Please don’t match.
Jackson pulled out the picture and held it next to the artifact. “All I can see is rust.”
She slid a magnifying lamp from the center of the worktable and positioned the flexible gooseneck over the dagger. Worn down by time, the engravings were faint, but her experienced eye visualized a mirror image of the marks on the victim’s skin. She compared the symbols to the marks in the photo in Jackson’s hand. Not every symbol had made a distinct impression, but the ones that were visible matched those on the ancient weapon.
With questions whirling in her head, she stepped aside.
Jackson leaned over the magnifier. He stiffened, then straightened and knuckle-slapped his partner on the arm. “Take a look.”
Ianelli stared through the lens and grunted. “Damn. That looks close, but like Dr. Hancock said, there’s no way in hell that blade killed anyone. Looks like it would crumble if you touched it.”
Dread flooded Louisa’s belly. Her blood chilled, flowing through her limbs like the Atlantic in January. “The museum commissioned a reproduction of this dagger.”
“You had it copied?” Jackson asked.
“Not exactly. The reproduction is made to show how the knife would have looked when it was new.” Louisa returned the artifact to its box and shelved it. They left the collection storage room and walked down the hall to the elevator.
“Collection storage space is always an issue,” Cusack explained as he pressed the button for the third floor. “Maintaining a controlled environment to protect artifacts from deterioration is quite expensive. Items not of historical value are stored separate from artifacts.”
The elevator dinged, and they emerged from the elevator into an empty industrial-looking hall of ugly green paint and scratched gray linoleum. The museum spent the majority of its budget on the parts of the building that were accessible to the public. The third floor was a hodgepodge of small rooms. Halfway down the hall, Louisa opened the door and swept her hand over the wall next to the doorframe. Overhead florescent lights flickered and then held their brightness.
It has to be here.
Rows of metal shelves held the objects the museum used to round out displays, like the prop room of a movie studio. Like a studio, the museum portrayed slices of life throughout time. A dozen six-foot-tall shelving units formed aisles, and the shelves were packed full of items.
Louisa walked to the last aisle. A tag on the shelving affixed to the wall read CELTIC WARRIOR EXHIBIT. She scanned the labels on the containers and pulled down the correct box. “The dagger came in a few weeks ago. Here it is.”
She lifted the lid. The box was empty. Her knees weakened, and she nearly dropped the container. “It’s gone.”
Surely the weapon was simply misplaced. But where was it? The new Celtic Warrior exhibition was scheduled to open in three weeks. She replaced the empty box. Picking up a clipboard, she flipped pages of the computer printout. Her finger stopped on the line for the dagger replica. “It’s on the log sheet. It should be here.”
“How many copies of this dagger were made?” Jackson asked.
“We had one made.” Louisa wrapped her arms around her waist.
Ianelli scratched his forehead. “Could there be others?”
“I don’t think so, but it’s possible,” Cusack answered in a grim voice. “I’ll get you the name and number of the maker.”
“Is this replica sharp enough to kill someone?” Jackson asked.
“No.” Louisa pulled out the sword replica that arrived that morning. She handed it to Jackson. “The edge was dull like this one, but it could be sharpened like any other blade.”
Jackson ran a finger along the edge. “Is it valuable?”
Cusack shook his head. “Not particularly. We had to pay a design fee, but the actual value is nominal. You can buy museum replicas online for under a hundred dollars.”
Jackson pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Who has access to this room?”
Blood rushed in Louisa’s ears. External sounds dimmed. Eyes riveted on the empty box, she vaguely heard Cusack answering the detective.
“The items stored up here aren’t of high value. Security on the third floor is minimal. Most of the staff has access. We have a senior curator, three assistant curators, museum security, two curatorial administrative assistants, one intern . . .” His voice trailed off as he listed the people who had access to the weapon.
The detective scanned the ceiling. “Are there security cameras in here?”
“No,” Cusack said. “There’s a camera in the elevator.”
It appeared someone was killed with an item stolen from her museum. An image of Riki’s MISSING flyer popped into Louisa’s mind. Louisa had seen the pretty brunette in the corridors. The girl had always smiled in passing. Sadness filled her at the loss of a young, promising life.
“Who is the victim?” Louisa asked quietly.
The men stopped talking and turned toward her.
Jackson’s face tightened. “We can’t say at this time.”
“But do you know who it is?” Louisa gave Jackson a direct stare.
His lips flattened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “We have a suspicion of who she is, but we’re waiting for confirmation to make an official ID.”
“The victim is female?” Louisa’s mind traveled back to the photos, then to her memories of Riki.
“Yes.” Detective Jackson frowned. “All I can tell you is that the victim is a Caucasian female, probably in her early twenties. A homeless man found her in the basement of an abandoned building a few hours ago. We were lucky to get a jump on the press, but the stories are breaking now.”
In the weeks since Riki disappeared, seven bodies had been discovered in the Philadelphia area. After the first three, museum employees had stopped speculating each one could be Riki.
“Do you suspect the victim is our intern?” Louisa pressed.
But Jackson’s eyes gave away nothing but irritation.
“Do you have photos of the dagger replica?” he asked, ignoring her question and leaving her to assume the worst.
“Yes, I have pictures.”
The detective gave her a pointed look. “We don’t give the press all the details of the case. We would appreciate you keeping our discussion in confidence.”
“Of course.” Louisa crossed her arms.
Next to her, a grim-faced Cusack nodded.
Jackson handed them each a business card. “Please call us if you remember anything or if you notice anything unusual.”
The police took drawings, measurements, and photos of the dagger reproduction so the medical examiner could determine if the museum replica was the likely murder weapon. As soon as the detectives finished with her, Louisa retreated to her tiny office and sank into her chair.
Dear God, not again.
She couldn’t believe this was happening. For the second time, items stolen from her museum had been used by a killer. Six months ago in Maine, a madman had used stolen museum pieces in bizarre Celtic rituals that killed several people. Now it was happening again.
Conor Sullivan had pulled her into the investigation. He’d connected the missing artifacts to an elaborate mass murder attempt, and she’d gone with him to help solve the case. Conor, and her reaction to him, had been nearly as disconcerting as being swept up in a violent murder case.
She opened her bottom desk drawer, pulled a folder out, and set it on the desk. Opening the cover, she spread newspaper articles across the blotter. The last story wrapped around a black-and-white photo of Conor escorting her to her car after the police had finished with her interview. She was barely visible in the picture. The angle of his big body blocked most of hers from media intrusion. Looking at it now, she could almost feel his protective stance, his powerful body touching hers. Her toes curled at the
memory.
From the moment they met, he threw her off-kilter. She’d just lost her job. In the two days they’d worked together, his fear for his brother, the horror of being involved in a murder case, and her inexplicable response to him compounded into complete confusion in her already-turbulent life.
He wasn’t the sort of man she dated: cool, polite professionals with backgrounds and interests similar to hers. No, there was nothing cool about Conor. She hadn’t wanted to be attracted to him, but just looking at the picture now sent heat swirling low in her belly. She took off her glasses and slid the picture a few inches farther away on the blotter, as if distance between her and the photo created a like chasm in her emotions.
It didn’t.
But all that was behind her. Six months ago had been a difficult period in her life. Now that she was settled again, she’d have better control.
That would be easier to believe if Conor didn’t live in Philadelphia.
And if she didn’t keep his picture in her desk.
The door opened, and she jerked upright.
“Relax.” April closed the door behind her. She carried a brown paper bag in one hand and two large coffees in a cardboard tray in the other. “You haven’t eaten all day. We’re having a dinner break. No shop talk.”
“Thanks.” Louisa glanced down at the newspaper articles. Shoving them hastily into her desk would be obvious. She forced her hands to move slowly gathering up the papers. “You’re the best.”
April set her bounty on the desk. Louisa took the coffee with an L written in black marker on the side.
“I know.” April fished two wrapped deli sandwiches from the bag. “Turkey or tuna?”
Louisa sipped the coffee and selected the turkey club. She took a tentative bite, and her stomach begged for more. “This is great.”
“There are cupcakes for later.” April produced a small white bakery box. “Cupcakes make everything better.”
“No argument from me.” Louisa took another bite of her sandwich. The deli had been generous with the bacon. Her taste buds applauded.
April spied the photo before Louisa could push it into the folder.
“Honey, you don’t have to hide that. Everyone in the museum knows what happened at your last job. Those articles were passed around the break room. In fact, it’s one of the reasons Cusack hired you.” April dropped into one of the two leather club chairs facing the desk.
“I don’t understand.”
“I sort of overheard Cusack telling one of the board members that it’d be an opportunity to get a top-notch curator at a bargain-basement price. He also said that you were replaced with someone far less qualified. The Maine museum probably needed to cut its budget.”
Louisa’s heart dropped. But then his decision made sense. Museums, especially smaller ones, operated on very limited funding, and the recent economic downturn had affected donations and grants. Who would ever have thought the situation that brought her to Philadelphia could happen twice?
“I’m pretty sure your father’s reputation helped too.”
Her assistant’s answer was yet another blow. Louisa hadn’t even gotten this entry-level position on her own merit. Currently living in Stockholm, her father was a renowned expert in Viking burials, and she was inadvertently borrowing his academic success. The events in Maine, and now here in Philadelphia, were out of her control, yet her career was in jeopardy. She suppressed the surge of self-pity. How could she feel sorry for herself when a woman had been violently murdered?
April picked up the article. “I saw this picture before. Who is he?” She brought the red-framed glasses hanging on a chain around her neck to her nose.
In the photo, Conor’s lean face was turned away from Louisa and toward the cameras. He’d been furious at the macabre story-lust of the media. Anger hardened his angular features. With his unshaven jaw, he looked more than a little dangerous. The motorcycle boots and leather jacket contributed to his bad-boy persona.
“His name is Conor Sullivan. His family owns a tavern in South Philadelphia.”
“He lives here?” April pursed her lips and raised a single brow. “Please tell me you’re seeing him and then give me all the details.”
“No. I’m not seeing him.” What would it be like to be with him again? Heat crept up Louisa’s neck.
April raised her eyebrows and considered Louisa from over the half lenses of her reading glasses. “Is he an asshole?” she asked with her typical bluntness.
“No.”
April made mmm, mmm sounds at the photo. “Scorching.”
Conor’s hotness wasn’t in question. “We don’t have much in common, and we met under such bizarre circumstances. I’m sure he doesn’t have any interest in seeing me.”
April studied the picture. “Louisa, he might not be looking at you, but his body language is all about you. He’s practically wrapped around you. If a man like that was paying me that kind of attention . . . Wonder how he feels about older women.”
Louisa couldn’t hold back a short laugh. “I admit. He is good-looking.”
She bit into her sandwich. April’s distraction had allowed Louisa’s stomach to settle, which undoubtedly had been her assistant’s intention. Louisa struggled to connect with people, but April’s honesty and humor, along with Louisa’s determination to be less of a loner, had eroded Louisa’s resolve like the persistent drip of water on rock.
“Honey, calling that man good-looking is like calling Michelangelo’s David a nice statue.” April fanned herself.
“I don’t usually go for the bad-boy type.”
April shook her head. “That is no boy. That is a man.”
The door opened again, and Louisa’s intern hurried into the office. Though she’d just turned twenty-one, Zoe’s long body retained its youthful slimness. With her long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked younger than her years. Her brown eyes were open wide. “The police asked me a bunch of questions. Why would anyone steal a replica? Its dollar value is relatively low.”
Louisa replaced the picture of her and Conor and returned the folder to her drawer.
Zoe’s face paled. The freckles popping against her fair skin lent a frightened cast to her complexion. “They wouldn’t tell me anything, but it must have something to do with Riki’s disappearance, right?”
“I really can’t say what the police are thinking,” Louisa said. “April and I are going to stay tonight and run a complete inventory on the European exhibit.” It would likely be an all-nighter. “We could use a hand.”
“I have a date.”
Louisa looked up from the sandwich. “Really?”
“You don’t have to act so surprised that I have a boyfriend.” Zoe grinned. “Though, honestly, even I’m shocked he asked me out.”
Louisa smiled. “I’m only surprised because you never mentioned him before.”
Zoe was several years younger than her graduate student peers and suffered from the social awkwardness that often accompanied brilliance. She was an excellent intern, though, except for some habitual lateness. No doubt both those issues would resolve as the girl matured.
“He’s new. Tonight he’s taking me to a hockey game.” Zoe sobered. “But I guess I could cancel if you really need me to stay.”
Louisa and April shared a resigned smile.
“No, you enjoy your date.” Louisa knew exactly what it was like to be desperate to fit into the social environment when you were different from everyone else. “We’ll manage.”
“Thanks.” Zoe grinned. Excitement radiated from her brown eyes.
“Be careful.” As Louisa knew from experience, boys knew how to take advantage of naïveté like Zoe’s. Her settled nerves tightened at an old memory. No. Not the time. She put the old pain back in the dark corner of her mind, where it belonged.
“Don’t worry
. I’ll be fine.”
“Have fun,” Louisa said as Zoe bounced out of the room.
Louisa’s thoughts turned to the gruesome photos the police had brought. Was the body Riki or some other poor young woman? Whoever she was, had she thought she was safe? Where and how had she been taken?
And most importantly, would the killer strike again?
3
Would this night never end?
In the basement of the South Philadelphia bar he owned with his three siblings, Conor set up a new keg of brown ale. The old brick floor dug into his knee. Finished, he climbed the steep wooden staircase, passed the kitchen, and went back into the main room.
A cheer erupted at the far end of the bar. A half-dozen college-age hockey fans circled around a table, all dressed in Flyers jerseys. They’d painted their faces with orange and black stripes in support of their team. Conor didn’t recognize any of them, and unlike the usual Sullivan’s crowd, these boys had been overt about flashing their cash since they came in an hour ago. One raised his hand and snapped his fingers for the waitress. The sound didn’t carry over the din, but the superior attitude came across crystal clear. An aura of privileged aggression hovered around the group. While Conor appreciated the dollars in the drawer, this bunch set off his well-developed troublemaker radar.
Conor lifted the hinged partition and moved behind the bar. Tilting a glass under the tap, he tested the flow of ale.
The part-time bartender, Ernie, was at the register, ringing up a customer.
“Is Terry still here?” Conor asked. His old friend, now a beat cop, had been nursing an off-duty beer when Conor went downstairs.
“He just left,” Ernie said.
“Figures.” Just a ten-minute walk from the Sports Complex, Sullivan’s was a postgame stop-off for fans either commiserating a loss or celebrating a win. He nodded toward the college crowd. “Are they behaving?”
Midnight Betrayal Page 2
