The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9)

by Steven F Freeman

  Cruz motioned to his men. They filed from the antechamber in silence.

  Alton watched them troop out of the cathedral’s massive front door before turning back to Vasquez. “What do you make of that?”

  Vasquez strode from the antechamber’s gloom into the somewhat brighter light of the sanctuary. She turned back to face Alton, a frown playing across her lips. “The guilty always claim they’re innocent. It means nothing.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Sergeant Pineda led Mallory through a maze of floors and cubicles in Guadalajara’s downtown police building. He stopped, motioned to a door marked Forense—Forensics—and left.

  Of course, the man wouldn’t make introductions. Vasquez hadn’t explicitly ordered him to do that; she had merely ordered the recalcitrant policeman to show Mallory to the forensics lab.

  No matter. Mallory could handle herself.

  She entered the room and found a mid-forties man sporting an open lab coat studying a row of figures on a computer monitor.

  He looked up. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m Mallory Blackwell. I’m here to look at the evidence gathered for the archeologists’ homicides.”

  “Ah, yes. The American investigator. Vasquez told me to expect you. I’m Dr. Villanueva, the assistant medical examiner. Come this way.”

  The doctor led Mallory to an adjacent room packed with filing cabinets. Rows of florescent lights along the ceiling bathed the room in stark, antiseptic light.

  “This is where we hold files that haven’t yet been digitized or sent to records retention. These cases are ongoing, so all of the evidence is still here in paper form.” He pulled open the top drawer of a cabinet sheathed in grey steel and pulled out three fat folders. “Here are the case files. Enjoy.” Villanueva scurried back to his work.

  Mallory took a seat at a large, inclined board resembling a draftsman’s table—an ingenious design, allowing one to study evidence up close without undue stooping. A row of bulbs along the top of the board cast even light across its surface, and an adjustable microscope on a free-standing arm provided further analytical capabilities. Vasquez was right; this really was the best place to review the case files.

  She flipped through the folder’s crime-scene photographs of Eden Grey’s apartment: broken pieces of lamp lying scattered in the front den, an indented bedspread in Grey’s back bedroom, the duffle bag Grey had thrown on her bedroom floor for the last time…

  Wait—the duffle bag. A strip of cloth peeked out of its unzipped cavity. Mallory moved the photo under the microscope. Sure enough, the cloth was beige, the same color as the trace fabric found in Oscar Salazar’s stab wounds. Further tests would be needed to confirm whether the samples of fabric truly matched, but if what if they did? Would that prove the same person murdered both Grey and Salazar?

  Mallory scanned the inventory of items found in Grey’s apartment. The only beige item from Grey’s duffle bag was a short-sleeved, cotton work shirt.

  Could this be the source of the newer fiber in Salazar’s stab wound? What if this shirt was standard issue for the team of archeologists? Had Salazar been wearing a similar one the day he was murdered? If so, it would explain the presence of fabric in his wound.

  Mallory opened Salazar’s folder, needing only seconds to find a crime-scene photo.

  Salazar had been wearing a black shirt. No wonder the medical examiner called attention to the beige fabric in the archeologist’s wounds.

  The shirt didn’t seem to be standard issue, but somehow, similar fabric had ended up at two crime scenes. The next logical step would be asking Vasquez’s people to test the fabric samples for a match.

  Mallory turned her attention back to Grey’s folder. She thumbed through a bundle of photos taken of the graduate student's lifeless body, studying minute details under the desk’s panel of lights.

  On the fourth photo, the one depicting the lower half of Grey’s body, Mallory gave a start. She studied Grey’s running shoes again, then shook her head. She wasn’t sure if she was on to something, but there was an easy way to find out.

  Grabbing a photo, Mallory wandered back into the M.E.’s examination room. “Would it be possible to have one of these pictures enlarged?”

  “Sure, that’s easy,” replied Villanueva. “Which one?”

  Mallory handed across a photo. “I’d like to be able to make out the detail of her shoes. When can you have it ready?”

  The scientist screwed up his face in thought. “Actually, Lieutenant Vasquez’s people do that sort of thing. I have to finish taping the residue off these jeans first, then I’ll send the image file to her. She should have it ready in a few hours at most.”

  “That’s fine,” said Mallory. “I’ll swing by later to pick it up.”

  She returned to study the case files, but brooding excitement rendered focusing difficult. Once enlarged, the photo might prove this new detail to be insignificant. Or it could bust the case wide open.

  CHAPTER 41

  O’Neil stabbed at the rigatoni appetizer, not particularly hungry but knowing a fast wouldn’t serve him well.

  He had brought Jess to La Madia, the ship’s specialty Italian restaurant, as a recompense for the unfortunate turn of events in their investigation.

  He caught his companion staring at him, a half-smile playing on her lips. “I’m not happy, either,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon. I can see you’re frustrated how things have turned out. I am, too. We had a solid lead, a good chance to bust the fencing ring and recover the undertaker’s spear. Now…?” She let the question hang.

  O’Neil soaked in the classic strains of a Vivaldi concerto and took a sip of Chianti. “Exactly.”

  The waiter brought their entrées and melted away.

  “Well,” said Jess. “It could be worse.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We didn’t bring our real passports on this trip,” said Silva. “If we had, we’d be having bigger problems. I don’t think the folks involved in this ring would be thrilled to discover federal agents are on board. They might feel compelled to silence us. We’d be hauling ass off this ship.”

  “True,” said O’Neil. “But still…our chances of buying the undertaker’s spear just fell to zero. And that’s the main reason we’re here—to find it and bust the sellers.” He chewed on a bite of chicken parmesan before continuing. “I guess the next best thing is rounding up the sellers. We still have the two artifacts we bought as proof of the black-market ring. We could show them to the captain and ask him to search Novinsky’s cabin…and the auctioneer’s inventory room.”

  Silva shook her head. “It won’t hurt, but my gut tells me Novinsky’s too slick for that. She’s already put the hot merchandise in a better hiding place. I’m sure of it.”

  “So we just let her walk?”

  “What’s the choice? We don’t have any proof she did anything wrong. We can’t use the stuff she sold us without getting rid of any slim chance she’ll sell more stuff to us after all.”

  “What about calling the port authority?” said O’Neil. “Give them an anonymous tip that Novinsky and others are carrying contraband. And suggest they to go through everything she and her auction company coworkers are taking off board?”

  “That’s a thought. If she tries to hang onto any other illegal stuff she didn’t sell, they might uncover it.”

  Back in their cabin an hour later, O’Neil wrapped up an encrypted call to Agent Vega.

  “Well, it’s out of our hands now,” he told Jess. “Vega will get the word out to the port authority. In the meantime, he wants us to continue our charade in case Novinsky has a change of heart.”

  Jess glanced at her watch. “There’s no more auctions until tomorrow. I doubt Novinsky has anything more planned for today.”

  “If she does, she certainly knows where to find us.”

  Jess moved over and draped her arms on O’Neil’s shoulders. “It’s getting late.
From the looks of you, hitting tonight’s show doesn’t sound too appealing.”

  “You got that right.” He encircled her waist in his embrace. “Why would I want to cram myself into a seat next to people I don’t know when the company here is so much better?”

  They kissed, leisurely, but with a building passion. He fell onto the bed and pulled her on top of him.

  They kissed again before Jess raised herself a few inches. “The theater doesn’t sound fun to me, either,” she said with a grin. Seconds later, a troubled look crossed her face. “Daniel, I’ve been waiting for this moment. But…what about your stitches? I thought that’s why we haven’t…you know…until now.”

  O’Neil hesitated. Was Jess truly concerned about his abdominal wound or simply trying to talk her way out of an undesirable situation?

  He licked his lips. “I’m willing to take a chance if you are. But if you don’t want to, it’s no problem—”

  Silva lowered herself into another kiss before replying. “What do you think?”

  CHAPTER 42

  The following morning, Alton and Mallory breakfasted from the top floor of the Hilton Guadalajara. Their table afforded a view of a wide swath of the sprawling city. The morning sun lit a portion of the surrounding foothills in a warm glow while leaving the rest in dark shadow.

  Alton glanced at his watch. “We’d better get back to the room. It’s almost time for the call.”

  Back in their quarters, Alton activated the encryption app on his cellphone and initiated a secured teleconference with the entire team.

  “Morning, everyone,” he said once everyone had dialed in. “Since we haven’t connected for a couple of days, I thought it’d be good to get everyone up to speed on the progress of each team. O’Neil, would you like to go first?”

  “Sure. Yesterday, me and Silva bought our second piece, some kind of ornamental knife. We came back to the cabin just after someone had broken in. Turns out it was Novinsky, the auctioneer’s assistant.”

  “What’d she take?” asked Alton. “The knife?”

  “That’s the funny part. She didn’t take anything. She said she just wanted to verify our identities.”

  “She didn’t find out, did she?” asked Alton.

  “Naw. We only brought the fake passports Vega dummied up. As far as Novinsky knows, we’re rich buyers.”

  “But it’s not all good,” added Silva. “Novinsky was wearing a disguise when she broke into our cabin. We chased her onto the deck. She got spooked and tossed another artifact overboard. Said it was insurance against getting busted in case we got pissed at her break-in and decided to call the cops.”

  Alton mulled over this piece of news. “Do you think she’d still be willing to sell anything else to you?”

  “Hard to say for sure,” said O’Neil, “but I doubt it. She’s a cool customer. I don’t think she’ll want to risk doing business with someone who might still be mad at her.”

  “Stay available, just in case,” said Alton.

  “Will do,” replied O’Neil.

  Alton drummed three fingers on his lips, an undercurrent of confusion running through his mind. O’Neil sounded pretty happy, considering the bad news he was delivering. But come to think of it, so did Silva.

  He looked the question at Mallory, who wore a knowing smirk.

  Ahhhh…

  Shaking his head with a half-grin, Alton continued. “Call me or Mallory if anything develops.”

  “Roger,” said O’Neil. “Speaking of updates, have you had a chance to find out if our auctioneer knows Elias Tan?”

  “Yep,” said Mallory. “That was interesting. Last month, Tan made a sale through eBay to a company called Jí Diànjí. Turns out that’s a shell corporation. Guess who the sole owner is?”

  “Wendy Chan!”

  “That’s right,” said Mallory.

  “That’s good, right?” chimed in David. “It proves Tan has sold stuff to Chan in the past.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t prove he did this time.”

  “That’s still one hell of a lead.”

  “Agreed. Speaking of leads, Mastana, what have you discovered?”

  “I’ve been spending a lot of time in the restaurant owned by Julio Diaz,” said the teen in her melodic voice. “I sit in the large room at the entrance so I can watch Marco Diaz.” She hesitated. “Marco acts…strange.”

  “Like, guilty strange?” asked David.

  “I cannot tell. Certainly, he seems to have much on his mind. I have asked him a few times if he would like to talk. It seems to me he wants to but is afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That is the question I cannot answer. I will keep going there and hope he decides to confide in me.”

  No one spoke for a moment.

  “We’ve told you what’s up on our end,” said Silva. “You got any news?”

  “Yes,” said Alton. “Vasquez and I discovered Dr. Miller’s body in the tunnels under the downtown basilica.”

  “So he is dead,” said O’Neil.

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Do they know how he was killed?”

  “I spoke with the M.E. last night,” said Mallory. “He’s going to put a rush on it. We should have the results later today.”

  “It has to be Cruz and his flunkies, don’t you think?”

  Vasquez spoke for the first time. “Yes, that is what we believe. But why is a different question. Did Miller discover drugs? Did he try to stop Cruz from selling stolen artifacts? We must learn the answer to have a case we can take to court.”

  “We’ll each continue with our lines of inquiry,” said Alton. “I’ll set up another call for tomorrow. But if you learn of anything important, let me know asap.”

  “Yes,” said Vasquez. “The news of Dr. Miller’s death is in today’s newspaper.”

  “What?” said Mallory. “How? I thought we kept it secret.”

  “I thought so, too. But the word is out. If we don’t act quickly, Cruz might leave the country…and escape justice.”

  CHAPTER 43

  The following morning, Mallory and David had just started questioning the shop owners one block off the Zapopan Basilica’s plaza when Mallory decided to call the medical examiner.

  “Dr. Villanueva,” she said. “I was wondering if you have an ETA for the report on Harold Miller.”

  “Let me see…” replied the doctor. “I’ve examined the body, but I don’t have all my labs back yet. They won’t be here until late morning. I’d say I’ll be ready early afternoon.”

  “Great,” said Mallory. “Say, I need to go by the police station to pick up that photograph. Maybe I can wait so we can discuss Miller’s autopsy at the same time.”

  “Okay. Come after one o’clock. I’ll be in the morgue. Just follow the signs.”

  “Perfect—thanks.”

  Mallory used the time in the taxi to let her mind play over the facts surrounding the three murders. For once, all evidence pointed in the same direction. Not every question had been answered, but the investigators certainly seemed to be on pace to answer the remaining questions—if only they could collect enough evidence before Cruz skipped the country.

  Mallory paid the driver and mounted the steps to the Instituto Jalisciense de Ciencias Forenses, the Jalisco Institute of Forensic Science. Entering the colonial-style building, she followed a series of “Morgue” signs to the back of the building.

  She tapped on the wood-and-glass door.

  “Pase!” came the reply from within.

  Mallory swung open the door. Cool air smelling of formaldehyde and decay greeted her as she entered. Three spotless, steel tables stood in the center of the room, while cabinets stuffed with equipment filled every wall.

  “Dr. Villanueva?” she called.

  “Yes, back here,” called the doctor from a computer terminal at the rear wall. He typed a few more words and looked up. “Ah, it’s Agent Blackwell, right?”

  “That’s right.” Mal
lory approached the doctor and shook his hand. “Have you had a chance to wrap up your autopsy of Miller?”

  The man leaned his long, tall frame against the top of his monitor. “Yes, and you may be surprised at my findings.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Dr. Miller wasn’t killed. He died from an MI.”

  “A what?” asked Mallory.

  “Myocardial Infarction—a heart attack.”

  The medical examiner was right. Mallory hadn’t expected this. “Are you sure? He definitely wasn’t murdered?”

  “Positive. His TTC and Acridine Orange Fluorescent stains both came back positive. Not that I really needed those tests. He had significant atherosclerosis—narrowing of the coronary arteries—and complete blockage of the right artery.”

  “I see,” said Mallory, digesting this latest news. “Were there any wounds or bruises, something that could have induced his heart attack?”

  “Ah, good question. You think like one of us,” added Villanueva with a laugh before growing serious again. “I looked for that type of injury, but nothing.” He threw his hands up in the air. “This was an old man who died of an old man’s disease. There was no—how you call it?—foul play.”

  “I see. And how long would you say he’s been dead?”

  “A week to ten days. It’s a little tricky when someone dies in a place like the tunnels. Those places don’t have the kinds of insects that help pinpoint the date of death.”

  “I understand. Thanks for your help.”

  Mallory exited the forensic science building. Donning shades as protection from the bright sun, she walked the few short blocks to the police station. Birdsong mixed with the constant rumble of vehicles, a soundtrack to the river of thoughts flowing through her mind.

  She entered the police station and approached the main desk. “I’m Mallory Blackwell. Lieutenant Gaby Vasquez was going to leave a photo here for me to pick up.”

  The sergeant pulled a folder out of a metal cabinet and pushed across a ledger. “Sign here.”

  Mallory scribbled her name and took the folder. She sat on a long wooden bench in the police station’s lobby and slid the photograph out of the oversized envelope.