Setting out again, O’Neil darted a glance at his partner. She knew the truth but was too sensitive to his feelings to call him out.
O’Neil smiled and grasped her hand. As they neared the theater’s entrance, he turned to his companion. “I have to admit, I’m surprised these auction guys are using such a big venue. Surely there aren’t going to be that many…” Passing through the doors, he trailed off.
A sea of finely dressed passengers occupied nearly every seat in the joint. Even the theater’s second level contained a mere handful of open chairs.
The presentation had yet to begin. In the meantime, bar staff scurried to and fro, delivering a steady stream of overpriced cocktails to the chattering audience.
“I stand corrected,” said O’Neil. “Let’s find a seat.”
A quarter hour later, a forty-something woman of Asian descent entered the stage. Hair, shoes, formal lavender dress—everything about her spoke of style and sophistication.
The house lights dimmed.
The presenter took in the audience with a benevolent smile. “Good evening. My name is Wendy Chan. I’d like to extend a warm welcome to those whose imaginations are captured by rare antiquities. Over the next eleven days, you’ll be seeing a lot of me. I’ll be your auctioneer and chief of ceremonies—and perhaps marriage counselor for those of you who can’t agree with your spouse on a bid price.”
A smattering of chuckles echoed through the theater.
She took on a more serious tone. “And for some of you, I’ll be making your dreams come true. Yes, we have bid items to match every budget. But for the truly discriminating buyer, we have an assortment of some of the rarest pieces of Mesoamerican history ever assembled in one place.”
Now a murmur rose from the audience.
O’Neil leaned over to Jess and spoke in a whisper. “Probably some of the rarest prices, too.”
She nodded. “Sounds like the kind of place that’d attract black-market buyers. Now we just have to find the black-market sellers—if there are any.”
CHAPTER 17
Alton slipped the Heckler and Koch pistol from his rear waistband and stuffed it into his front pocket.
“What do you want?” called a voice from the other side of the property’s oak gate. The double doors normally provided vehicular access, but at the moment they served only to impede the conversation.
“This is the police. We’d like to speak with Veronica Garcia.”
One of the massive doors creaked open. A head peaked through the crack, followed by a voluptuous body. Stray hairs drifted out of the young woman’s ponytail and across her face, but hasty preparations couldn’t mask her striking beauty—probably what attracted a drug-runner like Cruz in the first place.
“I’m Veronica Garcia.” Her eyes darted from Vasquez to Alton. “What do you want?”
Vasquez introduced herself and Alton in Spanish. “Could we come in for a minute? We have a few questions about your boss.”
Garcia motioned them inside. They cut across a circular driveway, making for the entrance to an elegant stucco house modeled in a Spanish style. “My boss?”
“Yes,” said Vasquez as the trio moved past a tinkling fountain and through the front entrance. “You work for Gustavo Cruz, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes, my boss.” She motioned for her guests to take seats on a burgundy couch of supple leather. “What do you need to know about him?”
“We need to ask him some questions.”
Garcia raised her eyebrows but remained silent.
“He owns a warehouse next to the Guadalajara Cathedral, where an American researcher disappeared last month,” said Alton, switching the conversation to English. “We’re hoping he might have seen something or heard rumors on the street about what happened.”
“The police are rough with Gustavo.” She produced a triumphant smile. “But they are never able to charge him with a crime. Why should he help you?”
Alton leaned forward on the couch. “I’m here to track down one of my fellow citizens. What do you think will happen if he’s not found? There’ll be more investigators pouring into the cathedral, looking for clues, right across the street from your employer’s warehouse. They might even check out the warehouse itself from time to time. How do you think Cruz would feel about that?”
Garcia’s smile faded. “I hear about the missing American. But Gustavo don’t say nothing to me about him.”
“That’s why we need to find Gustavo himself,” said Vasquez. “Maybe he knows something but hasn’t mentioned it to you. Do you know how we can contact him?”
“He has a cellphone, but he don’t answer it when he’s off in his cenotes.”
Alton cast a knowing glance at Vasquez. “We heard Cruz likes cave diving. That’s where he is now?”
“Sí.”
“Do you know which cenote?”
“Sí—the ones near LabnaHa.” Her eyebrows bunched together in a puzzled expression.
“It surprises you he’d go there?” asked Alton.
“Not so much. It’s just—last week, he went there and lost some equipment. I wouldn’t think he’d want to go back to this place and maybe lose something again.”
Alton ran a hand through his hair. To avoid raising suspicions, his next statement would have to be worded carefully. “He lost some equipment? I’m surprised he didn’t drown!”
“Oh, it wasn’t his scuba gear. It was cameras for taking the pictures.”
“An underwater camera? That’s cool.”
“I think it was more than one. He take them all in a big metal box, the kind that keeps out the water. But when he returned, the box was gone.”
“He must have been upset,” remarked Alton.
Garcia’s puzzled expression returned. “Sabe, not really. And that is a funny thing. He seem okay about it.” Her eyes clouded. “And he is a man who gets angry very easily.”
“Did you see where he dropped the camera box?”
“No. Usually I go with him—his ‘dive buddy,’ he say. But not that day.”
Alton nodded. This looked to be a promising lead.
No one spoke for a moment.
Vasquez broke the silence. “Can you give us Gustavo’s cellphone number?”
“Sí.” Garcia passed her own cellphone over for the police woman to read off the digits. “But like I say, he won’t answer when he’s in the caves.”
“Thanks for your time,” said Vasquez, standing.
Alton accompanied his partner back across the circular driveway and pushed open the border fence’s solid gate. “So we go to LabnaHa and see if we can find the box he ‘lost’?”
“Yes. And if we can’t find the box, maybe we can find Cruz him—”
A gunshot rang out, and the window of a Mercedes parked on the street yards away exploded into a thousand shards.
“Take cover!” said Alton, diving behind a different parked car.
More slugs ripped into the heavy oak door behind them and sent splinters of plaster flying off the adjacent stucco wall.
Alton pulled the handgun from his pocket and peered around the auto’s fender. No one fell in sight.
Vasquez had her pistol out and trained it in the direction of the gunfire. She couldn’t spot their attacker, either.
The crash of a metallic object, perhaps a trash can, echoed from an alley across the street, down to the left. If the assailant had fired from the end of that passage and retreated, he could have knocked over the object during his retreat.
Alton nodded towards the alley. He and Vasquez used a tactical approach, one covering as the other advanced.
In moments, they reached the narrow passage. A battered trashcan lay on its side, fresh garbage spewing onto the ground as it continued to roll.
Alton studied the ground. “Shell casings.” He touched one. “They’re still hot. That was our guy.”
“He’s long gone now,” said Vasquez, shaking her head in frustration. “There are fifty of these alleys in
this area, and dozens of buildings to hide in.”
“There’s one good side to this,” said Alton, his leg beginning to ache as the adrenaline of combat began to wear off. “Whoever that was just now wouldn’t be taking potshots at us if we weren’t getting close to the truth. Looks like we need to make our best time to the LabnaHa cenote.”
CHAPTER 18
O’Neil had never expected to participate in anything as opulent as this cruise, especially with Jess.
Yet truth be told, the first twenty-four hours of the experience had represented anything but a vacation. His anxiety level had continued to rise as one dead end led to another. If any black-market dealers had signed on for this cruise, their subtle inquiries had made no progress identifying them.
“What is it?” Jess asked him as they shared lunch on the pool deck.
“We’ve got to start producing results,” replied O’Neil. “We haven’t found out a damn thing yet.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, resting her hand on his arm. “The first auction isn’t for another three hours. If we’re going to find those kinds of people, it’ll be there.”
O’Neil nodded. “Yeah. I guess.”
After finishing their meal, the couple joined the end of a long line outside the theater. They signed in and received their auction placard, then entered the brightly lit space.
O’Neil ordered a piña colada for himself and a rum-and-coke for Jess. They made their way down the sloped aisle to the stage, where an astounding variety of antiquities had been placed in tiered displays. The couple meandered across the width of the stage, taking in the items up for auction. Pottery, tattered blankets, knives, totems, ceramic crafts, and dozens of other artifacts packed the shelves.
O’Neil looked to his companion. “Guess they’re starting off with a bang, huh?”
“Yeah. They must have a lot of stuff if they’re selling all this today.”
They retreated back up the aisle and took seats around a tiny, circular table in the right corner at the back of the theater, a vantage point providing line of sight to the entire space. If anything out of the ordinary occurred during the proceedings, they’d see it. Of course, would they know what to look for? This was the first time either had attended an auction of this sort.
The house lights dimmed. Cocktail waiters who had scurried around the room delivering drinks stopped plying their trade.
Wendy Chan, the auctioneer, took the stage, this time wearing a glittering formal gown of silver and white.
She welcomed the crowd, then launched into a series of legal disclaimers that threatened to plunge even the most enthusiastic collector into a lethargic stupor.
“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way,” she said at last, “let’s get this party started.”
The audience showed the first signs of life. A murmur rose from the crowd, while a dozen attendees straightened in their chairs.
She held up a large, earthen-colored jar with a tapered neck and tilted spout. “This ceramic jar dates from the fifteenth century. It was crafted by Aztec potters from local clay and acquired its red color from the firing process. Let me be honest with you…the Aztec elite preferred earthenware from the pottery-making center of Cholula, a city to the southeast of Tenochtitlan. And later this week, we’ll have some prime examples of Cholula pottery. But this piece here is a top-rate example of the kind of pottery everyday Aztecs used. It has minimal damage and weathering and would make a fine addition to anyone’s collection.”
After a few more minutes of describing the different kinds of pottery the Aztecs used—plates, storage bins, cocoa jugs, and a dozen more—Chan began taking bids on the piece.
The placards jumped into the air with a lively pace. After a round of bidding, the competition dwindled down to two bidders: an obese retiree with long, khaki shorts and bushy mustache, and a twenty-something woman with coal-black hair pulled back into an unforgiving ponytail.
Before long, the woman placed the winning bid. She smiled in satisfaction towards an older woman at her side—her mother, perhaps?—before signing a form brought over by Chan’s attractive blonde assistant.
The auction continued for another hour, the available items consisting of pieces that even to O’Neil’s untrained eye seemed unremarkable. The better ones hadn’t yet been moved from their display cases.
As Chan wrapped up the sale of a lipped plate with a sun design in its center, O’Neil stood and leaned into a gentle stretch.
Jess eyed him with a look of concern. “The wounds still hurt?”
“A little—mostly when I sit for too long.” He hastened a smile. “It’s not bad. Most of the time I forget about it.”
He resumed his seat just as Chan’s blonde assistant, who had been making her way around the room, reached their table.
Plain black glasses made of dull plastic couldn’t hide the woman’s beauty. From blonde locks to a voluptuous frame accentuated by a navy-blue business jacket and skirt, she ran the risk of stealing attention away from her manager’s wares. “Enjoying the action so far?” She spoke with an exotic, Eastern-European accent.
Time to play the high-rolling collector.
O’Neil shrugged. “It’s okay. But I saw some other pieces I liked better up there.” He nodded towards the stage.
“Yes. We’ll get to some of them over the next few minutes. But most will be auctioned later in the cruise.” She held out a hand and shook hands with each of them in turn. “I’m Magdalena Novinsky, by the way. My friends call me Magda. If you need anything during the cruise, I will be happy to help you.”
“Funny you should say that,” said O’Neil. “We were wondering…” He trailed off.
“Yes?” replied the blonde.
“Do you carry any inventory that isn’t up for auction?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Jess spoke up. “We heard you might have a…special inventory for select buyers. People who have more money to spend than you’re asking for this run-of-the-mill stuff,” she added with a languid wave of the hand toward the chirping auctioneer and her small piece of pottery on a black, velvet cloth.
“I’m sorry, but all of the inventory will be up for auction by the end of the cruise. Otherwise, why bring it?” She smiled. “You needn’t worry about the quality of artifacts you’ll find on this cruise. Today is just a warmup. The good stuff doesn’t come out for another day or two. It’s much better than the items we’ve displayed today.” She turned to leave but glanced back over her shoulder. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Yeah,” said O’Neil, a dismal sensation filling his stomach. “Me, too.”
CHAPTER 19
Mallory had no idea what kind of luck the others were having. But she did know it wasn’t in abundant supply in her portion of the investigation.
She’d just have to make some luck of her own.
“Think, Dr. Cornick,” she asked the scientist as they picked over lunch at the ever-present table fronting the altar in the Zapopan Basilica. “Are there any specific artifacts you recall unearthing that have now gone missing?”
Cornick ceased work on the soft taco Mallory had bought from a crowded vendor down the alley. He squinted in concentration. “It’s tough to answer that.” In response to Mallory’s confused look, he continued. “The older artifacts, the ones I mentioned before, have all been accounted for, but I’m not sure about the ones uncovered within the last few weeks. As soon as we start removing the next load of items from the cave, I’ll definitely know if anything missing. That’s when we double-check the objects being removed against our initial inventory. But we haven’t done that yet, so it’d be difficult to tell if any of those newer pieces are missing. Funny thing is, if I had only ten or twenty artifacts, yes, I’d notice if one went missing even before their removal. The problem here is the abundance of artifacts. We have hundreds. It’s not like you’d notice…” He froze, a look of horror washing across his pale features.
“Wh
at is it?” asked Mallory.
“Surely not,” mumbled Cornick, more to himself than to her. He jumped to his feet and scurried over to the ladder. As he descended, he mumbled again. “It was there this morning, right?”
For an elderly scientist, Cornick made surprisingly good time down the ladder—a happy side effect of archeology’s physical demands.
Mallory scampered down the ladder after him. “You want to explain what’s up?”
Lost in thought, Cornick didn’t answer. He picked up his pace, arms pistoning by his sides in rapid fashion.
He entered the central chamber and cut a direct path to the altar on the far wall.
Mallory caught up to Cornick just as he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness,” he said, peering at the covered object fronting the rock calendar. “Everything is in order.”
“You want to explain what gave you a fright?” asked Mallory, panting a bit.
“I mentioned that it’s hard to notice missing pieces when we have so many. Then I thought for a moment what I would notice missing. And the answer is obvious: the most valuable object in this place—the spear of Mictlantecuhtli. And I couldn’t remember for a fact whether I’d seen it poking up the tarp like it usually does. I used to check it every day, but lately I’ve gotten ‘round to this task only a couple of times a week.” He pointed to an upward slope in the middle of the statue and began to remove the cloth. “But you can see it’s still there. All safe and—”
He froze, the covering slipping from his motionless hands.
No need to guess the cause of Cornick’s agitation this time. A modern broom had been tethered to the statue’s arm to give the appearance of the undertaker’s spear under the tarp.
The spear itself was nowhere to be seen.
Cornick remained frozen to the spot, his eyes locked on the broom. He took a tentative step forward, then another, his gaze never moving from the statue. His pale countenance resembled that of a person still recovering from a long illness.
“It’s valuable?” asked Mallory.
The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9) Page 8
