by Steven James
He grinned as he showed his creds to the Capitol Police officer, then removed his gun and set it on the conveyor belt. “Gotcha.”
“What?”
“I was kidding. I hated history.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“So,” she said, “we have something in common, then.”
“I guess we do.”
They headed through security to the restricted-access reading rooms while Tessa told herself she was not, not, not going to be distracted by having this guy sit at a table beside her.
+ + +
Guido showed us the four statues on the corner of Trade and Tryon and told us a little about what each one represented as he gave us an abbreviated history of the city—from the early days of textiles and gold mining to the development of the banking industry.
Then he emphasized transportation, with the railroads cutting through the city. And, more recently, the Charlotte Douglas International Airport, which had become the country’s second-largest hub for American Airlines since its merger with US Airways.
Four statues: Commerce, a gold prospector; Transportation, a railroad worker; Industry, a mill worker; and Future, a woman holding up her baby.
“This is known as Independence Square, and it’s where they signed the Mecklenburg Declaration.”
“The Meck Dec,” I said.
“You know your Charlotte history.”
“I’m starting to take an interest in it. Talk to me about the layout of Uptown.”
“Well, there are four districts that used to be the voting precincts, we call them wards. Just remember that Third Ward is growing fast, lots of construction, and Fourth Ward is the historical district. That’ll get you by.”
I considered what he said in light of the three-dimensional view of the city that my phone had revealed earlier.
A bus passed us and Guido pointed toward it. “The bus routes radiate from the transit center Uptown; the light rail goes southwest and northeast. An extension is under construction. That might be helpful. What are y’all looking for exactly?”
“Anything that helps me understand your city,” I said.
“What about segregation?” Ralph asked our guide. “I’ve heard about issues here over the years.”
“Well,” Guido said, “just like most major U.S. cities, people here tend to live next to folks who look like them. There used to be desegregation busing, but that ended in the Reagan era. Actually, in the public arena—politics, media, business—Charlotte is pretty well integrated. The most segregated hour of the week is Sunday morning during church.”
“Yeah, well,” Ralph replied, “Charlotte’s not alone there.”
“We’ve come a long way, but there’s still a long way to go.” Then he abruptly switched topics. “The city continues to grow. People are moving back Uptown again. The trend started maybe a decade or so ago. Lofts going up all over the place.”
One was being built about a block away from us and scaffolding covered one side of the unfinished building. They were at nine stories now. I wondered how tall it was going to be when it was finished.
Guido drove us past some of the famous public art Uptown, as well as the statue of Captain Jack, then guided us past the Tudor homes of Myers Park, where he told us the old money was.
A young mom was pushing a jog-stroller along the winding sidewalk, taking advantage of the cooler morning before the crushing heat of the day took over.
Then Guido took us to the famous intersection where Queens Road curls around itself and meets up with . . . well, Queens Road. “We’re named after Great Britain’s Queen Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz,” he told us. “She was married to King George III. And, of course, to this day Charlotte is known as the Queen City.”
Capitalizing on the Queen City motif, there were crowns on most of the major street signs as well as the streetlamps in Uptown. Even the taxis had crowns emblazoned on their sides. Guido explained that most of the skyscrapers were built to appear to have crowns on top. “Most famously, the Bank of America building.”
Just as it was with so many things, now that he’d pointed it out, it was obvious. The spires on top did look like a crown.
We drove past Bank of America Stadium, where the Panthers, Charlotte’s NFL team, play. “Tomorrow is Fan Celebration Day,” Guido informed us. “The season doesn’t start quite yet, but you’ll have tens of thousands of fans packed in there to meet Panthers players and watch them scrimmage.”
I could almost see the wheels in Ralph’s head turning. He was a huge gridiron fan and I imagined that he was trying to figure out a way he could meet some of the players.
South Mint Street wrapped around the stadium. “It’s called Mint Street for a reason,” Guido told us. “It’s where the mint used to be. That makes sense—I mean, that’s obvious. They’ve since moved the building and now it’s the Mint Museum over on Randolph, where you’re heading, but this whole area was involved in gold mining.”
“Yes,” I said, “tell us about the gold mining.”
“Well, gold was discovered in 1799 by Conrad Reed, a twelve-year-old boy who lived about twenty miles from here. He found a gold nugget that weighed more than seventeen pounds. His family didn’t know what kind of rock it was and ended up using it as a doorstop for three years before someone was able to identify it.”
Ralph just shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
“Well.” Guido was obviously in his element expounding all this to us. “In the coming years North Carolina became the richest gold-producing state in the Union, bringing with it an influx of foreign mine workers, until the 1849 gold rush in California, during which many of the miners from North Carolina moved out West. They say there are still places where the old mines stretch underneath Uptown, over in Third Ward.”
Ralph looked at him disbelievingly. “You’re saying that the city was built right on top of these abandoned gold mines?”
Guido shrugged. “I guess. I mean, it wouldn’t be feasible to fill up three- or four-hundred-foot-deep shafts—not to mention all the horizontal tunnels. It’s a lot easier to cap ’em and go ahead with your building project. You hear about the mines, but I’ve never actually met anyone who can tell you where one of ’em is located, so I guess you gotta take it all with a grain of salt.” Then he added, “By the way, our city streets really are paved with gold, because gold dust was in the tailings that were used to make the roads.”
He swung us past Little Sugar Creek before pulling to a stop in one of the city parks near Uptown. “This might be interesting to you gentlemen. You see that culvert over there?” He indicated an overflow tunnel that was obviously there to keep the stream that disappeared into it from flooding during times of severe rain.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, a few years ago, News Channel Thirty-Six sent a reporter down there with a cameraman. Walked right in. No gate blocking the entrance. Nothing. There are storm sewer tunnels that run all under Charlotte, more than three thousand miles of them.”
“Three thousand miles?” Ralph exclaimed.
“That’s right. You can get just about everywhere—light comes down from the manholes and the grates. This reporter, she even found that her cell phone worked down there in most places. She could track exactly where she was with her GPS. And the maps of the tunnels are all online. She planned her entire four-mile trek through the storm-drainage system using the county’s website.”
Most cities have better-protected storm-sewer systems. It was staggering to think how vulnerable a metropolitan area would be with its drainage tunnels this easily accessible.
“Thought you might find that interesting.” Guido smiled.
“I do,” I said softly.
Yes, Guido was definitely the right guy to be taking us around. He really did know his city.
I checked the t
ime—just after eleven. “Let’s head to the Mint Museum.”
“Actually,” he said, “there are a few things I need to take care of. Can you drop me off at the Chamber of Commerce?”
“Is there enough time?”
“There should be just enough.”
“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”
+ + +
No one came.
Corrine Davis had listened and waited and strained her eyes for any indication that someone was coming down the shaft, but no one did.
Besides catching some of that dripping water on her tongue, she hadn’t had anything to drink since she woke up in this tunnel. She’d been fighting off her thirst for as long as possible, but now it got the best of her.
Go to the water on the other end of the tunnel. You can always swim to—
You’re not going to swim in the water, Corrine!
But she needed to drink. She needed that for sure.
With one hand trailing along the wall, she started back toward the far end of the tunnel where the water lay.
32
After dropping Guido off, Ralph and I found our way to the Mint Museum’s branch on Randolph Road. As we pulled onto the property, I mentally reviewed what Guido had told us just before he climbed out of the car.
In 1837 the building opened as a U.S. Mint, the first one outside of Philadelphia. It served as a mint until the Civil War, when it became a Confederate headquarters, and then eventually a U.S. military post and assay office. Following the First World War, it sat vacant for over a decade. In the 1930s it was purchased by a group of citizens to become the first art museum in North Carolina.
A couple of college-age guys were tossing a Frisbee back and forth in the sprawling, well-kept lawn bordering the parking lot.
Inside the lobby we were greeted by an octogenarian sitting behind the reception desk. She wore a badge: HELLO! I’M A VOLUNTEER! HOW MAY I HELP YOU?
In a voice softened by the years, she told us that her name was Ethel. “And is this your first time to enjoy the exhibits here at the Mint Museum?”
“Actually,” I said, “we’re here to see the curator, Ms. Sharma.”
“Oh. I’m afraid she isn’t in yet, but you’re welcome to wait out here until she arrives.”
“Where’s your exhibit on Colonial and Revolutionary War weaponry?”
She pointed toward a sign on the counter with the entrance fees listed.
Ralph held up his creds. “We’re federal agents on an investigation.”
Her eyes widened. “The stolen weapons?”
“Yes.”
“I must say, I had no idea. You’re taking this very seriously.”
“Yes, we are.”
He pocketed his creds.
“And you’re really with the FBI?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are either of you profilers?”
Ralph nodded in my direction.
“You’re a real profiler?” she asked me.
“I’m an environmental criminologist. I do use something called geographic profiling. I investigate crimes by studying their timing, location, and progression, but—”
“So, a profiler?”
“Well, not exactly. You see—”
“Yes,” Ralph said. “He’s a profiler, just like on TV.”
“Really, I’m—”
Ralph chugged my shoulder. “Oh, you’re too modest. Dr. Powers.”
“Wow,” Ethel enthused. “Yes. I watch all those profiling shows on television. I’m quite a fan.”
She didn’t exactly strike me as the target demographic for crime dramas.
“I’ll bet the doer is a male, right?” she offered helpfully. “Caucasian, between twenty-five and thirty-five with low self-esteem?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“So the doer, or the perp—or wait.” She caught herself. “You’re FBI? You say UNSUB, right?”
I prefer not to.
“Some of my coworkers do.”
“Let’s see,” she continued, unfazed, “keeps to himself, has problems controlling his anger. Probably abused as a child—they’re almost always abused as children. And tortured animals too, I’ll bet. Puppies from the neighborhood. Or maybe stray cats—those are always a good choice because strays often aren’t missed.”
“You’re good at this, Ethel.” Ralph pulled out a business card. “If you ever get to DC and want a tour of Headquarters, give me a call.” He scribbled a phone number on the back of the card.
She beamed. “Oh, my.”
“Now.” He pointed toward the door. “Can we . . . ?”
“Oh, certainly, yes, yes. I’d suggest you start on the second level. Um . . . may I watch?”
Ralph leaned close; spoke in a private, secretive voice. “You know profilers. They need their space. Have to work alone. Enter the mind of the UNSUB. That sort of thing.”
Ethel nodded knowingly. “Just like on television.”
“Exactly.”
Give me a break.
When Ralph and I were out of earshot, I said, “Why do you do that?”
He smiled. “She let us in, didn’t she?”
“I can’t believe you gave her your card. Whose phone number did you put on there?”
“Margaret’s.”
“Well, then, I guess I can forgive you.”
* * *
We found the Colonial weaponry exhibit. The museum staff had removed any placards that related to the missing items and, unless you knew what you were looking for, there wasn’t any way to tell that the exhibit wasn’t complete. Some artifacts were behind glass. Most were not.
We saw no surveillance cameras directed at us, so Ralph left to orient himself to the location of cameras elsewhere on this level of the museum, and just after he stepped away, my phone rang. Tessa’s ringtone. I was a little surprised; a text would have been more up her alley.
I answered. “Hey. What’s up?”
“I think I might have something for you.” Her voice was low and whispery. “On the whole Latin-phrase thing.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“So I don’t get caught.”
“Caught?”
“Just listen: it’s a painting of a skull. From what I can tell it’s supposed to be there in Charlotte at the Mint Museum in the Randolph Road branch.”
“That’s where I am right now.”
“I know.” She sounded slightly exasperated. “I texted Lien-hua. She told me to call you, that you’d be there.”
“Wait. Back up for a sec. What did you mean when you said you didn’t want to get caught?”
“I’m in the Library of Congress’s main reading room,” she said hurriedly. “You’re not supposed to have cell phones in here. I’m sorta hiding behind the stacks.”
“And you’re there because . . . ?”
“To help you. So, like I was saying, I found a reference to it in a book. There’s a painting with a skull that looks like it’s on a shelf. Ask for it. It’s got that Latin sentence as an inscription. I think it might be what you’re looking for. The date on the painting is 1480. They should know the one. Look, I gotta go, Beck’s coming.”
The line went dead.
I wondered if my eighteen-year-old daughter was going to get thrown out of the Library of Congress for helping the FBI with an active investigation. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing that’s ever happened to her.
Ralph returned as I was putting my phone away. “That was Tessa,” I told him.
“What’s up?”
“She found a painting with the Latin inscription. If the information she has is correct, it’s here in the museum.”
“Well, then.” He started up the steps. “Let’s see if Ms. Sharma has arrived yet.�
��
33
When Ralph and I got back to the lobby we found the curator standing beside the reception desk, speaking with Ethel, the resident expert on profiling. “Like I was telling you,” Ethel said, “they’re with the FBI.” When she saw me, she gazed at me with keen fascination.
The curator was a trim, meticulous-looking woman in her mid-fifties. She had wire-rimmed glasses perched carefully on her nose and wore a summery chartreuse blouse.
After introductions, she said, “I heard about what happened to our artifacts. That they were used to . . . That they were used in the commission of a crime. I want to do everything I can to help you find the person who did this.”
“Good.” I described the painting to her, referring back to what Tessa had just told me. Ms. Sharma nodded immediately.
“Yes. That piece is in our European art exhibit, but that’s not currently on the floor. We rotate the exhibits, you see, to keep things fresh. Right now it’s in storage. Follow me.”
On the way I asked when they had moved this painting to storage.
“Right about four weeks ago. I remember it was the day after the fireworks—so July fifth.”
“And this is the only painting that has that inscription?”
“As far as I’m aware, it’s the only one that exists.”
So our guy either saw it here before it left the floor, somehow uncovered it here in storage, or, perhaps, stumbled across a reference to it like Tessa did at the Library of Congress.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
A trail through time and space.
That’s what we were looking for, and now that’s what was starting to emerge.
* * *
The modest-size climate-controlled storage room was slightly cooler than the rest of the museum. When Ms. Sharma led Ralph and me inside, she requested that we each put on some gloves that were on a table near the door. “In case you have to touch anything.”
The gloves were white and dainty and, using my phone, I discreetly snapped a photo of Ralph wearing them in case I needed to pay him back for any future Agent Powers comments.
It took Ms. Sharma less than a minute to find the artwork with the inscription.
