The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9)

by Steven F Freeman

  In moments, they reached a sign labeled “12” and stopped beneath it. Besides an elderly couple smoking by the rail thirty yards away, no one occupied the spot.

  The call of some exotic species of tropical bird echoed through the trees far below. The scene would have been picturesque if not for their mission.

  O’Neil glanced at his watch. “Five ‘til eleven. We’re early.”

  “Better that than late.”

  “I guess.”

  A set of automatic doors opened, and a blonde appeared on the deck.

  “That’s the auctioneer’s assistant,” said Jess. “What’s her name?”

  “Magda. Magda Novinsky.”

  “That’s it. Crap, talk about bad timing.”

  “What do you mean?” whispered O’Neil.

  “She’s part of the auction crew. She’ll scare off whoever is going to meet us if she stays out here for long.”

  “Dang. You’re right. Maybe she’ll leave soon.”

  Fate looked to be conspiring against them. After leaning against the rail for a moment, the assistant turned and strolled in their direction.

  O’Neil glanced at his watch again. Two ‘til eleven. If the woman kept going, she should be well past them by the top of the hour.

  He and Jess leaned over the railing, waiting for Novinsky to pass. The distant shouts of dock workers echoed up from below.

  The patter of the woman’s footsteps slowed. Dammit! If she stopped to talk shop, she’d scare off the seller for sure.

  Jess looked over her shoulder and offered a vague nod of recognition.

  “Do you have a smoke?” asked Novinsky.

  What the…?

  “Are imports okay?” stammered O’Neil, turning around. So much for his career as a suave international spy.

  Novinsky broke into a smile. “Sure.”

  He produced a lopsided grin. “You know I don’t really have—”

  “It’s okay,” she said, smiling. “Now we understand each other.”

  “I understand you have other items for sale,” said Jess. “I hope you have more selection this time.”

  “Of course. I said so in my message.”

  “Well, you didn’t last time.”

  Novinsky straightened up. “We’re not going to break out the whole catalogue on the first transaction. We had to be sure of your intentions…and bankroll. If you weren’t interested in something as inexpensive as that Mayahuel statue, you’re not the kind of seller we’re looking for.”

  O’Neil snorted. “I’m glad we passed the test.”

  “No need to be touchy,” said the assistant. “We all want the same thing: successful transactions with minimal fuss. Now that we’ve assured each others’ interests, shall I show you my selection?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get on with it.”

  Novinsky slipped a cellphone from the tiny handbag at her side. She entered a long numeric password, then brought up the photos app. “Scroll through the pictures in this album. The price of each item is listed at the top.”

  O’Neil nodded. Jess leaned in, and they proceeded to examine two dozen items for the next half hour. They made a point to express interest in specific pieces, as true buyers would do.

  At last, O’Neil turned back to Novinsky and handed her the phone.

  “We’re down to three pieces,” he said. “My wife and I need to talk about it a little more to decide which one. Hell, maybe we’ll get all of them.” He paused. “How can I get in touch with you once we’ve decided?”

  “You’ll see me at the auctions. When I see you, I will give you a copy of the program with the date and time of our next meeting written on the back.”

  “Sounds good. You have some impressive merchandise.”

  “I know.” The assistant glided back to the automatic doors and disappeared from sight.

  Back in their cabin, O’Neil and Jess discussed the rendezvous.

  “I’m no expert,” said Jess, “but some of those pieces looked like they were made with gold and silver. And some had gemstones. No wonder they cost a pretty penny.”

  “Yeah, but the undertaker’s spear wasn’t on the list.” He smacked a fist into his palm in frustration. “If they’d had it, we could’ve busted them for sure.”

  “Maybe they do have it, and we haven’t passed the next test.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” said O’Neil. “Yeah, maybe we have to work our way up to the best stuff.”

  “Exactly.”

  “In the meantime, I’m having another thought.”

  “What’s that?”

  The ex-GI pulled the carafe out of the coffee maker and filled it with bottled water. As he prepared dark-roast grounds, he continued. “Now we know that the legit auction crew is involved in the black-market trade, I’m wondering who else might be involved. China’s pretty well-known for their counterfeit goods markets. Pirated software and movies is an industry there. What if they’re moving into a new pirating trade?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The auctioneer’s name is Wendy Chan. That’s Chinese, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” said Jess. “So?”

  O’Neil activated the coffeepot and watched a trickle of hot liquid drip from the basket. “Do you remember Dr. Cornick’s gopher back at the first basilica?”

  “Yeah. Elias Tan…” She trailed off.

  “Chinese too, right?”

  She nodded but frowned. “I don’t know, Daniel. China’s a big country. Just ‘cause they both have Chinese names, it doesn’t mean they’re working together in the black market.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.” O’Neil took a hesitant sip, then blew on his coffee mug. “China’s a big country, but how many Chinese folks happen to be working the artifact market in South America? Maybe it’s a coincidence.” He took a sip of java. “But maybe it’s not.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The following morning, Alton had sat down to breakfast with Mallory in their hotel room when he received an encrypted call from O’Neil. He answered the call and switched his cellphone over to speaker.

  “Want to hear the latest?” asked O’Neil.

  “Sure,” said Alton. “Did you win the ship’s slots tournament?”

  “Very funny. Maybe I won something better: the chance to look at all the stolen goods for sale on this cruise. Cornick was right. This looks to be a hot market for stolen artifacts. And you wouldn’t believe how many people are part of the action. Turns out Magda Novinsky, the auctioneer’s assistant, is the lead seller.”

  “Did you see the artifacts for sale?”

  “Not in person,” replied O’Neil. “We only saw photos on her cellphone.”

  “What about the undertaker’s spear? Was it there?”

  “No.”

  “Crap.” Alton couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “It may not be all bad. Maybe we have to ‘pass a test’ like we did with the first artifact and make a second buy before they’ll show their best stuff.”

  “Could be,” said Mallory. “Every time the sellers show their stolen antiquities to someone, they’re taking a risk. They’d want to mitigate that risk by only showing them to trusted buyers they feel confident could bankroll that kind of purchase.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked O’Neil. “Buy something else from the list?”

  “Did you see items that looked like they could have come from either of the Guadalajara sites?” asked Alton.

  “Dude, I don’t know. It’s all old, moldy stuff. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  Alton chuckled. “Fair enough. Pick an item at random. Then tell Novinsky you’re more interested in artifacts from the Chapalas area and ask her to confirm it’s from there. Whether it’s really from that area or not, you’ve told her what kind of stuff you’re looking for. If the undertaker’s spear is available, I have to imagine you’ll be one of the buyers she’ll ask to bid.”

  “Got it,” said O’Neil. “There’s one other thing. The lead a
uctioneer’s name is Wendy Chan. Sounds Chinese, right? Who else do we know that has a Chinese-sounding name?”

  “Elias Tan,” said Mallory.

  “Right. Maybe it’s a coincidence. But how many Asian visitors do you see in Latin America? Not that many, especially two that happen to be involved in same unusual line of trade. It might be worth checking out.”

  “I can request a standard FBI background check on both of them,” said Mallory. “If anything suspicious pops up, Vega can run the NSA’s more-extensive profiling algorithms. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  “Sounds good,” said O’Neil. “In the meantime, I have old junk to buy.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Alton left the Hilton to meet Vasquez at her office at police headquarters, leaving Mallory free to proceed to the Zapopan Basilica.

  She had just arrived when the oily form of Sergeant Pineda emerged from the shadows of the construction tarps.

  His eyebrows rose. “You still working this case?”

  “Yes. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “I think maybe my boss tell you he don’t need your help.” He shrugged. “What do I know?”

  Somehow, the sergeant’s deference worried Mallory more than his outright chauvinism. What was the man up to now?

  “Is there something you need, Sergeant?” she asked.

  His eyes clouded over. “The lieutenant send me to tell Dr. Cornick the autopsy results for Eden Grey and Dr. Salazar are ready. But Cornick isn’t here yet.” He glanced at his watch. “Maybe you can let him know?”

  “Sure. I imagine he’ll want to speak with the medical examiner. Do you have the doctor’s name and phone number?”

  Pineda withdrew a small, spiral-bound notebook from a front shirt pocket and scribbled the information onto a page. Wordlessly, he tore out the page and passed it to Mallory.

  “Thanks. I’ll let him know.”

  A half hour later, Mallory intercepted the archeologist on his way in and shared Pineda’s message.

  Deliberately, Cornick lowered himself onto a pew. He lowered his head, lost in thought, but said nothing.

  Mallory spoke in a gentle voice. “I know this is difficult for you. Would you like me to call the M.E.?”

  Cornick nodded, still unable to speak.

  Mallory laid her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of it. Would you like to know what I find out?”

  Cornick sighed. “Honestly, in a way, I don’t want to know. But I feel like I should.” He paused to consider. “I already know in general what happened to each person. I don’t need to know the details unless you think they’re important.”

  “Got it.”

  “Do you think they’ll have information on Harry’s death?”

  “Dr. Miller?” said Mallory. “No, not yet. They just moved his body to the morgue last night. They won’t have information on him for a few days, minimum. This report is for the others.”

  “I see. Thank you for taking care of this for me. I don’t know if I could…” He trailed off.

  Mallory moved off, leaving the scientist to his private thoughts.

  She glanced at her watch. It was early, but maybe she’d catch the M.E. before the work day ramped up.

  She moved to the rear of the sanctuary and dialed the number.

  “Bueno,” came the answer after the second ring.

  “Dr. Rios?”

  “Yes, this is Dr. Rios.”

  “My name is Mallory Blackwell. I’m assisting Gaby Vasquez in the murder investigation of the bodies you recently autopsied. Sergeant Pineda said you’ve finished your work, and I’m hoping to learn what you’ve discovered.”

  “I see. Give me a minute please.”

  The hold stretched to nearly ten minutes.

  At last, Rios returned to the phone. “Sorry for the wait, but I had to verify your identity. If I gave out information to the wrong people, I could be fired.”

  “I understand,” replied Mallory.

  Rios paused. The sound of keyboard tapping could be heard over the phone. “Here we go. One of the victims was Oscar Salazar. Cause of death was cardiac tamponade—blood filling the space between the sac that encases the heart and the heart muscle. The fluid filled up the sac and compressed his heart, preventing new oxygenated blood from entering. Before long, that lack of fresh blood caused the heart to stop.”

  “That was a result of being stabbed?”

  “Yes, three times in the heart and a four more in other parts of his body. I estimate he died quickly, probably within five minutes.”

  “I see,” said Mallory. “Where there any defensive wounds?”

  “No, none.”

  “Interesting,” said Mallory. “So either Salazar knew the killer, or he was taken completely by surprise. Or both. Did the killer leave any trace evidence behind on Salazar’s body?”

  “No, I didn’t see…” He cut himself off. “Actually, there was one thing—not necessarily from the killer, but just strange.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A couple of beige fibers in the wound. They don’t match anything Salazar was wearing.”

  “How do you know they’re not from the killer?”

  “One of the fibers was modern. But the other one was ancient—crumbling a little even though I was careful when extracting it.”

  Mallory twisted a strand of hair around an index finger. “Well, he did work on an archeological site. The old fiber could have come from something at his dig.”

  “I think so. It’s much too fragile to have come from modern clothing. The new fiber was standard dyed cotton—same as thousands of other shirts available in this region.” The sound of more keyboard tapping came through. “That’s all I have for Salazar.”

  “What about Eden Grey?”

  “Yes, the other victim. Let me see…” More keyboard clacking. “She died of blunt force trauma. Multiple blows to the head. And she did have defensive wounds on both forearms.”

  “Stab wounds?”

  “No, but her right ulna—the underside forearm bone—was broken. It looks like the killer was swinging something heavy, and she moved her arms up to block the blow. After that, he connected with her skull.”

  Mallory shuddered. That explained the damage in Grey’s front living room. The fight started there. Grey must have run for the back bedroom, where the killer finished her off.

  “Did you find any other trace evidence on her?” she asked.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s a lot of soil on her shoes. The forensics team tells me it’s all from the site where she worked.”

  “I see. Nothing else?”

  “No, not on her body or clothes. I tell you…”

  “Yes?” asked Mallory.

  “This kind of beating…it’s not typical for a robbery. When I see these kinds of injuries in the past, it is usually a crime of anger, one person punishing another.”

  “That makes sense. Lieutenant Vasquez said nothing valuable was removed from Grey’s apartment. She didn’t think it was a robbery, either.” She paused. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”

  “No, that’s all for now. If you give me your number, I’ll give you a ring when I’ve wrapped up the autopsy of Harold Miller.”

  “That’d be great.” She provided her number and ended the call.

  Mallory wandered outside to mull over this new information—not that it provided any huge breakthroughs.

  There, to the basilica’s right, stood the same row of souvenir carts that had occupied their respective spots every day since the NSA team’s arrival…occupied them every day.

  Mallory strolled over to the first cart and picked up a replica of the church carved in pine. In the distance, a taxi honked and a pair of children tagging behind a young mother laughed.

  The cart’s proprietor, an ancient lady with a weathered face and broad circumference, struggled to her feet. “You like to buy, Señora?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” replied Mallory. She set
down the statue and picked up an alabaster crucifix. Without moving her eyes from the trinket, she asked, “You’re out here every day, aren’t you?”

  “Sí. All the time.”

  “You must see a lot of things.”

  The vendor chuckled, sending ripples down her second chin. “I see many things, yes.”

  Mallory withdrew a photo of Eden Grey from her purse. “Do you remember seeing this lady around here?”

  “The gringo worker? Sure, I used to see her every day. She don’t come here no more, though.”

  Mallory nodded.

  “And not just her,” continued the old woman with a sly smile. “Usually, Marco meet her over there.” She waved a flabby arm towards the low brink wall of the flower planter fronting the church.

  “You’re not talking about Marco Diaz, are you?”

  “Sí. That’s the guy.”

  “So Marco did know her,” murmured Mallory, more to herself than the cart’s owner.

  The lady chuckled, setting her ample frame jiggling. “Sí, he know her all right. He is the lady’s boyfriend.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “Boyfriend!” said Mallory. “Are you sure?”

  The old lady giggled. “I don’t think she kiss anyone else like that.”

  Mallory shook her head, then bought a wooden replica of the church from her oblivious informant. “Keep the change,” she said, her mind racing.

  She pulled up the case notes of Eden Grey’s murder on her smartphone and searched for “Marco.” Finding a reference, she translated the passage to English, read it, and shook her head. She and Alton had missed a key piece of evidence—badly.

  No time like the present to address their oversight. She set off on foot for The Hideout restaurant.

  Minutes later, she stormed though the entrance.

  Before looking up, Marco began to speak. “We’re not open…oh, it’s you.”

  Mallory steeled her voice. “We need to talk.”

  “I got nothing to say to you.”

  “I promise you’ll want to talk with me. ‘Cause it’ll be either me or Lieutenant Vasquez down at the police station.”