lonely ... so lonely without ... without him. How I wish he'd been strong like you. He might still be here. What I could do with a man like you at my side...
."
Somehow I got to my feet. "Listen, you're a beautiful woman, and I know what you've been going through. But I'm about to get married."
She touched my sleeve. "Couldn't you ... could you give me this one night, Mike? What can it matter? We're not kids, you and me. Your Velda, she and I, we're past childbearing age, we're all just lonely people who sometimes need someone to hold them. It will be our secret. Mike ... stay with me tonight, Mike. If not all night—stay ... just for a few hours."
She rose, the robe slipping from her shoulders to puddle on the floor, and she wrapped herself around me and she kissed me, hard, demanding I give in to her.
My hands slipped down over smooth flesh and I settled them on her waist and eased her away from me.
"There was a time," I said with an embarrassed grin. "There was a time..."
And I got the hell out of there. I left Goliath's bone behind, but I dragged one almost as big along with me.
Chapter 11
The duplicate Goliath bone in the outer-office closet didn't overstay its welcome—two days later, it was gone.
I knelt at the empty floor compartment, then replaced the lid. Velda had come in at 8:00 A.M., checked the hiding place and found it empty, but saw no immediate sign otherwise that we'd been visited. I'd trailed in at 8:15 and we went through the place thoroughly, finding minor disturbances only in spots big enough to have concealed the fabricated femur.
I stood and grinned at her. "They knew what they were looking for, doll."
"I hope you know what you're doing, Mike...."
Velda had wanted to lay a trap or at least hide some minisurveillance cameras. I'd insisted on leaving things wide open, an invitation to dine. Anything we rigged would have been spotted, and that might have led to getting the office trashed.
I went down to the security office where Harry Butler, a retired cop out of the Two-Two, was sitting at a modest bank of security monitors. He was heavyset enough to challenge the buttons of his generic gray uniform, but nobody should make the mistake of thinking he was over the hill.
"We had a visitor last night, Harry."
"I'll check the tapes, Mike. About what time you think?"
"We left just after seven. Velda was in this morning at eight."
[Mike Hammer 14] - The Goliath Bone Page 19
