"I won't have it.” Her hand clenched into a fist under his. “You call Ethan and tell him to stop this now."
"And then what? Find a hole to crawl into for the rest of your life? There won't be one deep enough. Think of Deanne and what living like that would do to her."
Her face filled with torment. “That's why Ethan isn't taking an active part in this, isn't it? Because of his family."
Dino nodded. “And that's why I'm running point."
"But I don't want anything to happen to you, either."
He tightened his hand over hers. “I'm a big boy. I've been doing this for years. I'll be fine and so will you and Deanne if you just let us do our jobs. Now.” He cupped her chin and forced her eyes to look at his. “How about a little lesson in the stolen antiquities market? Let me tell you what I've learned and then we'll start with the questions and answers."
"I can hardly wait.” She managed a small grin for him.
"The stolen antiquities market has taken a sharp spike upward in the last few years,” he told her. “Movies like the Indiana Jones trilogy and the two National Treasures flicks have really excited interest in archeology and ancient relics. Egypt and Thailand seem to be the greatest points of departure for items being smuggled to other countries, as well as certain countries in South America."
"The museum has quite a collection of pre-Columbian and Mayan artifacts,” Jen told him. “I did the brochures for the exhibits when John was arranging for them.” She took a sip of her coffee. “But when the subject of antiquities came up I didn't even think of South America. I guess I'm just so used to thinking about them in connection with the Middle East. And that's probably where the heaviest traffic is. How exactly does it all work?"
"Here.” He pulled a pad of paper and a pen over to him. “It's easier to show you."
He drew a diagram on the page of interlocking boxes and labeled each one, then explained what they each meant.
"This is the traffic flow. There's a local source who finds the artifacts. Usually someone who's figured out a way to hang around archeological digs without raising suspicion and can swipe a few items at a time. That person takes them to an established local dealer who pays the finder a fraction of the final cost. Pennies, even. From there, they get shipped to an internal dealer. Or at least someone receiving for the dealer."
"Like John was doing."
"Right. That dealer then sells to the collector who pays an unholy price because the item is obtained illegally. And can't really even be displayed."
Jen frowned. “If the buyer can't display them, what's the good of having these things? Spending all that money?"
Dino tossed his pen on the table and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You can't imagine how many people there are in this world who will pay just to have possession of something. To enjoy it for the sake of having it. I've heard about illegal collectors who have secret rooms in their homes where they go just to sit and look at everything they've got locked up."
Jen shook her head. “That's beyond anything I can understand. How does the dealer make the contacts? How does he know who to sell to?"
Dino picked up the pen again and drew more squares on the paper. “My guess? Whoever had John in a tight squeeze is a collector himself. Or herself. And at some point, maybe traveling overseas, was approached by a local dealer about buying something not on the open market. If the collector is smart enough and clever enough, he or she can snoop around and figure out how to set up a network like this. The museum was a perfect cover for receiving the stolen goods. John then turned them over to whoever was pulling his strings, and that person either found a buyer or had one ready."
"My God.” Jen rubbed her forehead as if brushing away unwanted thoughts. “That could be anyone on the museum board. Or their friends. Roger Wellborn, the chairman, is a born and bred member of the highest social and financial ladders in Michigan. Maybe in the business world. His entire circle of friends and acquaintances could fit the bill. Maybe we should go over the list of people again."
"I have ... friends checking things out from all locations to find the most active network right now,” he informed her. “I told them they need to ramp things up because we don't exactly have a lot of time to fool around. One of the people I've got on this said there's actually been some rumblings under the radar about a very hush hush antiquities ring run out of Detroit, and someone from the board would be in a great position to mastermind it. And to put pressure on John. I had one of them get me complete bios on all the museum board members, more than what I found on the Internet. Let's go over them one by one and you can give me your impressions. Your feelings about them."
"I'll tell you what I can.” She shifted in her seat as if just thinking about this made her uncomfortable. “I want to do anything I can to help."
"Good. And then, after breakfast, we're going out on the boat for a while."
Jen raised her eyebrows. “You really think we have time for ... Oh! Making the phone calls."
Including one last shot at Van Dine. He just hoped the man wasn't dead, which wouldn't be all that surprising.
"Right. I made a few last night so we could get started, but I'd really feel safer with the rest of them out there where it's harder to get a line on us."
"Let me fix breakfast, okay?"
"Absolutely not. I intend to dazzle you with my world famous omelets.” He shoved a pad of paper and a pen at her. “Start making notes of anything that comes to mind that might be helpful. Including complete descriptions and your impressions of the board members of the museum and anyone else John came into regular contact with."
* * * *
Mac sat behind his desk, feet propped on an open drawer, desk littered with files that defied concentration as he did his best to keep the rising anger out of his voice. He was getting tired of no results except dead bodies. He'd reached out to his contacts as soon as he was in his car the previous night and started someone on the job right away. For all the good it was doing, he thought. No one seemed to know what the hell was going on, a situation that enraged him, although outwardly he managed to maintain control.
"Please don't tell me that one middle-class woman and one little girl have managed to make themselves disappear,” he said into his private telephone. “That's utterly ridiculous."
"Not so ridiculous when you're looking for them and can't find them,” Grant responded.
"Perhaps you've lost your touch,” Mac snapped.
"You didn't think I'd lost my touch when I got rid of that nosey snoop someone sent around. Would you rather I had just let him keep asking questions?"
"No, no, you did the right thing.” Mac's tone eased a little. “But you have to find Jennifer Sutherland. And her daughter. She has the answer we need.” He paused. “Get whatever help you need and dig back into her background. Perhaps she's contacted someone she knew before her marriage.” He snorted. “Certainly nobody John Sutherland knew could or would help her."
"I may wake up a sleeping monster,” Grant warned. “You don't know what's in her past."
"If so, just pull out your slingshot. But get me some answers."
Mac slammed down the telephone, his anger still simmering. The call before this one had been to the man he'd ordered to get rid of Jack Smiley when Smiley began sticking his nose into too many cracks. Mac had ordered him to clean up that mess, then do some backtracking on the man while he kept an eye out to see if a replacement showed up. He'd had nothing to report, either.
He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, feeling a headache building. How on earth could this have happened? They had such a good thing going until John, the little weasel, got greedy. He had to get control of this thing that had suddenly taken on the personality of a runaway train. He couldn't afford exposure. His life—everything—would be destroyed.
* * * *
On a back street in Cairo, Charlie Waters stepped into a narrow alleyway, making sure no one heard him. He'd spent hours conf
irming he wasn't tracked before going to his special hiding place, then again as he meandered back into the city and blended with the crowds. He couldn't believe he'd gotten his hands on more of the “merchandise.” The fact made his heart race faster and his breathing hitch. He couldn't believe someone had actually smuggled these items out of their country of origin without being detected. Not after the stink that had been made when a major looting of museum artifacts was discovered and a wholesale recovery mission launched.
The first time he'd only received two, excited even at the small number of pieces. And his buyers paid through the nose for them. The people he dealt with would pay even bigger bucks for a shipment this large. Maybe big enough to get Charlie off the streets and out of the business permanently before he lost his head. Literally. Taking a calming breath, he pulled out his secure cell phone and quickly punched a speed dial number.
"Yes?” the voice answered.
"It's me. You aren't going to believe what I have for you."
"Unless they're fakes, of course I'll believe you. I expect the impossible from you, and you know that. What do you have this time?"
"More like the two special pieces I sent you. This time I have several items for you.” Silence hummed along the line for so long Charlie wondered if they'd been disconnected. “Are you there?"
"Yes. I'm here. Are you absolutely sure these aren't fakes?"
"I swear it on my life. But I have to move them right away.” He pulled in another long breath. “These will cost you more. Bringing them out was riskier than the delivery of any other items. People have to be compensated."
"Save the build-up and get to the point."
"Oh. If you're not interested..."
"I'm always interested,” said the icy voice. “Describe them for me."
When Charlie finished the litany of what he had in his possession, there was another prolonged silence before the person on the other end spoke.
"How in hell did your ... friend get hold of them?"
"That's not a topic for discussion. Do you want them or not?"
"Of course I want them,” the voice snapped. “How much?"
Charlie named his price and waited through another long pause.
"Very well. I'll have to confirm it with my partners, although I certainly don't see a problem. Not for what you're offering.” Yet another pause. “We also have a little problem."
"Problem?” Charlie frowned at the phone. “I don't like problems. They don't make for good business. Maybe I'll just contact another one of my buyers."
"No!” the voice shouted. Then in a calmer tone, “Don't do that. I just need to make different shipping arrangements."
"What's wrong with the one we've been using? It provides a perfect cover."
"That's ... where the problem comes in. It's temporarily unavailable."
"The museum's closed?” Charlie couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.
"No, you idiot. We just can't ship anything through it at the moment. We need a new destination, one where the items you provide will pass through customs easily.” Charlie could almost hear brain cells working. “Let me talk to my partners when I call them to get approval to send the money. We'll have something in place by then."
"Hurry. My seller is impatient."
"You know our money is good, so don't get your shorts in a wad."
"Three hours. Then I move on."
He disconnected the call and shoved the phone in his pocket. Just what he needed. A problem. He already had enough trouble keeping his sellers from finding other contacts.
Shit!
* * * *
Henry was losing his patience. Last night's meeting had been unsatisfactory, to say the least, and today each phone call to and from Mac had been another thorn in his side. Jennifer Sutherland and her daughter might as well have fallen off the earth as far as anyone could tell. They'd torn the Sutherland house apart looking for some clue as to the hiding place of the two artifacts—an ancient hand-hammered gold bracelet and a beautifully carved water jug—but there was nothing. Not a lead or a hint of any kind.
"And of all the damn pieces to go missing,” Henry told his caller. “If anyone outside our circle gets their hands on them we could all end up in prison for a very long time. Those pieces have too much blood on them. Political blood."
"We'll find them. Stop acting like an old fool. Mac's working on it."
"Mac's people aren't getting anywhere,” he snapped. “Maybe it's time to put this on hold for a while."
"And maybe you should step up to the plate with something besides hot air,” the caller said, every word with a sharp edge.
"You know there's no way I can do more than I'm doing. I find the damn buyers and keep us under the radar. Someone else needs to accept the shipments or we really will be going out of business."
"Are you suggesting I be the one to do that?"
"You get shipments of goods constantly from all over the world. Do you want me to think you can't make an ‘arrangement’ to include these pieces in one of the shipments?"
"That's not what I'm saying. We'll just have to be ... creative.” The caller was impatient.
"Too bad your friend John put us in this bind, isn't it?” He paused for effect. “You do remember that you were the one who recommended him? Who knew of his gambling habits and his greed? And who said his family would be good leverage for us?"
"Fine. Fine, fine, fine. I'll make arrangements, but my ‘dealer’ isn't going to be happy about having to jump through hoops. This is a very ... unique ... shipment."
"Then up the ante,” Henry demanded. “We've already agreed to pay his exorbitant price for facilitating our goods. Just sweeten the pot."
"All right, damn you. I'll handle it."
Henry flinched when the caller slammed the phone in his ear.
* * * *
"How's your arm?” Jen asked over breakfast.
"Fine. I told you, it's just a scratch. Nothing. Quit worrying.” He pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to display a small square bandage. “See? Good as new."
"It's hard not to worry about someone when they have a bullet hole in them,” she protested.
"I'm fine,” he repeated, scraping up the last bite of egg. “It just grazed the flesh.” He pushed his plate away. “Want to go over the museum stuff one more time?"
She frowned at him. “Honest to Pete, Dino. I think I've pulled even more stuff out of my brain than I thought I could possibly remember about the board members. And they're the only people we ever socialized with. Command performances, you know."
Still, he'd coaxed things from her she didn't even know were stored in her mind. People's attitudes. How they interacted with each other. What brought them to the museum in the first place and what John said about his job. Which was next to nothing. And now, with the sun beating down on her face, she felt more relaxed than she was sure she had a right to feel. This man seemed to chase away all her shadows, letting the light in. Too bad he hadn't been...
No. She gave herself a mental shake.
Don't go there.
"Okay.” He rose and collected their plates. “Okay. Let's give it a rest for a while. Maybe something will pop up while we're out on the water. I find that's always a good place to think."
When Dino drove to the pier and walked her out to the end slip she got her first real look at what he called “my little charter boat.” Her jaw dropped in astonishment at the magnificence of it as Dino ushered her up the ladder and onto the deck.
"Wow!” was all she could think to say as she turned in a slow circle. A cockpit rode high above the deck, enclosed by Plexiglas on three sides, material she was sure was bulletproof.
Dino grinned at her. “Let me give you the commercial. The Blackwater is forty-seven-feet long and has twin diesel engines. That won't mean much to you, but I can get speed out of this baby you wouldn't believe."
"What's below?” She peered down the stairway.
"Two staterooms, each with
its own bathroom and a main room. A salon. All air conditioned.” He indicated the two captain's chairs for deep sea fishing bolted to the deck at the prow and the hatch that he told her covered the live well where the fishermen stored their catch. “I carry everything a fisherman could need, including every piece of gear imaginable. And I've got state of the art electronics on board."
She had trouble taking it all in. “Somehow when you said fishing charter I expected, well, something different."
"An old scow, maybe? Battered and paint weary?” He chuckled.
"Well, no. Not if you charge people a hefty fee.” She let her eyes travel over the polished deck and the thick cushions on the benches lining both sides of the bow. “Just not something so lavish, I guess."
"I had to establish a presence out here, Jen,” he explained. “If I'm seen often enough taking the very wealthy out to catch fish, and going all over the Gulf and into the Atlantic to do it, then no one will think it strange if I wander here and there. I'm just that crazy charter captain whose office is a shack and who sank all his money in his boat. They leave me pretty much alone. Which is good, since not all my charters are actually for fish. Or maybe fish of a different kind."
"I guess I never thought about it that way.” She looked at him with curious eyes. “Do you go ‘here and there’ very often?"
He laughed. “I think I'm the one who's supposed to ask the questions today."
He walked her up to the cockpit and showed her the instrumentation, then explained what did what and how.
"You might want to just hang out on the deck until we get out of here,” he suggested. “Not much to see up here except a lot of other boats. And the cushions on the bench down there are nice and thick. Comfortable."
And I'll be out of your way if your phone rings.
"Sure. That would be nice."
He was right. The bench was wide and the cushions were thick and foamy. She leaned her head back and let the sun kiss her skin, thinking for the moment about nothing. A luxury she hadn't had for a while.
They pulled smoothly out of the slip and headed south, Dino maneuvering easily among the boats close to shore. He drove the boat a good two hours from Key West before he found the spot he wanted. Then he dropped anchor in a secluded cove where he said they wouldn't be bothered by casual traffic.
Last Ride on the Merry-go-round Page 10
