Concrete Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  The hot, summer-evening air did nothing to cool his mind, so he used logic instead. For unknown reasons, Erica had lied about her credentials as an underwater archaeologist and had threatened the Menanichoch tribal chairman yesterday. She wasn’t his friend. She wasn’t his supervisor. She was a suspect.

  He hurried to his car. He would follow and find out if she was really headed home. She was a suspect, he repeated to himself. He had to question everything she did.

  He’d been following her for a few minutes when she surprised him by exiting the beltway. She was headed to the Menanichoch Reservation.

  Yes, Erica Kesling was definitely a suspect.

  CHAPTER SIX

  One year earlier

  Off the coast of Oaxaca, Mexico

  THE MERCILESS NOONDAY SUN BEAT down on the boat deck, draining color from everything but the vibrant blue water. In the distance, Erica could see a yacht anchored above a coral reef, where vacationers probably drank piña coladas while listening to salsa music. Here, on Jake’s boat, the Andvari, the crew of six men passed around stolen artifacts and wondered aloud how much they’d get for the exquisitely carved obsidian jaguar, the large jadeite monkey, and the onyx rabbit-motif pulque jar.

  In spite of the heat, she felt cold and somehow hollow as she stood on the periphery. Jake had looted the shipwreck, and she’d made it possible.

  “You didn’t bring up the necklaces,” Marco, Jake’s second in command, said as he placed the pulque jar in the conservation tub that would keep the priceless artifact from drying out.

  Jake ran his fingers through his short, sun-lightened hair, shaking off water and spraying her with a few drops in the process. “I was on the bottom too long. I’ll bring them up this afternoon, after I’ve had a chance to off-gas.”

  The distancing chill vanished. In a flash, she felt the sweltering heat; with it came equally hot anger. “Yeah, it would be a crying shame if you got bent while looting the site.”

  Jake laughed. “Still pouting, Erica? I thought you were more pragmatic than that.”

  “Make Erica retrieve the necklaces,” one of the crew suggested. “Then the ice bitch can’t pretend she’s innocent anymore.”

  But she was already as guilty as the rest of them. She was the one who’d found the cache of Aztec artifacts and foolishly told Jake, expecting him to honor the excavation permit, which gave him the right to sell Spanish and Asian artifacts recovered from the shipwreck but specifically forbade the removal and sale of pre-Columbian Mexican artifacts. She had believed him when he said she needed to excavate around the artifacts so they could be photographed in situ. The photos were supposed to go to the Mexican government so they could decide how to handle the incredible find.

  But Jake had lied, and she’d bought his story, hook, line, and diving weights. Now he’d taken the artifacts she’d conveniently excavated for him, violating the permit, her trust, and jeopardizing her reputation as an archaeologist. And, trapped on his boat a mile and a half from shore, there was nothing she could do about it.

  “Yeah. Send her down, Jake,” Marco said. “Put the bitch in her place.” His glare said her place was seventy-five feet deep.

  “Leave us,” Jake said to the crew. As the men disappeared through the hatch, Jake pulled off his wet suit, revealing a muscular swimmer’s body. Weeks ago, she’d found his physique appealing, but now his muscles only served to intimidate her, an effect she suspected he’d been aiming for. Stripped down to his wet swim trunks and deep tan, he put on his sunglasses and stared at her. “What am I going to do with you, Cream Puff?”

  When she’d accepted his job offer, she warned him, “If you’re looking for some cream puff to rubber-stamp your decisions, hire someone else.” He’d laughed, and Cream Puff became his nickname for her.

  She looked unflinchingly at his sunglasses but wished she could see his eyes. “Take my advice as a professional underwater archaeologist and return those artifacts to the shipwreck.”

  “No. But I do give you credit for trying.” He fondled the five-hundred-year-old jaguar. “You knew when you took the job, we planned to sell any artifacts we found.”

  “I’m not stupid. I did my research before signing your damn contract. This Manila galleon sank en route to Acapulco. The ship’s cargo was supposed to be trade goods from the Philippines—ivory, porcelain, mercury, perhaps even gems and gold—not cultural relics from Mexico. Trade goods are all you are permitted to sell.” She pointed to the conservation tubs. “Those Aztec artifacts date back to the time when Spanish conquistadors destroyed Aztec art because they considered it the Devil’s work. They represent a destroyed culture.”

  “And they’re worth a lot of money.”

  From the moment she took the job, she had stood precariously close to an ethical line, one she’d had no intention of crossing. “You’re violating the permit—a permit I got for you.”

  “And quadrupling my take for the summer.” He lifted the jadeite monkey from the tub.

  Sunlight passed through the jade. The sculpture glowed like sea-green fire, a sight both beautiful and disturbing because transparent jadeite was the most valuable of all. “This little fellow will sell for a million alone—and the necklaces are worth twice that.”

  Her hands fisted. “They belong to the people of Mexico.”

  He placed the monkey back in the tub and took a step closer. “You really believe that, don’t you?” He cupped her jaw and ran a thumb over her lips. “How far are you willing to go to convince me?”

  She jerked away from him. “I’m not a whore.”

  “Could have fooled me. You sold your credentials readily enough.”

  “You bought my credentials, yes. Not my ethics. Those you stole.”

  “Either way, your ethics are gone. So what’s wrong with a fuck between partners in crime?”

  “Marco’s your partner. Fuck him.”

  He laughed. “I’ve got a contract with your signature on it. You’re in this up to your beautiful gray eyes, Cream Puff. Seems to me you have two choices: shut up and you’ll get your big paycheck as promised; or turn me in and your reputation as an archaeologist will be destroyed, because I’ll send copies of the contract to your graduate advisor at the University of Hawaii. First you’ll be kicked out of the PhD program; then you’ll be blackballed from the profession.”

  She felt sick. “You used me.” She’d left her summer field project after her mother’s sudden death only to discover her mom had stolen her identity and had run up a massive debt in her name. Then Jake showed up with a devil’s bargain.

  “You chose to work for me.”

  “I was desperate.” Her words sounded hollow, and she could no longer justify her choices, even to herself. When he offered her the job, the money had been too good to be true, but she’d ignored her doubts, and now guilt sat in her belly like a lead weight.

  “You needed money. I needed an underwater archaeologist to get the permit. Win-win.”

  There are two career-ending taboos in archaeology: do not desecrate a grave, and do not buy, steal, or traffic in artifacts. She had been convinced she could maneuver around the taboo by writing about this job for her dissertation—an academic attempt to bridge the chasm that separated treasure hunters from underwater archaeologists. Her goal had been to ensure Jake’s excavators collected archaeological data instead of just plundering the ship for trade goods. If the excavation was conducted ethically, she’d believed she’d be able to keep her reputation and earn the money she desperately needed for school.

  Her fingernails dug into her palms. “You can’t do this. You’re destroying my career!”

  He took her clenched fist, pried open her fingers, then placed three four-hundred-year-old Spanish doubloons in her palm. He closed her fingers around the coins, pressing to the point of pain. “Only if you force the issue,” he said, his voice low. “If you keep quiet, no one will ever know you worked for me.” Jake walked away. Just before stepping through the hatch, he turned and fa
ced her. “The doubloons are a bonus—payment for your precious ethics.”

  Then he was gone, and she was alone on the deck, holding in her hand shameful compensation for every bad choice she’d ever made.

  She saw now, when it was far too late, that no matter how good her intentions, taking a paycheck from him was the same as taking the doubloons. She wanted to chuck the coins in the ocean, but the archaeologist in her couldn’t cast away an artifact.

  Across the turquoise water, the Oaxaca coast was only a mile and a half away. A long swim, but possible with careful planning. If she made a break for it, Jake would probably let her go, but he would still sell the Aztec artifacts. She couldn’t let that happen.

  She’d been on her own for much of her life, but she’d never felt as alone as she did now. She stood by the railing for a long time, then felt someone behind her and turned to face Marco, who stood only inches away. His cold dark eyes gave her the chills as they swept her from head to toe. He scared her more than anyone else on the crew.

  He reached out and grabbed the long braid she wore to fight the heat, and twisted it around his fist. “You aren’t Jake’s pet anymore, puta.”

  Stomach-dropping fear erased all traces of self-pity. She tried to jerk away, but his firm grip tugged the roots of her hair. Pain burned across her scalp.

  “He can’t protect you.”

  She grabbed the hand that held her braid and dug in with her nails while glaring at him.

  He swatted her hand. A sharp sting raced up her arm, and she dropped his hand with a convulsive jolt.

  He laughed. “You fight like a girl.”

  “Marco! Leave her alone.”

  He dropped her braid and swung around to face Jake, puffed up like he wanted to fight. While Jake was taller and more muscular, she didn’t doubt Marco’s wiry strength. Cold fear shot through her. If he chose to fight his boss for the right to rape her, the outcome was questionable.

  Jake stared him down. “Take the tender and pick up the mail. Visit a fucking whore if you need to, but leave Erica alone.” Then he turned his angry eyes on her and barked, “Get in your cabin, now!”

  She fled, her heart pounding as she ran below. She had to get the hell off this boat.

  ERICA WAS IN HER CABIN, quietly packing her gear, when she glanced through the porthole and saw Marco returning from the marina in the tender. Minutes later, he knocked on Jake’s cabin door. She pressed her ear to the wall and could just make out his words.

  “…wants to display the Aztec artifacts in a tribal casino in Maryland.”

  Oh Christ. They had a buyer already.

  “We’d have to forge provenance documents if they go on display in the States,” Jake said. “The papers would need to be impeccable.”

  Marco laughed. “You can forge the papers to say some Spaniard found the artifacts in his attic. No one will know they were pulled from this site.”

  She felt sick. With the right paperwork, no one would know the casino had bought the artifacts illegally. No one—except Erica—would even know a crime had been committed.

  “What’s the offer?”

  “He wants to trade some hot artifacts. I have photos.”

  She could hear movement but no words. Then Jake said, “Christ! We’re supposed to find a buyer for these?”

  “With our connections, we can sell them, easy. And we’ll get a better price for them than he could.”

  “Maybe.”

  “There’s more where these came from. A shitload more.”

  Jake whistled. “Tell him it’s a deal.”

  She sat back on her bunk. She didn’t have much time if she wanted to save the Aztec artifacts.

  ERICA WAITED UNTIL JAKE went diving for the necklaces, then slipped inside his cabin. Jake didn’t have Internet on the boat. He was paranoid other treasure hunters—or, she now realized, federal investigators—would hack his Geographic Information System database and see the inventory of the artifacts they’d retrieved, which were all keyed into the shipwreck map she’d created for him. Jake was similarly paranoid about smartphones. No one on the crew was allowed to have one. So if Marco had photos, they must have arrived in the mail.

  In Jake’s desk, she found an envelope addressed to Marco Garcia care of the marina, with a postmark from Menanichoch, Maryland. Inside the envelope was a thick stack of photographs. She gripped the edge of the desk when she saw the photos. Years ago, she’d attended special lectures and participated in online forums discussing the disastrous chain of events which led to the loss of all the artifacts shown in the stack of pictures.

  Jake planned to trade the Aztec artifacts for relics that had been looted from the Iraq Museum in April of 2003.

  She pocketed the envelope with the Maryland postmark and fled back to her cabin. After locking the door, she leaned against it. Her mind raced; fear made her entire body tremble.

  How did an Indian casino in Maryland end up with a large stash of Iraqi artifacts? And worse, what would happen after Jake got them?

  What a fool she was to think Jake Novak was merely an unethical treasure hunter. He was a high-end dealer in black market antiquities. Her employer was a very dangerous man, and she was stuck on a boat with him. Worse, no one knew where she was.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  July 2011

  Menanichoch, Maryland

  ERICA HAD INTENDED TO GO HOME. She was tired and bothered by her reaction to Lee’s dinner invitation. She’d enjoyed the research and his company. He’d made her laugh. For the first time in a year—maybe more—she hadn’t felt alone. So why did the idea of dinner strike such fear in her? The answer was simple, the problem complex. She was scared of her attraction to him.

  She’d paid dearly the last time she let attraction cloud her judgment.

  She exited the beltway and headed to the reservation almost without thinking. She’d driven this road so many times. It was almost as if the casino were a siren, calling to her.

  Each room of the Menanichoch Casino celebrated a different native culture. There was no Aztec Room, but a new room would be opening soon. She would bet all of her meager possessions the room would have an Aztec theme.

  When the Aztec artifacts went on exhibition for the whole world to see, and it was too late for Sam Riversong—or whoever had purchased them—to hide them or alter them, she would use the photographs she’d taken of the excavation to prove they’d been found in the Manila galleon and not in some Spaniard’s attic. In Mexico, Jake would be charged with theft and smuggling. She smiled tightly and wondered how he would like being locked in a stinking Mexican jail cell.

  In the parking lot, she rested her arms on the steering wheel and stared at the stylish casino. The building had presence—its own offbeat charisma. Before her stood a glass-and-metal structure that looked like a Frank Gehry design with modernized art deco touches that managed to incorporate a Native American aesthetic. The digital marquee screen said the progressive slot machine jackpot was up to ten million dollars. She checked the ashtray and came up with twenty-four cents—a penny shy of being able to try her luck. She scrabbled under the passenger seat and came up with four pennies.

  It was time to make another attempt to find out when the artifacts would go on display. She opened a button on her blouse and smoothed her skirt as she entered the lobby. Cold air hit her in a frigid wave, and she took a deep breath of relief from the outside heat. Noise and lights from the gaming rooms carried across the foyer and assaulted her senses.

  The foyer opened in three different directions: to the left was a corridor that led to the Inuit and Great Basin Rooms. Straight ahead was the Pueblo Room, and to the right was a grand archway currently hidden behind thick canvas and plastic, covering the entrance to the new addition, what she was certain would be the Aztec Room.

  As usual, ceiling-mounted security cameras were trained on the canvas covering, but this was the first time a security guard was stationed at the opening. Did the security guard mean the artifacts were in th
e display cases? One thing was certain: with a guard in place, she wouldn’t be able to look behind the canvas tonight.

  With twenty-eight cents burning a hole in her pocket, she headed to the Pueblo Room. The young bartender she’d been flirting with for the last two months worked on Tuesday nights, so she made her way to the bar on the far side of the room.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he said.

  “Hi, Tommy.” She slid onto a barstool.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to show up. I’ve got news for you on that manager job.”

  Weeks ago she’d told him she was hoping to get the position of manager of archaeological collections, which would open up when the current manager went on maternity leave. “Are they getting ready to advertise?”

  “No. Word is the current manager is going to quit once her baby is born. They’re looking for a permanent replacement.” He placed a white napkin with extra limes in front of her along with a tall mojito. “On me.”

  “Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.” She tried to put as much flirt into her smile as she could, but the idea of flirting with him for information made her feel sleazy tonight.

  Still, the end was in sight. All these months… She couldn’t let a moment of conscience destroy everything she’d worked for. “I hope I have the right experience. I’ve only worked with Meso-American collections. You know”—she paused and leaned closer—“it would help if I knew what the theme of the new room will be. Then I’ll know what to highlight on my résumé.”

  Tommy looked around and whispered, “Do you want to see the room tonight?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Absolutely.”

  He grinned. “I get a break in fifteen minutes. Meet me in the corridor that leads to the Great Basin Room, and I can get you in through the back way.” His expression told her exactly what the price of admission would be.

  She’d brought this on herself by flirting with a young man she wasn’t interested in. This was wrong. She’d reached a new low.