by Julie Hyzy
She scratched the back of her head and looked away. She remembered, all right. “I thought that was just another way of telling me how to behave.”
“Nope.” I picked up my plate of toast and set it on the table while I poured coffee. “I was telling you that I can’t control your behavior. I can only control mine. And my choice is to let you deal with your troubles yourself.”
I sat. Liza sat across from me. “Then why am I here?” she asked. “You’re letting me stay with you and you’ve even made arrangements for my safety. How is this making me deal with trouble myself?”
“Fair question.” I chomped toast as I contemplated how to phrase what I wanted to say. Using my pinkie as a pointer, I continued, “I’ve provided you nothing more than a place to stay and a semblance of security. You may have noticed that, other than urging you to tell the truth, I haven’t offered advice on what to do, where to go, how to live. Nor will I.”
Her brows came together as though this was a fresh realization.
Talking around a mouthful of cinnamon and raisins, I went on. “That said, house rules are not to be trifled with. If you want to stay here, you won’t step a toe over the line.” I finished chewing and swallowed. “Do anything to hurt me, my roommates, Bennett, Bootsie, or anyone at Marshfield, and you’re outta here. It’s that simple.”
* * *
Bennett’s apartment sat one floor above our offices. I made it there five minutes before two. Despite the fact that he’d encouraged me to let myself in whenever I liked, this part of the mansion was Bennett’s home and I never felt right barging in unannounced.
When Bennett answered the door himself, I was taken aback. “Where’s Theo?” I asked, referring to the butler who was most often on duty. “Does he have the day off?”
Bennett offered a perfunctory smile. “Indeed.”
“What’s wrong?” In the space of time it took him to allow me in, I couldn’t help but notice that the lines bracketing his eyes and mouth seemed to have etched deeper since I’d seen him last.
“You’ll know in a minute.” He took both my shoulders in his hands and faced me straight on. “I’m sorry, Gracie.”
Every ounce of energy in my body puddled to my feet while every neuron in my brain fired with awareness that something terrible had happened. “Are you all right? You aren’t ill, are you?”
With a sad smile, he released my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. “You are my rock, child.” His voice rumbled in his chest. “You do me good.”
I stepped back, confused. “Tell me what’s going on.” Another thought bounced up. “The DNA results?” I could hear the disbelief in my words. “They came back negative.”
“My poor girl, I’m making this worse on you. No, the DNA results haven’t come in yet.” He pulled my hand into the crook of his arm. “There is much to explain. Fortunately, there is someone here who can do it far better than I. He’s waiting in my office.”
“But Theo isn’t here,” I said. Bennett allowing a person to remain unsupervised in his private rooms was unthinkable.
“I made an exception.”
“Who is it?”
He didn’t answer, but I didn’t have long to wait. At the door to his office, he motioned for me to go first.
The man seated at Bennett’s desk with his back to me, rose to his feet.
“Hello again, Ms. Wheaton,” Agent McClowery said.
I stopped. My hand snapped up in a “wait a minute,” move. I turned to Bennett. “Why all the secrecy? Why are you sorry?” I asked, referring to his bewildering apology from moments earlier. To McClowery, I said, “Is there more we need to discuss without my sister around?”
McClowery and Bennett exchanged a look I didn’t understand. “Your questions are reasonable and I intend to answer them,” the agent said. “I have a few questions for you, first, if you don’t mind.”
When I hesitated, Bennett touched my arm.
“Sure,” I said.
McClowery’s soft words held an ominous chill. “Please, have a seat.”
We settled ourselves—Bennett behind his desk, McClowery and I across from him. Bennett’s office, unlike his other private rooms and the rest of the mansion, offered little personality. A handsome space, decorated with law books and antique furniture and a handful of Bennett’s art treasures, it provided no insight into the man’s soul. Bennett liked it that way.
McClowery began. “Mr. Marshfield assured us, from the start, that you could be trusted with highly confidential information.”
“From the start?” I repeated, directing the question to Bennett. “This isn’t the first time you’ve met Agent McClowery?”
Bennett kept his hands folded on his desk, index fingers extended. He shook his head and used his pointing digits to direct my attention back to the FBI agent.
“Mr. Marshfield wanted us to include you in our discussions, but in situations like these—where secrecy is critical to an investigation—the Bureau prefers to release information on a need-to-know basis. When Mr. Marshfield informed us of your phone call warning him about Eric, we agreed it was time to bring you in.”
He took his time, waiting for me to acknowledge his statement before continuing. “Mr. Marshfield’s confidence in your trustworthiness, and my own impressions of your character from our interactions, have influenced my decision to bring you into our investigation at this time.
“I need your assurances that you will keep this conversation confidential and that you will share what we will disclose to you today with no one, especially your sister.”
“I won’t say a word. Of course not.” The promise came out automatically, though my mental focus was elsewhere. Bennett had been working with the FBI? “How long has this been going on?” I asked.
“The investigation itself has been under way for a very long time,” he said. “More than a decade. Mr. Marshfield’s involvement, however, is relatively recent.” He turned to Bennett. “We’ve been working together for about how long? Three weeks?”
“Five,” Bennett said.
I fought to keep my stricken reaction to myself. I failed. “How does this involve Eric?” I asked McClowery. “You came looking for him, right? That couldn’t have been a ruse to assess me because . . . that other man, the one who was murdered, came looking for Eric, too.” I could hear shock in my fast, furious questions. “Is my sister involved in this? She must be, it’s too much of a coincidence.” Taking a breath, I finally managed the central question: “What is this all about?”
McClowery reached into a satchel he’d propped against his chair. He dug out a letter-sized photograph and placed it in front of me on Bennett’s desk.
“Have you ever seen this?” The agent’s square-nailed thick fingers pushed the sheet closer to me. He said, “Take your time,” but I could tell he was assessing my reaction.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” The item in the picture, photographed next to a metric ruler for scale, appeared to be about the size of a box of facial tissues, standing on end.
McClowery kept silent.
“Is this gold? Are these”—I pointed—“precious stones?”
With two solid lengths of gold that twisted like the double-helix of DNA, the piece was structured like the hereditary material, but its resemblance ended there. The space between the edges was solid, littered with whorls of sparkling jewels. I couldn’t imagine what purpose this thing served, or what it was meant to represent.
“Yes, and yes,” McClowery said. “Can you guess the worth of a piece like that?”
I laughed, forgetting the tension in the room for a moment. “Are you kidding? Without more information, I’d be guessing.”
“Fair to say, however, that it could be considered valuable?”
I nodded. “Very.”
“You know the conflict surrounding the Temple of Sree Pa
dmanabhaswamy, I assume.”
“I do,” I said. “When the temple’s vaults were opened and vast treasures uncovered, the royal family of India, the government, and the public argued over ownership.” I pointed. “Is this from that temple?”
“No.” He gave me a sly smile. “Let me tell you another story, one you may not have heard.”
I caught Bennett watching me. His sorrowful demeanor had broken and eager delight shone through. He leaned forward, eyes glittering with anticipation.
“Not far from the Indian temple, and by not far I mean on the same continent—”
I cough-laughed. “Asia covers a whole lot of area.”
“For reasons of security, I am unable to be more specific at this time.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
“Let’s call this location a sacred burial ground. Legend has it that the ruler of this region had a magnificent palace built into a mountainside. This was where he and his family would eventually be interred. He kept the exact location secret from all but his closest advisors.”
Mountains? I began to review geography in my head to narrow down possibilities. A futile effort. Asia was simply too big. What I said was, “Kings, emperors, rulers of all kinds have been making elaborate plans for the afterlife since the beginning of time. Is this someone I’ve likely heard of? Can you tell me that much?”
“I’d prefer to keep specifics out of the discussion.” With a conspiratorial glance to Bennett, he added, “I can tell you, however, that Mr. Marshfield was unaware of this particular dynasty.”
Then most likely, I would be unaware as well. “I gather then, that these folks were super wealthy but obscure?”
“The region’s culture might have been lost forever if not for the efforts of a small, dedicated group of historians who made it their mission to rediscover the lost burial ground.”
“I take it they were successful.”
He nodded. “The treasures they uncovered far surpass those from the vaults of Sree Padmanabhaswamy. The historians were smart enough to keep news of their discovery from making headlines, but unfortunately, not savvy enough to prevent insidious forces from worming their way in.”
“The government of—wherever this is—is claiming ownership?”
“Not quite. The inhabitants of the area surrounding the burial ground are a passive people, eager to trust. Unfortunately, it appears they are also easily deceived. Before the historians could summon professionals to assist the government in evaluating the cultural windfall, an item of extraordinary value was stolen.” He tapped the photo. “This.”
I studied the picture more closely, rotating it counterclockwise, trying to determine which way was up. “What is it, exactly?”
“A puzzle and a key,” he said, returning the page to its original orientation. “Here.” He indicated one of the odd-shaped item’s long golden edges. “See that small mark? This piece is made up of eight intricately designed segments. Once assembled correctly—as it is in this photograph—it fits into a hollowed-out niche, unlocking the door to the treasure tomb of the burial ground.”
“You’re kidding me,” I said. He wasn’t, of course. “Sounds like something out of Indiana Jones.”
I’d expected him to show a hint of humor. Nope. The flat stare continued.
“The historians locked the tomb to protect it, but then this was stolen.” He tapped the picture. “The ancient name is long and difficult to pronounce. We call it the jeweled key.”
“Why are you looking for it? I wouldn’t think the FBI would be called in. Don’t you guys handle mostly domestic issues?”
“That is correct. The FBI would not ordinarily be involved in this matter.”
“And yet, you’re here in Emberstowne. Showing me this photo and looking for my sister’s husband. What’s the connection? Whoever stole this item from the burial ground had to be exceptionally clever. Eric isn’t stupid, but this is way above his pay grade.”
McClowery folded his hands in his lap. “That’s where you and Mr. Marshfield come in.”
* * *
An hour later my head was spinning. McClowery, with Bennett’s assistance, explained the whole intricate and confusing story.
The rogue who’d stolen the jeweled key from the tomb had done so at the behest of an unnamed broker—McClowery referred to him as “Mr. X”—who dealt primarily in black-market art and priceless antiquities. Mr. X used a go-between to offer the jeweled key for sale to a high-stakes bidder. Eric had been that go-between. What Eric hadn’t realized is that the high-stakes bidder he’d been courting—on Mr. X’s behalf—was McClowery, working undercover. The Bureau wasn’t interested in Eric; they wanted to use him to snag Mr. X.
“We intended to recover the jeweled key in the process as well,” McClowery said.
“I take it something went wrong?”
“I asked Eric for proof of the jeweled key’s existence. That’s standard procedure in such matters,” he said. “According to Eric, the broker refused to allow him to take possession of such a valuable item. I suggested Mr. X show himself, to complete the transaction in person. That would have been ideal. Mr. X, however, countered by offering to allow Eric to bring me three of the eight pieces in a show of faith.”
“Only three?” I asked.
During McClowery’s explanation, Bennett had gotten up to bring glasses and a pitcher of water. McClowery took a deep draught before continuing.
“Without all eight segments assembled together, the key is useless and considerably less valuable.”
“What happened?”
“Eric never showed up. We feared Mr. X had gotten wind of the FBI’s involvement, but no. Once Eric took possession of the three pieces”—McClowery opened his fingers like a fast-blooming tulip— “poof, he was gone.”
“Can’t you track him via his cell phone? Or credit cards? Isn’t that how it works?”
“The cell phone in his name hasn’t been used since he disappeared. Same for his credit cards.”
“Maybe he’s using Nina Buchman’s phone and credit cards,” I said. “Can’t you track her?”
“We ran the name after I talked with you and your sister. It’s an alias.”
“Wow,” I said, stunned by Eric’s wily maneuvers. “You wouldn’t think it would be so easy to drop out of sight. Not these days.”
McClowery didn’t comment. “Our initial fear was that Eric intended to melt the segments down and sell the gold and precious stones individually.”
“He wouldn’t, would he? Doesn’t he realize what a tragedy that would be?” I was hit with a thought so terrible, it felt like a brick had dropped in my gut. “Could my sister have the pieces? Is that why Eric is after her?”
McClowery shook his head. “Your sister was never aware of the jeweled key’s existence. I never met Liza until the other night because Eric told me—during our many meetings—that he preferred to keep her in the dark. She clearly didn’t recognize me when I came to your house, and I believe her when she says she took nothing from him.”
“Then why would he care that she’s gone? Or ask if she’s been in contact with Bennett?”
My many questions may have been taxing the man’s patience, but his stone-faced expression provided no clue. “You must understand that whenever we’re undercover, we establish a bond with our subject. It’s necessary to earn the subject’s trust. Eric told me a great deal about his relationship with Liza. She not only possesses knowledge about him and his business dealings that could land him in prison, she is a conduit to Mr. Marshfield via her relationship to you.”
“Wait, what?” I asked. “What possible reason could Eric have for wanting to connect with Bennett?”
McClowery hesitated. “We have reason to believe that Eric has initiated talks with another buyer interested in the jeweled key.”
“Oh?”
&nb
sp; Bennett cleared his throat. “Remember that gentleman you met downstairs last week?” he asked. “Malcolm Krol?”
“Yes, I do,” I said. “You wouldn’t tell me much about him.”
“While our initial fear was that Eric would melt down the pieces for some easy cash, we discovered, through other sources, that Eric connected with Krol. In the world of priceless antiquities, the jeweled key is of enormous importance. Those who deal in the black market are salivating at the chance to possess even a single piece.”
“But without the key, the burial ground people can’t open the tomb,” I said.
“Not without damaging the mechanism and ruining historical artifacts surrounding the lock,” he agreed. “Everyone involved in preserving the burial ground would prefer to avoid destructive measures. The return of the key is of paramount importance to them.” He gave a one shoulder shrug. “There are, however, many collectors with deep pockets and shallow scruples.”
“Krol believes I am one such collector,” Bennett said.
I couldn’t contain my indignation. “How can he? You’re the most honorable individual I’ve ever met.”
“Krol believes that because we made him believe it,” McClowery said. “We’re working on two fronts here. Our primary goal is to apprehend Eric and use him to unmask Mr. X, thereby closing down his operations once and for all. Our secondary objective is to assist in the recovery of the jeweled key. All eight pieces, if possible.”
Bennett leaned forward. “I know you were confused, and maybe even hurt that I wasn’t being more forthcoming with my reasons for skipping the FAAC this year, but we couldn’t risk Mr. X, or Krol, or Eric, approaching me in a public setting. The reception planned for Tuesday night is designed to flush out the person who possesses the jeweled key.”
“Tuesday’s reception, then,” I began, “is a stakeout?”
Bennett nodded. “I wanted you in on it from the beginning.” He threw a displeased look at McClowery. “They refused.”
“The situation changed,” McClowery said.
“Why did you come to my door and identify yourself as an FBI agent?”
