Dead Hunt dffi-5

by Beverly Connor

  She saw them out of the crime lab on its private

  elevator side, the side that didn’t go through the museum. She supposed she should be grateful that Riddmann appeared to be satisfied with her apology, but

  the whole thing left a sour taste in her mouth. By the

  time he got to his office, she imagined Riddmann

  would have the story embellished to the point that

  Diane got on her knees and begged him to forgive her. Before leaving the lab and going to her museum

  office, she called down to the basement. She was right.

  That’s where her crew was waiting.

  ‘‘How’d it go, Boss?’’ said Jin.

  ‘‘I’ll tell you later. I have to go meet with the FBI

  now,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Gee, Boss, you don’t get a break, do you?’’ he

  said.

  ‘‘Apparently not. I want you to know I appreciate

  you guys,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Sure—’’ he began.

  ‘‘Jin, did you find anything about the artifacts—

  anything on NSAF?’’

  ‘‘The artifacts. Right. The girdle, the one that looks

  like it was made of cowrie shells, was stolen from the

  Cairo Museum in 1957,’’ he said. ‘‘It was the only one

  of the artifacts in the database. The stone artifacts had

  soil residue on them, but I haven’t had a chance to

  process the sample yet. We’ve been kind of busy.’’ ‘‘I know. Thanks, Jin. It’s about time for you guys

  to go home,’’ she said.

  ‘‘We’ll wait. We want to know what happened with

  the marshals,’’ said Jin.

  Oh, I’m not sure you do, thought Diane. ‘‘I don’t

  know how long I’ll be,’’ she said.

  ‘‘That’s okay. Neva and David want to know if it’s

  all right if they go back up to the lab,’’ said Jin. ‘‘Yes. Everyone’s gone,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Well, tell me this, did they try to hang it on you?’’

  Jin was in his usual joking manner and she could tell

  he really didn’t believe they would seriously consider

  Diane to be a suspect.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ she said, ‘‘they did.’’

  ‘‘Really, Boss?’’ said Jin. ‘‘I’m sorry...did they

  really?’’

  ‘‘It’s all right. Thanks to Garnett, I didn’t get hauled

  off to the station.’’ She looked at her watch. ‘‘I need

  to get going. The FBI is waiting. I’ll tell you about

  it later.’’

  Diane left the crime lab and walked across the dinosaur overlook through to the bank of elevators in the

  middle of the building. She passed several museum

  staff. A few looked as if they wanted to engage her

  in conversation but she waved them off, smiling, hoping she didn’t look as overwhelmed as she felt. She would really like to sit down and take a break, drink some hot tea, skip town. But there wasn’t time. She took the elevator down to the first floor and walked to her office. Andie was there engaging the FBI agent

  in an animated conversation about dinosaurs. He rose, smiled, and held out a hand when Diane

  came into the room. ‘‘I’m Agent Shane Jacobs. I understand you have some antiquities that may not be

  yours.’’

  Chapter 24

  You have antiquities that may not be yours—it sounded like a principal gently scolding a naughty student.

  ‘‘I’m afraid we might,’’ said Diane, ‘‘I’m sorry to say.’’ She took his hand.

  Shane Jacobs had a firm handshake, salt-and-pepper wavy hair, and a slim tanned face with sharp features. He looked younger than Diane by a few years. His dark suit, smooth-shaven face, and short hair made him look like the stereotypical FBI agent. He pulled out his FBI identification to let her inspect it.

  ‘‘I would like to see the artifacts,’’ he said.

  He wasn’t somber like the law enforcement officers she had just dealt with, but smiled broadly at her as if he could just as well have been coming to buy the artifacts. He looked at his watch.

  ‘‘I know it’s getting late, but I’d also like to speak with Dr. Kendel Williams and the curator of your Egyptian exhibits,’’ he said.

  He seemed friendly enough, but Diane was sure that was just his method of gaining the confidence of the person he was interviewing. She was getting weary of being on the suspect end of investigations.

  Diane turned to Andie. ‘‘Has Kendel left for the day?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘I’ll call,’’ said Andie as she picked up the phone.

  ‘‘If she’s in, tell her to wait,’’ said Diane. ‘‘If not, call her home and ask her to come to the museum.’’

  Andie nodded. ‘‘Got it.’’

  ‘‘Is Jonas back?’’ she asked Andie. Ironically, Jonas Briggs had been at an Egyptology conference.

  ‘‘I saw him earlier. He was looking for you,’’ said Andie.

  ‘‘He and everyone else on the planet,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We’ll be going by his office. I’ll stop in.’’

  Diane led Agent Jacobs out of Andie’s office and down the hall toward the main bank of elevators.

  ‘‘The artifacts are in the conservation lab on the second floor,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I appreciate your cooperation in this,’’ said Jacobs. ‘‘As you can guess, I get a lot of ‘where’s your warrant.’ ’’

  ‘‘This has been dreadful for us,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We would like it cleared up as soon as possible.’’ As she walked, she explained everything that she had discovered so far. ‘‘We didn’t know anything was wrong until the newspaper articles began coming out. The artifacts had just arrived and hadn’t even been opened yet.’’

  ‘‘That’s odd.’’ It was the only comment Jacobs made. He had not yet even asked any questions.

  Diane took him up to the second floor and into the room housing the Egyptian exhibit. She wanted him to see what they had now, so he would understand why they only wanted certain artifacts and not the ones that were sitting in the conservation lab.

  Diane loved walking into the room housing the exhibit. It was like entering ancient Egypt. The walls were painted like the walls of an Egyptian tomb. But upon entering, the visitor’s gaze first fell on Neva’s reconstruction of their mummy, a scribe, they had concluded, sitting cross-legged on a pedestal in the middle of the room as if he were about to take up his sharpened reed and write on the papyrus lying in his lap.

  The mummy whose likeness greeted visitors was in a closed anthropomorphic Egyptian coffin housed inside a glass case away from the hands of curious visitors. Above him on the wall were photographs of him before and after he was rewrapped and placed back in his coffin.

  Along another wall sat a glass display case for the amulets that had been wrapped with the mummy. Each now had its own pedestal. Acquiring them had been a coup for Kendel. The museum had inherited the mummy—a survivor from a Victorian unwrapping party and handed down through a family until the last surviving member gave it to the museum. Another branch of the family had owned the good-luck amulets from inside the wrappings. Kendel had negotiated their purchase: an alabaster scarab that probably once resided over the mummy’s heart, several small alabaster and lapis lazuli fish figurines, an inscribed sandstone cylinder with the name Senwosret III, two faience figures, several limestone figurines, and black steatite shabtis.

  The exhibit contained a diorama based on life in twelfth-dynasty Egypt, including an entire miniature Egyptian

  Egyptian

  town, highlighting a scribe’s house. The room was one of the most popular in the museum.

  ‘‘Our mummy is from the twelfth dynasty,’’ said Diane. ‘‘This is a learning museum and we didn’t want an unrelated assortment of Egyptian artifacts
from all over the historical timeline. We decided to specialize in twelfth-dynasty items. That is what we ordered and that is what the documents said we had. That is not what arrived.’’

  ‘‘It’s an excellent exhibit,’’ he said, peering at the amulets. He looked up sharply. ‘‘So, Golden Antiquities sent the wrong items?’’ He pulled out a chair from one of the computer terminals and sat down.

  Diane took another chair and sat across from him. ‘‘Yes, but the items they sent were similar to what we ordered. That’s what’s so odd,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘So someone sent authentic documents to provide provenance for artifacts that were switched.’’

  ‘‘But that wouldn’t have worked,’’ said Diane.

  She went over the same arguments with him as she had with Frank—how more than one person verified the provenances, how she herself signed off on everything that arrived at the museum, how the museum pretty much displayed everything it owned.

  ‘‘No one could get away with using this museum to launder antiquities,’’ said Diane.

  She studied him as she spoke, wondering whether she could trust him. In the end she decided to wait to tell him about her attacker and what he had said. She stood up.

  ‘‘Jonas’ office is across the way here.’’

  Jonas Briggs was in his office and Diane introduced him to Agent Jacobs. He seemed to be waiting for them, the way he answered his door so quickly. Andie must have called. Jonas was a retired professor from Bartram University. He had white hair, a toothbrush mustache to match, and white bushy eyebrows over crystal blue eyes. He was dressed in jeans and one of the ubiquitous Richard III T-shirts.

  ‘‘This is just terrible,’’ said Jonas. ‘‘Just terrible. Kendel and I were looking forward to the new artifacts.’’ He shook his head and offered them a seat.

  ‘‘Actually, I would like to see the artifacts and the documents first. Will you be here for a while?’’ asked Agent Jacobs.

  ‘‘I can be,’’ said Jonas.

  ‘‘Good. So you are an Egyptologist?’’ said Jacobs.

  ‘‘No. My field is southeastern U.S. archaeology. However, I have taken to learning Egyptology. I’ve always liked it.’’

  ‘‘Did you negotiate the purchase of the objects?’’ asked Jacobs.

  ‘‘No. I can’t negotiate the purchase of a used car,’’ said Jonas. ‘‘But I examined the catalog and the copies of the provenances. Everything was just fine.’’

  Jacobs nodded. ‘‘I’ll come by again after I’ve finished looking at the artifacts,’’ he said. ‘‘Thank you for waiting.’’

  Diane looked back at Jonas as she left with Agent Jacobs. He looked miserable. She smiled at him as if to say, It will be all right. She took Jacobs through earth science across the overlook to the Pleistocene room. Jacobs stopped to look over the railing at the mammoth and other giant Pleistocene creatures.

  ‘‘Are the bones real, or are they casts?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘The Pleistocene bones are real. The bones in the dinosaur room are casts purchased from the Bickford,’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘Good museum. You know they’re looking for a new director. Harold Marquering’s retiring, I hear,’’ said Jacobs.

  ‘‘I had heard also,’’ said Diane. ‘‘He had only been there, what, six years?’’

  ‘‘About that,’’ said Jacobs. ‘‘You have lots of room here.’’

  ‘‘We do. We offer lab space to university faculty in exchange for their curative services.’’

  ‘‘How’s that working out?’’ he asked, grinning.

  From his expression, Diane guessed he had worked with professors before.

  ‘‘It has its ups and downs,’’ said Diane. ‘‘On the whole, it has turned out to be a good deal for us.’’

  From there they went to the conservation lab. Diane introduced him to Korey, who helped Diane lay out all the questionable artifacts and the documentation.

  ‘‘This item’’—Diane pointed to the girdle—‘‘turned up on NSAF as stolen from the Cairo Museum in 1957.’’

  Jacobs took a pair of glasses out of his pocket and looked at the piece. ‘‘I believe you’re right. They will be glad it finally turned up. I wonder where it’s been.’’ He looked over at Diane. ‘‘You’re aware that Golden Antiquities burned and Randal Cunningham was killed.’’

  ‘‘I had heard. Was it the elder Cunningham or his son?’’ asked Diane.

  ‘‘The son,’’ said Jacobs. ‘‘There was never any suspicion surrounding Golden Antiquities while the old man ran things. Since he turned it over to his son . . . well, it’s one of the places I watch.’’

  Jacobs pulled up a nearby stool and took a pair of white gloves out of his pocket and slipped them on. He looked at the pectoral and opened the document that was supposed to be its provenance.

  ‘‘Okay, the documentation is of a pectoral showing a vulture goddess with wings surrounded by lotus flowers. The documents say it’s lapis lazuli, gold, turquoise, carnelian, and amethyst. Very nice. The artifact we have here is Maat in a boat. You know Maat is the goddess of truth, balance, order. Hope we find some truth here, eh?’’ Jacobs seemed to like to talk as he worked. Diane and Korey stood by and listened.

  ‘‘The stone pieces here’’—he pointed to the stone bust and face—‘‘they are Ramses II, nineteenth dynasty. The documents are for similar items, but of Senwosret III, which would have gone nicely with your sandstone amulet with Senwosret III’s name inscribed on it. You say these were at the Pearle?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We had hoped to purchase them directly from the Pearle, but . . .’’ She let the sentence trail off as he went to another item.

  ‘‘The canopic jar is also from the nineteenth dynasty,’’ he muttered as if talking only to himself.

  He got up and walked over to the sphinx, still in the crate. ‘‘Again, the documents say Senwosret III— this is Amenemhat III. He’s of the twelfth dynasty too, however. Nice piece. All of them are.’’ He stood up and took off his gloves.

  ‘‘Other than the Mereret girdle, I don’t recognize any of the pieces as being in our database. That doesn’t mean they weren’t recently looted or stolen. You won’t mind if I confiscate them until we can sort this out?’’ he said almost guiltily.

  ‘‘No. They aren’t ours,’’ said Diane. ‘‘But we would like to have the items we ordered, if they weren’t destroyed in the fire. Failing that, we would like to get our money back. We have an arrangement with our dealers that we pay a quarter of the price up front and the rest after we receive the items and they are verified. That quarter is a substantial sum for us. And’’— Diane waved an arm, encompassing the artifacts—‘‘this has damaged our reputation. We would like that back too. We didn’t do this. If you would like to look at our books, I’ll have Andie take you to Accounting.’’

  Jacobs smiled. ‘‘Ross said you would be cooperative. He thinks very highly of you and the museum.’’

  Diane smiled back, grateful that Ross Kingsley had spoken to Jacobs. ‘‘We’ve worked a couple of cases together,’’ said Diane. ‘‘I appreciate him giving us a good reference.’’

  ‘‘When he’s up and about he said he will get back in touch with you.’’

  ‘‘Up and about?’’ said Diane.

  ‘‘You didn’t know? Last night on the way home from . . . actually from here, he fell asleep at the wheel and wrecked his car.’’

  Chapter 25

  ‘‘Fell asleep at the wheel?’’ repeated Diane. ‘‘Is he all right?’’

  ‘‘Fine. Banged up a little—treated at the hospital and released. He seemed rather embarrassed by it. He said he’d never done anything like that before.’’ Agent Jacobs paused a moment. ‘‘What?’’ he said as Diane stared at him.

  It happened here, she thought. ‘‘Did you and he talk about his latest case?’’ said Diane. ‘‘Clymene O’Riley?’’

  ‘‘A little. Actually he wanted me to tell you
something. He mentioned the name Clymene and I, in my usual pedantic mode, mentioned that in Greek mythology Clymene was a girl whose father sold her into slavery.’’ Jacobs stopped and pointed at Diane’s face and grinned. ‘‘Ross had the same expression.’’

  ‘‘That may explain a lot about our Clymene,’’ said Diane. ‘‘She can’t have chosen that name by chance.’’

  ‘‘That’s just what Ross said,’’ Jacobs replied.