by Alex Archer
“A knife kill like that means training.”
Bart glanced at her in consternation with raised eyebrows.
“Discovery Channel,” Annja replied, realizing she was entirely too knowledgeable and calm about the violence. Bart wasn’t privy to everything she had done since gaining possession of the sword.
“You’re watching way too much television.” Bart swung his focus back to the prisoner. “And one of the things Calapez did before he’s been doing whatever he’s been doing for the past eight years is mercenary work. He signed on with the Portuguese Army when he was eighteen, served in special forces for a few years, then mustered out. So somewhere he would have gotten that kind of training.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Hang on to him as long as we can. Unless an attorney shows up here, I can lose Calapez in the system for seventy-two hours before I have to bring him before the judge. I will have to take him in for medical treatment, but I can finesse that, too. I don’t know if we’re going to be any closer to an answer by then, but we’ll keep working the case. That’s what we do.”
Someone knocked on the door. Bart told them to enter.
A young plainclothes cop stepped into the room. “Unis caught the Asian guy who was at the diner, Detective McGilley. The guy who approached you and her.” He nodded at Annja. “Sergeant Vogt wanted me to let you know.”
“How did the unis find him?”
The guy smiled mirthlessly. “They didn’t catch him. He walked up to them and turned himself in. There’s nothing to arrest him on, but we’re holding him as a material witness.”
“Do we have a name for him?”
The detective checked the folder he was holding. “Nguyen Rao. Says here he’s a professor in Cambodia.”
“That’s the same name he gave us at the diner,” Annja said.
Bart nodded. “Did Mr. Nguyen say what he’s doing in New York?”
“He’s not really talkative. He asked to speak to you both.”
“Where is he?”
“Got him in an interview room.”
Bart headed for the door and Annja followed at his heels. This was twice the man had reached out to them.
* * *
NGUYEN RAO SAT in the interview room and looked serene. His hands rested palms-down on the desk that looked like a twin to the one in Calapez’s room. His eyes were open and staring at the one-way glass, but he appeared to be asleep. Or really, really relaxed. Annja didn’t know how a man could do that after nearly getting shot down just a short time ago. Then again, she was pretty calm herself, but she’d had a lot of experience at that sort of thing.
Bart thumbed through the file that he’d gotten on the man. Annja read the folder’s contents over his shoulder.
There wasn’t much. Nguyen Rao—that did appear to be his real name—was a professor attached to the most prestigious university in Phnom Penh. He was thirty-two years old and also worked as a curator for the national museum.
Annja took out her tablet and tapped in Rao’s name, quickly locating several papers he’d written on Cambodian history ranging from the country’s pre-history through the Khmer Rouge. Many of those papers included a photograph of Nguyen that matched the man in the interview room.
“Is he legit?” Bart peered over Annja’s shoulder as she skimmed through the papers Rao had written.
“He is, if these papers are all truly his work and not part of a cover.”
“You have a suspicious mind.”
“Tonight has created a little paranoia, I suppose.” Annja smiled at him.
Bart smiled back. “Paranoia’s good for you. Sometimes they really are out to get you.” He cut his eyes back to the tablet PC. “So he’s like you? An archaeologist?”
“Not quite. He’s more of a historian.”
Bart returned his attention to the man on the other side of the one-way glass. “If he’s a historian, then what’s he doing here in New York looking for that elephant piece?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“I’m going to.” Bart left Annja standing there and walked to the door down the hall.
Chapter 8
Rao sat quietly at the table. The handcuffs felt cold and tight around his wrists, but the weight and the idea that he was restrained didn’t bother him. He knew he could escape the handcuffs easily enough, but getting out of the building without being recaptured or shot was a different matter.
He hadn’t gotten caught earlier. Once he’d seen that Annja Creed had overcome her captors, he’d allowed the police pursuing him to overtake and arrest him. He wanted to talk to the policeman again, the one who had investigated the old man’s murder. Rao needed to know what had become of the elephant piece Benyovszky had listed on his site.
The door opened and Rao looked up at the arrival. The young detective, Bart McGilley, entered the room with a file in one hand and a cup of coffee in another. His expression was neutral, but Rao easily read the tension in the other man’s movements.
McGilley set his coffee and the file on the table, then sat, as well. As he moved, he carried himself gingerly.
“Are you in pain?” Rao remembered the man had been shot in the diner.
“I’m fine.” McGilley’s answer was flat and final. “You should be worried about you.”
“I have not done anything wrong, therefore I do not see anything I should be concerned about.” Rao was pretty certain that fighting to defend himself was allowed in the United States. The laws here could be exasperating, but he thought he was correct about that. He had not killed anyone, and he had been attacked first. “I only turned myself in because I knew there would be questions as to my involvement in the violence at the diner.”
“We’ll see about that.” McGilley stared him in the eye. “They said you wouldn’t talk to anyone but me.”
“You, or Professor Creed. Is she still here?” Actually, Rao wanted to talk to the woman more. He wanted to know how much she knew, if she could add anything to the amount of knowledge he had about the elephant.
“You’re talking to me.”
“Of course.” Rao made himself be patient. The wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly in any country.
“Tell me about the elephant you’re looking for.”
“It is an object that I would like to have.”
“Why?”
Rao considered that for a moment, thought that his business and that of the temple need not be discussed with the American police and decided to withhold a replay regarding those interests.
“Did you hear the question?” the detective asked.
“I did.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I choose not to. That has nothing to do with the events that occurred at the diner.”
A flicker of anger darted through the detective’s eyes. The corners of his mouth tightened in displeasure. “Things will go easier for you if you cooperate.”
“I am cooperating. I turned myself in. Surely you can see that I am cooperating.” Rao kept his voice calm and easygoing, offering no threat nor confrontation.
“I need to know about the elephant piece.”
“I will not discuss that.”
“A man was killed last night, probably for that elephant. You understand how that is important, something I should know.”
“I did not kill him. I have not been inside Maurice Benyovszky’s building. Your investigation will confirm that. Or, at the least, not be able to put me inside that building.”
“Are you boasting?”
“I am merely stating the truth as I see it.”
“Professor Nguyen—” the detective laced his fingers together on the table “—maybe you don’t understand your circumstances. Potentially you’re in a lot of trouble here.”
“Have I broken any laws?”
“None that I’m aware of, but you’re at the center of a murder, and that makes you a material witness. I can hold you on that alone for a time.”
R
ao had not known that. That revelation did make things more complicated.
“Tell me about you and Calapez,” McGilley went on.
“I do not know anyone named Calapez.” Rao guessed that must have been the name of the man inside the diner, the one who had come at him shooting. Rao was not lying. He did not know the man’s name, which was what he had stated, but he had known the man was also after the elephant.
“You seemed to know him earlier.”
“Calapez is the man who was in the diner.” The name of the man was new to Rao. He filed it away. “He had a weapon and seemed intent on using it. I reacted.”
“I saw you when you recognized him. I know you knew him then.” McGilley laced his hands around his coffee and Rao knew the man was drawing warmth from the hot liquid. “He knew you, too.”
“He has said this?” That would be interesting, and it would mean that the man who had sent Calapez to get the elephant knew more than Rao and his superiors had reckoned.
“I’m asking the questions.”
“Of course. I meant no disrespect. I did not know the man’s name until you mentioned it now.”
“How do you know him?”
“Only through a chance encounter earlier. He struck me as a violent man. A killer. I am certain that if you look into his background you will discover this for yourself.”
“Where did you encounter Calapez before this morning?”
Rao considered that quickly and thought that he would not be risking too much by telling the truth. “In Phnom Penh.”
“When?”
“A few days ago.”
“What was he doing there?”
“I do not know.”
The detective frowned in irritation. “Where did the two of you meet?”
“We did not meet.”
“Where were you when you saw Calapez?”
“In the museum where I sometimes work.”
The detective checked the file. “At the national museum?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t know what Calapez was doing there?”
“No.”
“Between you and me, I don’t think Calapez is much of a history buff or art lover.”
“I do not get that impression either.”
McGilley paused for a moment as if to let that sink in. “What brings you to New York?”
“I came to see Mr. Benyovszky, as I told you in the diner.”
The pupils of the detective’s eyes dilated, giving away his excitement even though he remained stone-faced. “Did you and Mr. Benyovszky know each other?”
“No. We had exchanged email and a few phone calls.” Rao knew that would check out if the police checked Benyovszky’s phone records. He did not want to get caught in a lie. That would complicate matters regarding the recovery of the elephant.
“You should really tell me about the elephant.”
Rao didn’t reply. He had learned what he could from the policeman. They knew nothing about the elephant. McGilley asked more questions, but Rao remained silent. Finally, in frustration, the detective got up and left the interview room.
* * *
“WHAT ARE YOU going to do with him?” Annja watched Nguyen Rao through the one-way glass.
Bart’s aggravation showed in the hard lines along his jaw and the stiffness of his neck. He tossed the folder onto a nearby table. “I’m going to sit on him, hold him as long as I can. Sooner or later, someone will come looking for him, and when they do, I’ll know more.”
“Maybe I could talk to him. He did offer to speak to me, too.”
Stubbornly, Bart shook his head. “No. That’s what this guy wants, for whatever reason, and I’m not agreeing to any of his demands. I want him to sweat, let him sit in a box for a while to soften him up. I’m betting he feels more like talking then.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Then we’ll discuss you talking to him. If he still wants to.”
Annja knew Bart wasn’t going to budge on his decision. “What are you going to do until then?”
“I’m going to go home and get some sleep. While Nguyen Rao is sitting in a cell, freaking out and realizing I’m serious about holding him, I’ll be getting the rest I need. When I talk to him again, I’ll have a clear head and I’ll probably know more. I’ve got guys working on his background. We’ll find whatever Nguyen is hiding. We might even have the elephant by then, too. If we do, the balance of power in our discussion will probably shift.” Bart looked at her. “You need to go home, too, Annja. I appreciate all the help, and I’m sorry to have gotten you out of bed.”
“And almost got me killed?” Annja raised a mocking eyebrow.
Bart nodded. “And that.” He regarded her for a moment. “The guys who arrested you told me you took down Calapez and his friend. That was pretty gutsy.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I know you can defend yourself.” Bart sometimes sparred with Annja in the dojo she frequented when she could. She’d taught him a lot, adding to the basic defenses he’d been trained on in the academy. “When Calapez forced you out of the diner, I was afraid something was going to happen to you.”
“It didn’t. We both got lucky.”
“Yeah, well, Calapez ended up with a broken hand.”
“I saw an opportunity and took it. I wasn’t getting into the car with him.”
“Why was Calapez so intent on taking you?”
“As a hostage, I suppose.”
“Maybe.” Bart took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m glad everything turned out okay.”
Annja stepped in and gave him a hug, patting his back, thinking about how close she’d come to losing him. Bart was a friend, a really good one, and she didn’t want to ever lose him. “Me, too.”
* * *
OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION, Annja turned and walked down the street, her hands in her pockets and her collar turned up against the cold wind. Bart had offered to have an officer drive her home, but she’d refused, knowing that they were busy and she wanted to be on her own.
She thought about returning to her loft, to the work she had waiting for her there, but she knew she couldn’t focus on that or rest right now. Her mind was too busy, seeking out answers to the riddle of the elephant. Frustration chafed at her because she didn’t know enough to ask the right questions.
Before she knew it, she’d gone down a few blocks aimlessly. Spotting a cab, she hailed it, met it at the curb and told the driver to take her to Maurice Benyovszky’s building.
* * *
“ARE YOU POLICE?” The woman who asked Annja that question stood in front of a dryer in a local Laundromat two blocks down from Benyovszky’s address. Annja had noted the address of the business on some receipts on Benyovszky’s desk when she’d looked over his things.
Plump and in her late twenties, the woman looked Slavic and spoke with a Russian accent. Her dark hair was pulled back and frizzy from the heat inside the Laundromat. She held a three year old girl on her hip as she worked one-handed to put the wet clothes into the machine.
“No. I’m not the police.” Annja helped the woman put the load of clothing into the dryer.
“I saw you with them this morning on the television.” The woman pushed quarters into the machine and started it cycling. The clothing thumped as the big barrel turned, and the little girl on the woman’s hip watched the contents spin.
Several other women and a few men of all ages occupied the Laundromat, all of them dealing with their clothing. A television blared from the mount in the corner, displaying a ghost-hunting program. The whir and vibration of the machines created a soft blanket of noise that filled the building. The strong smell of detergent and bleach burned Annja’s nose.
“I work for them sometimes,” Annja replied. “As a consultant when they need me.”
The woman was suspicious and distrustful. That was a typical reaction to anyone outside a culture. Annja wasn’t of Russian heritage, wasn’t from the neighbo
rhood and her clothing separated her from everyone else in the Laundromat. The woman placed her child on the folding table in front of the dryer and fussed with her hair, combing it neatly.
“Your daughter is beautiful,” Annja said.
The little girl smiled shyly and ducked her head into her mother’s bosom.
“Thank you.” The woman smiled, but she didn’t open up anymore to Annja.
“Did you know Mr. Benyovszky?” Annja asked.
Shrugging, the woman picked up her daughter again. “I see him in the hallway sometimes. He was a good man. Very kind. His two great-nephews, though, they are a waste.”
“I got that impression myself.” Annja hesitated, wondering if she was pushing too hard or too sudden, and knowing there was no other route to handling the situation. “I’d like to talk to someone who knew Mr. Benyovszky.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want his murderer to get away.”
“No one does. If anyone knew, they would tell the police.” Suspicion darkened the woman’s face. “They say whoever killed Mr. Benyovszky stole a fortune.”
“I don’t know. In fact, I don’t know that anything was taken for sure. That’s what I’m trying to help the police find out, but in order to know that, I need more information about Mr. Benyovszky and his business.”
Another woman walked up to the first. This one was older and more plump. Her hair had turned gray and her face was weathered by years. She spoke rapidly in Russian, too fast and too low for Annja to understand.
When the first woman looked back up, she said, “My friend tells me that she sees you on television and that I should trust you because she thinks you are a nice person.”
Annja smiled at the other woman. “Spasiba.”
The older woman nodded. “You are welcome.” The words came hesitantly, but they were sincere.
