“Interesting take. But that’s not the point I was getting at. He also had treasures like his Peacock Throne of gold. So did lots of other Mughal rulers. His son was Jahangir.”
“And lineage is important because—?”
“Not the lineage, but the huge significance of art in various Mughal courts over time. They left us a wealth of paintings. Several Mughal rulers were great patrons of the arts. They commissioned huge numbers of paintings involving large numbers of people. And those people were often wearing important jewels.
“You have to understand there are far too many of these paintings to be covered in the texts at one library, no matter how good, that doesn’t specialize in Indian art. There are well over a thousand paintings in the multiple volumes that make up an epic story painted during Akbar’s rule. And that’s just one of many. Even specialty books can only include so many examples. That’s why I couldn’t find the painting itself, only the article. But the article did also give me a very good idea of where to start looking for some of the paintings that featured this set.”
“In the early 1600s?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s when—”
“When it still existed in paintings,” I said sadly. “Not where it went when it really disappeared. Or where it reappeared.”
“Not at first, of course—”
“No,” I said. “I should have realized it couldn’t be pieced together so quickly. It’s been gone for centuries. I don’t know what I was thinking. I appreciate your help.”
“You’re not trying to put me off again.”
“I do appreciate what you’ve done,” I said. “Truly. But you’ve spent most of the day researching, and you’ve gotten up to the seventeenth century. You can keep the photo of the bracelet and keep moving forward on your research. I’m sure you’ll write a great article proving all those scholars wrong and make your career. I don’t have time to keep up this slow pace. I need to figure out what happened this week, before it’s too late. I know it sounds strange coming from a historian. But there’s a murderer out there. I don’t have time for slow and steady research.”
Night had fallen without me noticing. The outdoor lights clicked on around us. I glanced around. I didn’t see anyone suspicious.
“Since you don’t have your ex to fill in the blanks,” Lane said, “what did you have in mind?”
The streaks of outdoor lighting accentuated his features. His cheekbones formed shadows down his face, and his eyes seemed especially large behind his glasses.
“I’ve got some frequent flyer miles,” I said. “I’m going to use them. I’m going where Rupert was when he was killed. A Pictish dig in the Highlands of Scotland.”
With a slight pang of some emotion I wasn’t used to feeling, I stood up to leave. Lane didn’t try to stop me as I departed.
Chapter 10
What was I thinking?
My latest research paper wasn’t going to write itself, and it was already months later than I’d hoped to have it finished. I wasn’t teaching over summer session specifically so I could catch up on my research that I hadn’t had time to do during the school year with a first-year assistant professor’s teaching load. The university had hired two of us with specialties in South Asian history. In this economy, it looked like only one of us would be getting tenure. I loved my new home in San Francisco. I didn’t want to leave.
But I couldn’t let Rupert’s murder remain an “accidental death” and his murderer run away with this treasure. I pushed my selfish concerns about tenure aside.
That night, after catching a cab home, I cashed in some airline miles to buy a one-way ticket on the next available flight to London, leaving the following afternoon.
I printed out another copy of the photograph of the bracelet before I realized how tired I was. Now that I’d formed a plan of action, the adrenaline of the day was wearing off. Sanjay had left me several texts and a voicemail message, but I didn’t have the energy to get back to him that night.
As promised, Nadia fixed my door. The door frame was reinforced, and there was an extra dead bolt. I wouldn’t say I felt good about whatever lay beyond that door, but at least I felt safe inside my apartment. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
In the morning I called Sanjay back.
“You’re insane,” he said after I told him my plan. “You can’t just leave the country later today in search of a murderer and a treasure.”
“Why not? I’m not teaching summer session. Besides, you do things like that all the time.”
“That’s different,” he said. “That’s when I find a historic piece of magic memorabilia. I can’t go around calling myself The Hindi Houdini without real props owned by Houdini, now can I?”
“You’re impossible to argue with, Sanjay.”
“Which is why you’re going to call me every day to let me know you’re okay. My next season of shows is starting soon, otherwise I’d go with you myself.”
“Who said I need help? The breakin is nothing to worry about.”
Sanjay made choking noises on the other end of the line. “You had a breakin?”
Damn. I’d forgotten he didn’t know about the burglary. Everything was happening so fast.
After I calmed Sanjay down and promised to keep him up to date, he grudgingly assured me it was no problem for him to play on his own until I got back.
He said it would give him an opportunity to try some new things. After I hung up, I wondered if he meant more than music. Restaurant-goers might find themselves watching flowers magically grow from sitar strings before I returned.
I wasted much of the morning searching for my passport. I know where all of the books in my apartment are located, but not so much when it comes to everything else. The rest of the morning was spent assuring Nadia I wasn’t taking an unplanned vacation because I was worried about staying at the house. I wasn’t left with much time to pack.
My phone beeped that I’d missed a message. It was my brother, Mahilan. Speaking Hindi. The problem was, I don’t speak Hindi.
Well, not very well. I remember bits and pieces of the various local languages from my childhood, which included our mother’s Tamil and widespread Hindi, but I’m far from fluent in either. Mahilan is older and remembers more of the languages. Recently he had begun speaking with me only in Hindi.
This new Hindi phase is the fault of his latest girlfriend, whose parents are Hindi speakers. Mahilan is serious about her and thinks they might start a family. He’s brushing up on his Hindi and insists it will be easier for their kids to be bilingual if I speak it, too.
Luckily my Hindi is passable enough that I was able to squeak through my higher education language requirements. Most of my research consists of English-language documents, thanks to thorough British colonization of India. The few non-English documents I need, I can spend the time to translate. I didn’t have time to decipher Mahilan’s message that afternoon. He would try me again if it was important.
I called a cab to save time. I hadn’t quite finished packing when I heard what I thought would be the cabbie knocking at the door. I realized my mistake after I opened the door. It was Miles.
He was outfitted in black cargo pants, black combat boots, and a black t-shirt. The words “je t’aime” were written in blue pen across his left forearm.
“I heard you were robbed,” he said. “Do you...I thought, maybe, you might want to talk about it?”
I froze where I was, holding the door. I had encouraged him the day before. Could it have been enough encouragement to give him fanatical ideas about getting inside my apartment?
My brain hurt again. Two days ago my life had made sense. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. But at least I knew what to expect. Now, not only had my ex-boyfriend been murdered, but my apartment burglarized, and I was about to take an insane trip leading God-knows-where.
“I don’t have time to talk,” I said to Miles.
“I brought you something in case it happens again.” He f
umbled in a baggy pocket of his cargo pants.
I didn’t want to see whatever he was going to pull out of his pants.
“I’m really okay,” I said. “You don’t need to give me anything. I’m going out of town.”
Miles stopped digging through his pockets. “Do you want me to look after your place while you’re gone?”
“You don’t need to do that. Look, my landlady already had the door fixed.”
“You still need protection,” Miles said.
“I’ll be okay.”
Taking care of myself isn’t something I spend time worrying about. What I’m less confident of is my ability to pull off the more practical aspects of day-to-day life, like whether I could finish packing in time to make my flight. I left Miles in the doorway as I pulled a few more items from the closet.
“Can I help?” he asked a few moments later, his mouth only a few inches from my ear.
I was about to yell at Miles for his creepy behavior when a car in front of the house beeped its horn. That was the cab. I zipped up the backpack, grabbed my messenger bag, and pushed Miles out the door. If I’d forgotten anything, I could buy it 5,000 miles away.
Chapter 11
The cabbie drove almost as fast as me, and soon I was shuffling through the airport security line. I loaded my messenger bag and small backpack onto the conveyor belt and waited.
And waited.
The screener behind the X-ray machine frowned. He motioned to a man with a mustache.
Mustache walked over to the X-ray machine and leaned over. He frowned as well. They backed up the conveyor belt. It was my backpack the screener held in his hands.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Mustache said to me. His biceps flexed under his dress shirt. “Is this your bag?”
He lifted the backpack in his large hands. I watched in horror as he removed a can of pepper spray.
Oh, God. Miles. He had wanted to give me something to protect myself.
“Ma’am,” Mustache said, “please step this way.”
I stepped into a roped-off area. At least I wasn’t behind a closed door. Yet.
“Is there a problem?” a familiar voice said.
I turned and saw before me a figure I hardly recognized. Lane was dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a red dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The bright color set off his eyes, their hazel color appearing almost bronze. His hair was combed with a gel that held his tresses perfectly in place. Even his thick glasses took on a different look with the new ensemble. They were a trendy accessory now. Not a studious reading tool.
“Wow,” I said.
I hadn’t meant to say that.
Lane ignored me. It was probably for the best, since who knew what I would say next. He stepped forward and spoke with the security guard in hushed tones.
Mustache stepped out of the roped-off area and led Lane a few feet away. I could no longer hear their voices. Lane didn’t look at me, but Mustache glanced over at me every few seconds.
He nodded slowly at Lane. Lane put out his hand for Mustache to shake. They shook hands in that curt, firm way that competitors do.
Lane picked up a small bag on the ground at his feet, then strode quickly toward me. With his free hand, he took my hand in his. I felt a sharp jolt of electricity. It must have been the carpet.
“Grab your stuff,” he said.
I stared up at him.
“What?” he said. “I didn’t want you to miss your flight.”
“You followed me!”
“Aren’t you going to thank me? That was pretty stupid to try to bring pepper spray on a flight. I thought Nadia said you knew judo or something anyway?”
“I didn’t put that can in my bag,” I snapped, dropping his hand.
“You didn’t?” His eyes darted around.
“Long story,” I said. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“You sure?”
“What did you say to the security guard?”
“We should get out of here,” he said. “Muscle man might change his mind.”
I grabbed my bags and shoes and let Lane lead me away from the security area. I stopped once we were a few dozen yards into the concourse.
“How did you do that?” I asked, dropping my bags and putting on my shoes.
“You’re lucky it was only pepper spray, not a Taser.”
“But what did you say?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It worked.”
“You’re right. What matters is that you followed me.”
“I followed your lead, but not you.” He started walking again, looking around at the gate numbers. He pulled a ticket out of his dress shirt pocket without slowing, glanced at it, then put it back.
I caught up to him.
“I’m going to London,” he said, “to write that article. All those paintings to back up this new hypothesis will be at the British Library in London. You wouldn’t want my article to be full of shoddy scholarship, would you?”
He stopped in front of a gate. My gate. I flung my backpack onto the empty seat in front of me.
“No direct flights to Scotland?” Lane asked.
“Rupert was a lecturer in London. I’m stopping there before heading up to Scotland.”
An announcement crackled on the speakers above, informing us that pre-boarding would begin momentarily.
“I’ll be right back,” Lane said.
He approached a flight staff member at the counter. He leaned over and folded his arms on the high counter, facing away from me. The young woman giggled and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear flirtatiously. She began typing on the computer. A few moments later, she handed two small pieces of paper to Lane.
“What was that?” I asked once he returned.
“I got us seats together.”
“You—”
“Sorry they’re in the back. Peak summer season and all.”
He handed me a new boarding pass. I hadn’t noticed my old one was missing out of the front pocket of my bag.
“What makes you think I want to sit with you?”
“Aren’t you worried about your burglar? He didn’t get what he’s after.”
“He can’t. It’s in a safe deposit box.”
“He doesn’t know that. If I were him, I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”
My resolve of the night before was nowhere to be found today. I was all too aware of my tense neck muscles as I scanned the waiting area. I half-expected to see the stocky man who’d caught my eye at Zeitgeist the night before.
I didn’t.
No one I even vaguely recognized was in sight.
Just Lane.
“How would the burglar even find me?”
“Nobody knows you’re here?”
“Well of course people know I’m leaving. I can’t very well take off without anybody knowing I’ll be away.” Very few people, in fact. Not that I was going to tell that to Lane.
“There you go.”
The man had a way of leaving me speechless.
“That’s our group they’re calling,” he said, standing up.
My stunned silence continued as we boarded the plane and got ourselves situated. I suspiciously regarded the man with sideburns and too much cologne who sat down in the aisle seat next to us.
“I didn’t see anyone go up to the counter after me to switch their seat.” Lane said. “He wouldn’t be near us.”
“Then why do you look so worried?”
“I’m not worried,” Lane snapped. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, even though it was already loosened.
“At least I know you’re a bad liar.”
Giving up on his collar, Lane crossed his arms so firmly that his knuckles began to turn white.
“Ah,” I said. “You’re afraid of flying.”
“I wouldn’t use that strong of a word.” Lane faced forward and didn’t look at me as he spoke.
Since Lane didn’t seem to want to talk about it, I picked up a magazin
e from the seat pocket in front of me. My heart sped up whenever a flight attendant passed our aisle to prepare for takeoff, so my nerves didn’t seem to be doing much better than Lane’s. At least he was no longer gripping his arms. He’d moved on to gripping the armrests.
“Isn’t there something you can take?” I asked.
“Not if I want to be alert.”
“You don’t need to be alert for a nine hour flight.”
Lane relaxed his arms and faced me. “Yes I do. You should be more concerned about yourself. Your ex is dead.” He spoke so quietly I could barely hear him, but his voice was as serious as I’d ever heard it.
“I know that. I’m quite aware that I’m sitting on a plane with a stranger, part of an apocryphal treasure is hidden in my safe deposit box, and some unknown party is after it—and possibly me.”
Lane gripped the armrests even tighter as the plane lifted off with a gentle bump. I looked out the window as the buildings below shrank. The ground turned into meaningless patterns before cloud cover swallowed up the airplane. I leaned back in the seat.
“No one has made an attempt on my life,” I said. “No one is going to take a shot at me, which ricochets and blasts through one of these airplane windows and sends us dropping out of the sky, as we cling to our seats for dear life while other passengers get sucked out of the hole around us one by one—”
A loud click sounded.
I jumped in my seat. The seatbelt cut into my abdomen, holding me in place. Lane grabbed my hand so tightly it ached.
A whirring sound followed the click. It was only the plane’s wheels retracting.
Lane let go of my hand. He ran his hands over his face. When he put them down I saw he was laughing. The noise from the plane drowned out much of the sound, but the expression on his face was a welcome one.
Artifact (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery) Page 6
