by Alex Archer
She took another vial from the pouch and poured purple powder onto her hand. Gently, she blew the powder onto the man's face.
Despite his condition, the man held his breath. Some part of him was fighting to be free.
"Breathe," she told him.
He did, drawing the purple powder deep into his lungs. Almost immediately, he started shivering, bucking uncontrollably. Blood leaked from his nostrils, then from the corner of his mouth. He coughed and choked, spitting up scarlet.
"Now," Erene said, "die."
A moment later, the man did. His head rolled to the side, relaxed in death, and his eyes stared off into the distance.
Erene stood and gathered her things. She had to return to the village to figure out what she was going to do next.
And she had to mourn.
Chapter 13
Blood covered the bed, the floor and the walls of the hotel room. Mario Fellini looked small and used up lying crookedly on the bed. Burn marks and knife cuts marred his nude body. Strips of duct tape bound his hands and feet.
It was a hard way to die.
Annja had seen the harshness of death before. At various dig sites she'd uncovered the bodies of people who had withered and died from sickness, from injury and from murder. Those deaths had touched her in their own way, but she'd accepted them more easily than she could accept what she saw before her.
The difficulty wasn't just that she'd known Mario Fellini. That was hard enough. But the fact remained that Mario's family would have to be told and they would grieve, too.
Toughen up, she told herself. You don't want the men who did this to get away with it, do you?
The coroner, a man in his late forties, stood nearby. There had been brief introductions, but Annja couldn't remember his name now.
Although it had been years since she'd seen him, Mario hadn't changed much. The scar was still above his eye, reminding her again of the fight they'd gotten into over the fake Roman relics in Haltwhistle. He'd grown a goatee.
The Donald Duck tattoo he got when his sisters got him drunk on his twenty-first birthday was a little faded, but remained on his left bicep. His sisters had talked him into that because his English when he was a boy was atrocious. They'd insisted to Annja that Mario had sounded like Donald Duck. They'd picked on him and doted on him at the same time when Annja had gone to Italy with him to celebrate his parents' fortieth anniversary.
All of those memories rushed around Annja's head. The smell of warm bread and laughter. The warmth of the kitchen. The sound of laughter and years-old mischief between loving siblings who showed no shame in front of their spouses and children.
"Hey, Annja." Bart's voice was quiet as he stepped next to her. "Maybe you should do this later."
Annja didn't know why Bart would act so protectively. Then she realized tears were sliding down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and felt them burn. More tears slid down her face.
Brushing the tears away, Annja said, "I'm fine." Her voice sounded strained. She pushed her chin toward the body on the bed. "That's him. That's Mario."
"Let's get you out of here." Bart put an arm around her shoulders and led her from the room.
****
Back in the hotel room Bart was using as a command post, Annja stared out the window. Snow fluttered down, descending on the city again after a brief reprieve.
Standing there with the cold soaking through the glass and into her flesh, Annja wished she was back in Florida where it was warm, and she wished it was three days earlier and that she had checked her answering service at Chasing History's Monsters.
"I apologize for that," Bart said.
She glanced at his reflection in the window. "You don't have anything to be sorry about."
"I should have waited. You could have identified the body downtown in a more controlled environment. Something like that is pretty harsh."
Annja folded her arms over her breasts in an effort to warm herself. "I don't know how you do this job."
"It's hard, Annja. I take it day by day."
"But you're always seeing things like... " Annja couldn't continue.
"I am," Bart admitted.
"How can you come back every day? Knowing you're going to have to see so much evil?"
"Don't you see evil things in your career? I seem to recall you've spent some time down in the YucatánPeninsula. The Mayan people had a bloodthirsty religion."
"They didn't normally provide human sacrifices," Annja said. "That's just a story spread by the tour guides. Human sacrifices were offered only when times were desperate."
"That's generally when murders occur," Bart said. "Somebody gets desperate. Whoever murdered Mario Fellini was desperate."
"They tortured him."
"They did. But it looks like he held out against them for a long time."
"Or they thought he was lying to them."
Bart was quiet for a moment. "You don't have any idea what he was into that would lead someone to do that?"
Annja turned to face him. "No," she replied evenly. "But I intend to find out."
Grimacing, Bart shook his head. "That's a bad idea. Right now you're clear of this thing. You should stay away from it."
"Whoever killed Mario might not see it that way. Mario was changing hotels every night. How long ago was he – ?"
Bart frowned and looked troubled. "The M.E. puts the time of death at approximately eight hours ago. Based on the rigor that's set in."
"Then, while Dieter and his friends were hunting me, Mario was already dead."
"Maybe he'd already told them everything they needed to know. Maybe they only wanted the package he'd mailed you."
Annja thought about the mosaic that had been in the box. It hadn't provided any clues that she'd been able to fathom – yet.
"If you're worried about them, get out of town. Go back to Florida and study the phantom shark some more," Bart said.
"I didn't go down there for a phantom shark," Annja replied.
"Morrell said it was a shark."
"I went for the chance to study the Calusa Indians."
"Then go study them some more. You can't be done after a few days."
"I'll think about it."
A policeman knocked on the door. He held up an evidence bag. "The M.E. released the vic's stuff."
"Gimme." Bart shoved a hand out and took the bag.
Annja watched Bart empty the evidence bag on the desktop, then shuffle the items around.
There was a wallet, a watch, change, a key ring, lip balm, a college ring, a gold bracelet and a pen.
"Doesn't say much for what a person leaves behind, does it?" Bart asked dismally.
"If this were a dig site," Annja replied, "these would be artifacts. Clues about the way an individual lived within his society. Do you need to fingerprint these?"
Bart pointed at the grayish powder residue on the wallet. "Crime-scene guys already did it."
Annja pointed to the college ring. "This shows that the individual was intelligent and well-schooled. The ring is from Accademia Britannica di Archaeologia, Storia e Bella Arti."
"Greek to me," Bart said.
"Italian, actually. The BritishSchool at Rome. Mario studied archaeology there." Annja moved on to the watch. "At first glance, it tells us that this individual saw a need to keep track of time."
"Or liked jewelry. Watch, ring and bracelet."
"You could read it that way, but look. The ring ties to an accomplishment. A higher education." Annja flipped the watch over to reveal the inscription on the back. It was in Italian. She translated. "For My Son, Mario. Love, Mother."
Her voice broke by the time she finished. Both of them chose to ignore it.
The bracelet had an image of a winged lion on it.
"That's the winged lion of Mark the Evangelist," Annja said. "He's believed to have been the author of the Gospel of Mark."
"The second book of the New Testament?"
"Yes. But the winged lion is also the symb
ol of Venice. The statue is still there, although it was stolen away for a time before being returned in the fifteenth century." Annja smiled wistfully. "Mario loved Venice."
"The bracelet is a reminder of that?" Bart asked.
"The bracelet is more than that. You have to look below the surface if you're going to understand something fully." Even as Annja stated that, a new thought struck her about the mosaic. Excitement flooded through her. Turning the bracelet over, she revealed the inscription there and translated it. "You'll Always Be The Baby Brother. Love, Your Sisters."
"They were all things that meant something to him."
Annja nodded, then pointed to the wallet. "May I?"
"As long as you keep both hands on the desk where I can see them."
"Are we having trust issues?"
Bart looked at her seriously. "I know you, Annja. You're one of my best friends. One of the first people I'd call if I was in trouble."
But I was one of the last to find out you were engaged, wasn't I? Annja thought.
"I also know that you haven't told me everything you know," Bart said. "Or that you think you know."
"I can deal with that." Annja opened Mario's wallet and sorted through the contents. She put the cash and credit cards to one side, then looked at the business cards.
"What can you tell me about the credit cards?" Bart asked.
Annja shot him a look.
Bart smiled a little. "See, that's where my cop magic comes in. I can run those through a computer and get a timeline and idea of his activities."
"Archaeologists who study us are going to have a lot more information at their fingertips than we ever did on those we study," Annja said. "If we're studying a culture that kept records, a journal is an amazing find that tells us about everyday life."
She spread the business cards out, noting the addresses.
"A lot of these appear to be in Riga," Bart observed. "Is that in Italy?"
"No. Riga is in Latvia," Annja said.
"Is that where Mario was?"
"I don't know."
Bart regarded her. "Truth?"
"Truth. The last I heard, Mario still lived in Rome. Didn't you track his flight?"
"I did. It originated in Riga, Latvia."
A warning bell sounded in Annja's mind. She'd been played, and now she knew it. "You're devious. I haven't seen this side of you."
"That's because you've never seen me work a homicide investigation."
Annja hoped she never did again.
"You were working me," Annja accused, but she felt no bitterness. The gamut had been well played, and he'd been fair. She hadn't had to insist on seeing Mario's personal effects under the guise of giving him an archaeology lesson.
"No more than you were working me," Bart said.
"So we both get what we want."
"Maybe."
Annja waited, making him play out his ruse.
Chapter 14
"When I checked your phone records," Bart continued, "I noticed there were two calls from Riga. Now that we both agree Mario was in Riga before he got here, I want to know who's been calling you from there."
Taking a moment to weigh her options, Annja decided to go with the truth. Hiding the mosaic was risky enough, and she didn't want to hurt the friendship they had.
"She told me her name is Erene Skujans," Annja said.
"Who is she?"
"I don't know. I've never heard of her before today."
"Mario never mentioned her?"
"Until today," Annja said, "I hadn't heard from Mario in years. If he'd known how to get in touch with me, he wouldn't have had to go through the answering service at the studio."
Bart sighed. He took out his notebook and noted the name. "Since she called you from Riga, it's safe to assume she didn't have anything to do with Mario's death."
Annja returned her attention to Mario's wallet. She felt bad about going through his things, but there was no other way they were going to learn what they might need to know. She realized that was why Bart was allowing her to look freely. She was the best chance he had of getting inside information about Mario without asking painful questions of his family.
Annja found Erene Skujans's picture in with the photos of Mario's family. She'd been telling Bart about Mario's sisters, parents, nieces and nephews. At least, what she could remember of them. There had been new nieces and nephews.
At first glance, Annja had thought the woman might be part of the family. She had black hair that fit, but the rest of the package, the pale skin and deep blue eyes, looked pure Nordic.
"Do you know her?" Bart asked.
"No." Annja turned the picture over and found a note in what looked like the same handwriting that had been on the note in the package.
Erene Skujans. Winter festival. She loves me but she doesn't know it yet.
"That's a lot of confidence on his part," Bart commented.
"Mario has – had – six sisters," Annja pointed out. "Growing up in an environment like that, you either have no confidence or all the confidence in the world."
"I guess he had it all."
"His sisters loved him. They wouldn't let anyone hurt him. When he asked me to go to his parents' anniversary, I got the third degree from all of them at one time or another."
"About what?"
"They wanted to know what my intentions were toward Mario." Annja smiled at the memory, then was immediately saddened by it. "Finding out what's happened to him is going to be awful."
"I know," Bart said. "That's why I'm going to handle it myself. It's after 4:00 a.m. over there. I'm going to let them sleep through the night and give them a call in the morning. At least they'll be rested."
The picture showed Erene standing by an ice sculpture of a bear. She was smiling and happy. Annja had to admit the woman was gorgeous. But something haunted her eyes.
"Can I get a copy of this picture?" Annja asked.
Bart said that she could.
Annja used her digital camera to capture the image, then stored the camera in her backpack again.
"Pretty woman," Bart said, looking at the picture.
"Beautiful woman," Annja agreed.
"Still – "
"What?" Annja asked.
"There's something – " Bart shrugged " – spooky about her."
"Spooky? Is that a detective term?"
Bart smiled at her. "It is tonight."
Feeling tired and frustrated, Annja checked her watch and found that it was after 10:00 p.m. She asked, "Is my computer released back to my custody? I'd like to get some sleep if there's nothing else."
"Let me get a copy of those pictures you took of the bad guys." Bart pulled out his key ring and slipped the USB flash drive free. "I'll use them on B.O.L.O.s if I can't find a file on them somewhere."
"Interpol will probably have something on one or all of them."
Bart nodded as he ported the flash drive and started downloading the files. "I agree. So whatever you're hiding, Annja, be careful with it."
Annja couldn't lie to him, but she couldn't give up the mosaic, either. However it had happened, the secret it contained had cost her friend his life.
****
Annja woke later the next morning than she'd intended. She'd spent the night in a hotel not far from the Clark Hotel. She'd also paid in cash so she wouldn't leave an electronic trail.
The wake-up call had come at seven when she'd requested it, flanked by the cell phone and a computer alert. She'd somehow managed to answer the phone and go back to sleep, then ignore the other backup systems. She hadn't awakened until housekeeping knocked on the door at almost nine o'clock.
After a quick shower, she put her clothes back on, grimacing but knowing there was nothing to be done at the moment. All her clothes were in her loft, and she wasn't going there.
As tidy as she could make herself, a lot better off than she sometimes was while at a dig, Annja headed out, eager to get another look at the mosaic.
Taking a cab, Annja stopped at a cash machine for more money. Normally she traveled with a few thousand dollars because cash in hand spoke harder and faster than plastic. Archaeologists the world over had learned that early on. Since she was going to be on the move, an electronic trail there didn't matter.
Since she was downtown anyway, she stopped at Bloomingdale's and bought a new pair of jeans, a black turtleneck, a dark red merino wool blend ribbed tunic, three tanks, socks, underwear, toiletries and a pull-behind suitcase to carry them in.
Annja guessed that she was going to be headed to Latvia – since that was where all trails led – sooner rather than later. She didn't expect to get back into her loft before then.
When the cashier rang up her purchases, Annja handed over a debit card and pretended that the money didn't matter. Since the threat of Dieter and his team was still very real, it wasn't too difficult. After being chased and shot at the previous day, spending was practically painless, even after all the lessons in frugality from the nuns.
Gotta do survival shopping more often, Annja told herself as she changed into jeans and turtleneck in a dressing room.
****
"You have come for your package, yes?" Maria asked.
"I have. I'm afraid I can't stay long."
"Have you eaten?"
Thinking about it, Annja realized she had skipped breakfast. There had been too many things to do. "No," she answered, accepting the inevitable.
In the end, Annja got Maria to put together a take-out meal despite the woman's protests. Back in the cab, Annja had gone to the Park House Hotel by the BrooklynBridge. She'd taken a suite, which came with a living room, as well as a bedroom and kitchenette.
Besides hotel security, Manhattan was only thirty minutes away. Less than that for a homicide detective if he was in a hurry.
While she ate, Annja worked on the mosaic at the desk and tuned the television to the Discovery Channel. Background chatter usually helped keep her relaxed and focused.
She also put all of her electronics on chargers despite having done so the previous night. There was never a good time to run out of power.
