by Scott Cook
“Not to sell it,” Sharon said a bit brittlely.
Pak had grace enough to look chagrinned, “Well…well, in light of all that, please excuse me. But that sort of scam has been perpetrated before.”
“We understand,” Sharon said with a soft smile. One with enough wattage to produce a blush on Pak’s face.
The archeologist pulled a large jeweler’s loop from one of the workbench’s drawers on his side and began to examine the small jar more closely. After a minute of this, he moved to a side desk and started accessing files on a laptop. He brought the computer over and set it next to the jar, pushing the oar blade down the table for more working room.
“What is it?” Sharon asked.
“I’m trying to confirm its authenticity,” Pak said distractedly. “We have detailed high resolution images of every piece we display. It allows us to verify them based on small imperfections such as scratches, flaws in the clay when it was fired and so on. There is usually something like a watermark that we place on a piece when we take a small sample that’s used in radiocarbon dating as well as gas chromatograph analysis and spectral analysis. From these tests we can determine the piece’s age, composition and in some cases, its point of origin based on the makeup of the material. This is particularly handy with pottery, since the clay used is almost always drawn from the elements of the immediate location at which it was fired.”
“Wow,” Sharon said, sounding genuinely interested.
“Yes, it’s quite illuminating,” Pak said as he flicked through images and compared them in his magnifying glass. “At least if you’re a nerdy archeologist who gets off on this kind of stuff… which I am.”
We both laughed and Pak grinned.
“What can you tell us about this jar?” I asked, starting to get interested. While Scott was far more a history buff than me, it was really cool to be close to a piece of living history. Something that was part of everyday life in Florida half a millennia before Columbus ever packed his sea chest.
“Well, this piece was made south of here,” Pak explained as he continued to examine. “From our earlier tests, we know that it was roughly created in the early part of the ninth century, making it about twelve hundred years old. We also know that based on the makeup of the clay… its heavy tannin content, trace elements of sodium chloride, calcium and iodine… along with other elements, its origin point. This jar was fired somewhere in the Ten Thousand Islands. Probably at an as-yet undiscovered Calusa mound site. They used local water, sand, clay and so on. Its chemistry closely matches other pottery found in the area, but this one has a slightly lower salt and higher tannin balance.”
“What’s all that mean?” Sharon asked.
“That it came from deep in the Ten Thousands,” Pak said. “Closer to the fresh water of the Everglades. Brackish water, but slightly more fresh than salt.”
“So is that the one that was stolen?” I asked.
“It appears so… fascinating,” Pak muttered. “And you say somebody buried this in Davenport?”
“Yes, two men,” I said. “It’s sort of a long story… but even before this, there was evidence of an Indian burial or ceremonial site. My boyfriend as well as a survey team believes that based on the high shell content, it was a small Calusa site.”
“That’s interesting,” Pak said. “That far north and inland… not impossible, of course. Was it near water?”
“Yes, a small string of lakes and ponds that begin just south of Disney property and run southward for a few miles.”
“I’d like to talk to the owner of the property,” Pak said excitedly, closing his laptop. “That could be a very important find, this planted jar notwithstanding.”
“I can suggest it to the owner,” I said. “Already have, in fact.”
“Have the police given you any information about the original robbery?” Sharon asked.
Pak put the laptop back on the desk and sent off another text. He then sighed and gently caressed the jar, “Not yet. The thieves were quite careful. Probably used gloves and were able to bypass our security system.”
That jolted me, “Really? Is it a robust system?”
Pak made a sound of slight disapproval, “It’s pretty good… but in my opinion, not nearly robust enough to protect what we’ve got here. But as with most museums and research facilities, budget restraints are always an issue.”
“Can you describe the system?” Sharon asked.
“Keypad controlled from multiple entry points,” Pak said. “Door and window sensors… motion detectors in the display areas and infrared beams at random locations throughout the building.”
“A hard system to get around,” I mused.
“Yeah, really hard,” Sharon stated. “Without either knowing exactly where each sensor was or having very high-tech and specialized gear to circumvent them, or… yet there’s a much easier way.”
“Somebody provides the disarm code,” I stated, looking to Pak.
He frowned and shook his head, “I can’t imagine anybody here doing that. To what end? I mean okay… if the thieves sold the jar to some rich collector, then I could see an employee or even a researcher turning off the alarm. Very small money in this work and very big money in rare private collectors. But that doesn’t make any sense, based on what you tell me.”
“Yeah…” Sharon muttered. “That’s true. Why steal it just to bury it a hundred miles north. Where’s the profit in it?”
“Exactly,” I said, drumming my fingers on the workbench. “At least there doesn’t seem to be any immediate profit. Then again, what’s to stop somebody from paying one of your people five or ten grand to provide the security code? For them it’s a quick payday… and really, maybe to them, what’s one missing jar?”
“I’m not saying it’s impossible,” Pak said, sounding as if he believed that it in fact was, “but there are only a handful of us with access to the security system. And everybody is very dedicated to our project.”
“It’d be nice to have a list of those folks,” Sharon stated.
“The Lee County Sheriff already does,” Pak stated. “Now that you’ve mentioned the possible reason, it makes sense. I hadn’t even thought about why they wanted that list before.”
“Well, you got the item back anyway,” I said with a smile. “Maybe you could give us a duplicate list? As a reward? Maybe we can find out something and if there is even a slight chance somebody here is involved, it couldn’t hurt to find that out, right?”
Pak sighed, “I suppose you’re right. I think I can authorize that, considering. Yet I have one small condition.”
We waited.
Pak smiled and directed it at Sharon before saying: “That Lieutenant Nolen here agree to have dinner with me.”
I managed to maintain a straight face, but it took some effort. It wasn’t that I thought that Sharon was out of Pak’s league… although she probably was… it was that this slim, bookish guy who was like four or five years younger than Sharon had a lot more gumption than I gave him credit for.
Sharon is a knockout. I don’t know what number I’d assign to her, I’ve never been good at that, but she’s certainly an eight or better. Pak hadn’t even blushed or seemed uncomfortable about asking her out.
Sharon opened her mouth to reply, but I beat her to it, “Why, Doctor Pak, she’d be delighted! I’ve always told her she should meet a nice doctor.”
The kick directed under the table at my calf wasn’t debilitating, but it did smart for at least five minutes afterward.
20
From the scintillating goings on of Gonzalez, P.I
Lisa’s Journal Entry 7
Doctor Pak was an early eater, evidently. He said he wanted to get to, of all places, Doc Ford’s Sanibel Rum Bar and Grill. I thought that was pretty darn funny, considering where we were and what was happening. Who knows? Maybe Doc and Tomlinson would show up and buy them a round.
The idea that Sharon was actually going on a date with the good doctor was amu
sing to no end. Not for the first time, I wished Scott were with us or that I could at least talk to him. He’d laugh his ass off and threaten to tell Juan.
I drove us over to Sanibel and we checked into the low-key and charming Sanibel Island Beach Resort on Middle Gulf Drive. I say low key because most of Sanibel Island is that way. Thanks to strict zoning laws and a concerted conservation effort, much of the island is limited to two-story construction and a great deal of it is preserved wildlife refuge. It’s what Scott would call a bit of old Florida or at least the real Florida.
The beachside hotel was also convenient because I happened to have an appointment that afternoon with Congresswoman Marsha Davies. She lived in a beachfront home on the western end of Sanibel. It must be nice to have a government job.
I sprung for a suite. Why not? I didn’t have a government job, but I did have a rich boyfriend. The only good kind, am I right lady readers? Lol.
The truth was that between our detective agency… wow, that’s so weird to actually state that. Scott has made himself a name in the private investigation business all by himself, and now that I’m here, he’s included me as an equal. I don’t really know if I’ve earned that, but he seems to think so. It’s awfully flattering… okay, getting off track again!
Anyway, between the agency, the royalties from Scott’s now published eight books with number nine, To Honor We Call You coming out soon and including his share of the profits from the Spindrift Bar and Grill over in Saint Pete… well, his income has increased substantially over the past year. Oh yeah, and his Navy pay, too! As such, we both have a company credit card for just this sort of expense. Figuring on the idea that he might come down to meet Sharon and me when his weekend at the base was over, I figured why not get a big room that can accommodate a few people?
Sharon and I had driven down separately, as she’d have to go back up to work in a day or two. It was convenient for me, as I didn’t have to drive her to all of her dates and told her so. In typical Sharon fashion, she flipped me off, called me a twat and went about her business.
So now, here was your heroine, rocketing down Gulf Drive on beautiful Sanibel Island toward a meeting with a member of the U.S. Congress. Crazy, right? I mean… here’s this Cuban kid from Miami who had to struggle through college to earn her degrees. That was before my mom married a rich guy, sadly. Then what happens? In my last year of earning my masters, my idiot boyfriend decides to become a criminal, cheat on me, clear out my bank account, run up a bunch of bills and steal my car!
Can I get a what, what, lady readers?
So there’s lil’ Lisa G., furious and hating anybody with something dangling… and yet needing a hand. I get ahold of this private eye I read a book about and what should show up at my doorstep? Right when I’m in a man-hating mental state? The most gorgeous, sexy, intelligent, tough, thoughtful and kind-hearted man I’ve ever known. Totally blows my bullshit right out of the water! From the moment I saw Scott, something clicked… even in my negative frame of mind at the time!
My life since then, which is the point to this rant, has like… I don’t know… taken a ninety-degree hard right from where I thought it’d go. I figured I’d get a job as a business analyst, account manager or whatever and work my way up to CFO of some company or other. Maybe meet some dude, get married, pop out a couple of kids, buy a house and two cars, yadda, yadda. We’d both work too much; our kids would be kind of bratty and he’d cheat on me with his secretary or something. Probably wind up divorced at forty with a pair of tits that weren’t quite what they used to be, stretch marks, gray hairs I’d have to die and a piss-poor attitude and then go out and try to find husband number two.
You know… the American dream! Lol.
But noooooo… I have to go and meet an exciting P.I. I have to go on crazy adventures and fight rebel armies and chase down spies and ghosts and aliens… and zombies… and who the hell knows what else! Okay… those last three haven’t happened… yet.
Now I’m a licensed private investigator myself going to meet a Congresswoman all while investigating a mysterious bunch of activities involving gang bangers, dope heads, thieves and Indians. There’s no way I could’ve foreseen this shit… let alone possibly make all this up! Who could? I mean… what sort of sick, twisted and diseased mind could possibly invent the things that have happened to Scott and me over the past three years? Only a madman, right?
Okay, okay… get on with it Lisa, for God’s sake… sorry, sometimes I go off on tangents. I feel like I never used to. I blame Scott.
Marsha Davies’ home was located at the end of a short road that branched off West Gulf Drive called Sheller Lane. The house was a modest three thousand or so square foot two story that sat on a lot that might have been close to an acre. This lot backed up to the dune and even from the lushly landscaped front lawn and double-wide driveway in which I parked, I could clearly see that the lot backed up to the Gulf of Mexico. Sunset was less than an hour away and in spite of the low sixties temperature, I hoped we could sit out back and watch it while we talked.
As soon as I stepped out of my Mercedes, the light ocean breeze surrounded me in a bouquet of South Florida beach life. The scent of the sea was there, of course, mixed in with frangipani, lilac, cherry blossom and hibiscus as well. I took in a deep breath, smiled and went to ring the doorbell.
Marsha Davies herself answered the door. I didn’t know this until she introduced herself, though. I assumed she’d have somebody to do that for her, considering that a beach house of this size on Sanibel must go for five or six million easy.
“Hello, Ms. Gonzalez, I’m Marsha Davies, thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure, Congresswoman.”
Marsha Davies was a tall and willowy woman who was probably closing in on fifty, although her attractive milk-chocolate features were smooth and youthful, making it hard to guess if she were forty or fifty. She wore her curly hair short, except for a little length that dangled in the back and only partially covered the nape of a long and muscular neck. She wore a blue cashmere sweater and a pair of slim fit white slacks that matched her white three-inch wedge heels. In the wedges, she was easily half a head taller than me. The ruby pendant earrings she wore sparkled nearly as brightly as her smile.
“Please come in and just call me Marsha, would you?” The Congresswoman implored. “This is my home and I come here to relax and sluff away the cares and concerns of my job, you know what I mean? May I call you Lisa?”
“Only if we can sit out back and watch the sunset while we talk,” I replied with a smile.
Marsha laughed and stepped aside to let me in, “Certainly! It’s still warm enough, although once that sun goes down, it’s going to drop into the fifties pretty fast.”
She led me through a small foyer and past an elegantly furnished formal living room. Everything in it was dark earth tones, leather, glass and brass. Beyond this was a formal dining room, large kitchen and a less formal area with lighter colored tan leather furnishings. Marsha stepped behind the angled kitchen bar to where a coffee pot was exhaling delicious aromatic Costa Rican fumes.
“Why don’t we take a coffee out with us?” Marsha asked. “Help warm the insides. I usually like to add a little Bailey’s and Jameson to mine, would you join me?”
I grinned, “An Irish coffee on the beach? Well, if I must, I must…”
The pool deck was partially covered by the large balcony of what I assumed was the master bedroom above. Beyond this wide area, where a six-top table and chairs as well as outdoor kitchen was situated, the big infinity pool and adjoining hot tub dominated the rest of the deck. The pool was surrounded on two sides by lounging chairs and carefully trimmed three-foot-high hedges. The back was open to what remained of the lawn and to a short path that led across the dune and the beach scrub down to the strand beyond. In one corner, a large gazebo, complete with tiki bar, stood like a sentinel over the spectacular scenery.
We took our coffees out to this structure and sat in comfo
rtable wicker chairs with seafoam green cushions. From this vantage point, we had an unobstructed view over the occasional sea grape, fiddlewood, west coast dune sunflower and cocoplum shrubs that grew among the sea oats, seashore grass and other wild ground cover that delineated the dune from the beach. The sun, in its still northerly position, was nearly touching the sea beyond the far corner of Marsha’s property. Above it, several ribbons of cloud between the clear blue above us and the horizon glowed with golden light and almost seemed to be burning in the sky.
“Wow,” I muttered, sipping the warm laced coffee.
“Yes… it’s really lovely,” Marsha observed. “Winter or summer, the view is spectacular.”
“So tell me, Marsha… why did you ask to see me this afternoon?” I began.
“Before I begin,” The Congresswoman stated. “I’d like to ask whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat.”
I frowned and covered it with another sip, “Is that important?”
Marsha gazed out at the horizon for a few seconds before saying: “I’m not entirely sure, honestly… I don’t think your answer will make or break my decision to hire you… yet it could be relevant. Often, people’s political associations as well as their points of view on socio-economic situations color their perceptions.”
I shrugged, “You’re a Democrat, as you said. Isn’t that true for you as well?”
Marsha grinned at me and held up her large mug in salute, “You’re not afraid to be direct, Lisa. I like that. And yes, you’re right… I can’t claim to be unbiased in all things. After all, part of being a politician is taking a stand on things. I’m fairly moderate, in truth, but as you might guess from my ethnicity and gender, I have strong feelings about women’s issues, minority issues and so on. I’ve always believed in using my position to do whatever I can to improve the circumstances of this nation’s, and this state’s, perceived lower classes. Blacks, Hispanics, Native Americans… the poor and disadvantaged of any color… the fishing industry in the area, naturally. I’m also a staunch proponent and defender of the local ecology.”
