by Lee, Rachel
Tebbins spoke. “You’re sure it’s a copy?”
“Of course. The blade isn’t even real jade. It’s glass. And the handle appears to be electroplated. The carvings aren’t exactly the same. Someone worked hard on it, but not hard enough.” She said it emphatically. “I’m sure it’s nothing you need to worry yourself about, Officer.”
“Detective,” he corrected her. “Well, if you’re going to insist on handling all the packing materials, you might as well open the envelope. But let me do it for you. No sense smudging more prints than we need to.”
“I told you, it’s just a prank.”
“Then the card will say so, yes?”
Anna sighed audibly. “Be my guest.”
“Do you have a letter opener?” he asked.
There was the sound of a drawer opening, and the watcher knew she was pulling out the ivory-handled letter opener that was her family heirloom.
“Lovely,” Tebbins remarked. There were some other sounds, too faint to make out. “There is no card—the envelope is empty,” he announced with the air of one who is smugly satisfied that he was correct.
“Empty?” The watcher heard the doubt, and the faint undercurrent of fear in Anna’s voice. Most others wouldn’t have heard it, but he knew Anna well. The almost inaudible note of fear was there. Good. He hadn’t failed.
“Generally,” Tebbins said, “when people intend no harm, they don’t hide.”
“But this is harmless,” she said, still protesting the whole idea.
“In and of itself,” he agreed.
There was a silence. The watcher strained his ears, wondering if they might be whispering. But no, the way the hall echoed and amplified sounds, he would have been able to tell.
“Well,” Anna said suddenly, her voice brisk, “I’ve got a speech to give. I just came in here to get my index cards.”
“A moment,” Tebbins said.
The tapping of her heels on the tile floor stopped and she said, “Are you always so persistent?”
“Of course,” the cop answered, sounding surprised that anyone would doubt it. “I want to take the package and its contents to be examined.”
The watcher’s heart stopped, and he had to grind his teeth to keep from crying out. This was not part of the plan.
“But it’s nothing. A prank. There’s no evidence of anything criminal. Why do the police need to be involved?”
“One never knows,” Tebbins said.
“Sure,” said Anna, impatiently. “Take it. What harm could it do?”
“Thank you. Can I leave it here until after the presentation?”
“No problem. Let me lock up.”
The watcher shrank backward into a small L at the rear of the alcove and listened to their footsteps fade away. He had time. He had time to rescue the dagger. But for long moments he just stood, shaking and shaken, waiting for his strength to return. He could get the dagger. He would get it.
Nothing could be allowed to interfere with his plan.
Narrow jungle paths opened into nooks and crannies containing objects of stone and gold. Tangled vines cloaked a doorway, giving way to a vista of stone pyramids rising amidst vegetation, beneath a concealing canopy of trees. Later, a climb down into the depths of a pyramid, into a small, dark chamber where beautiful artifacts lay carefully arranged around an ornately carved stone sarcophagus. And always in the background, the distant call of exotic birds, even the rumble of faraway thunder…
The exhibit was an unqualified success. As the guests emerged in groups at the end of the manufactured trail, they congratulated Anna and other museum personnel enthusiastically.
The watcher nodded approval. Anna had worked hard on the exhibit, as hard as anyone. And it was a masterpiece. He himself had felt as if he were back in the jungles of the Yucatán, although the exhibit was not nearly as threatening. She deserved the kudos. He hoped she enjoyed them, since they would probably be her last.
But at an opportune moment, while the crowd swirled and attention seemed to be focused on Anna, he slipped down the now-darkened hallway to her office. Weeks ago he had stolen a master key from the janitor and duplicated it, returning the original before the lazy janitor had even noticed it was missing. Now, as easily as he had earlier in the evening, he let himself into Anna’s office.
It was dark, but not nearly as dark as the hallway. Light filtered through the closed horizontal blinds from the parking lot outside. It was enough to see the replica dagger, the box and tissue in which it had come, and the gift-card envelope on which he’d typed Anna’s name. Slipping on gloves, he scooped them all up.
The box and tissue were a problem, he realized. He couldn’t conceal them. Dropping them back on the desk, he tucked the dagger inside his slacks, slipping his hand into his pocket to hold it until he could find somewhere else to stash it until he needed it.
Even through the fabric of his slacks, the glass blade felt warm to his hand. The original was a ceremonial dagger, about fourteen inches long, with a sharp jade blade and an ornately carved gold hilt. The Mayan king, Pocal, had probably worn it for important occasions. No one was certain if it had ever tasted blood, but the watcher thought it probably had.
The thought gave him a thrill, and he clutched the dagger tighter, crumpling his slacks somewhat. No good, he reminded himself. It had to remain invisible.
Sneaking farther down the hallway, he used the master key to get into a musty storage room and tuck the dagger into a file box. It needed to be concealed there for only a couple of hours. This would work.
Then, slipping back down the hallway, he took up his post again. All that mattered, he reminded himself, was that he accomplish his mission. If the dagger were found… well, it wouldn’t be a total loss. It would just muddy the message a little. He could live with that.
It was just a little kink, and if he couldn’t handle kinks, then what kind of a mastermind was he?
The crowd began to thin out. He kept his gaze on Anna’s coppery hair but didn’t follow her. It might become too obvious as the guests left. But when he saw her speaking to Reed Howell again, he eased his way over there. This he didn’t want to miss. The duel had begun.
Even Reed Howell seemed to have mellowed, but the watcher put that down to the fact that the reporter had availed himself of some of the liquid refreshment.
“Not bad, Anna,” Howell said. “Not bad at all. I’d pay the fourteen bucks to come see it. One thing though… those stairs down into the underground chamber. What about the disabled?”
“There’s an elevator, Reed. Handicapped only.”
He nodded, appearing satisfied. Just as the watcher thought he was going to move on and leave her unscathed, Howell said, “Someday you gotta tell me about the curse and how your father died.”
Anna’s face deadened. “It’s a matter of public record, Reed. He died in an earthquake.”
“Yeah, but the curse says…”
She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t a curse. It was an earthquake. They happen all the time down there.”
“But don’t you ever wonder?”
“I’m a woman of science. I don’t believe in curses.”
“Thanks,” he said, and strode away.
Moments later, Anna turned to a nearby woman, and said, “Oh my God, I walked right into it.”
Janine Mason, the art director, moved closer to Anna. “Uh-oh,” she said. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
“I know. I know. But I can explain it.”
“Sure.” Janine shook her head. “If anyone gives you the opportunity. Look, I’ll go chase the asshole down. Maybe I can clear up the problem.”
“I should do that.”
“Hell no. The guy’s a demon, and he wants to skewer you on his little red pitchfork. Let me.”
Janine started to move away, then paused and leaned toward Anna. The watcher could barely hear her. “Who’s that little guy with the greasy hair and weird moustache? He keeps staring at you.”
Anna glanced over. “Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Clarence Tebbins of the Tampa PD. He’s a Hercule Poirot wanna-be.”
The watcher shifted his attention to the little man. A Hercule Poirot wanna-be? The idea tickled him, although he wasn’t sure why Anna had said that. This mission could be more fun than he’d thought.
He shifted his attention to Janine, who had caught up with Reed Howell near the door. Damage control. He hoped it wouldn’t work. He’d spent plenty of time and effort to prime Reed’s pump so that Anna’s story would come out in the papers. He wanted the whole world to understand what had happened. And Reed Howell was his mouthpiece.
It was time, though, to hide himself. He retreated to the musty storage room and sat in the pitch-dark, holding the dagger in his hands, fancying that the real one would glow in the dark, ever so faintly, with the power of the curse. He wished he could hear Anna’s reaction, or Tebbins’s, when they found the dagger was gone as mysteriously as it had appeared. The images that ran through his brain forced him to stifle a giggle of delight.
Time passed slowly. He checked his Indiglo watch every few minutes, but 1 A.M. seemed to take a long time arriving.
At last, though, he picked up the Thermos bottle he’d stashed there earlier, tucked the dagger safely away, and headed out to greet the curse’s first victim.
“Hi, Eddy,” he said to the security guard at the front desk. “I brought you some coffee again. How ya doin’ tonight?”
CHAPTER TWO
The phone dragged Gil Garcia out of sleep around nine-thirty. It sounded like a slothfully late hour, but considering he’d been working a murder scene until 3 A.M., it felt early to him.
“What now?” he muttered at the telephone. Oh hell, the pager was going off, too. Next it would be his cell phone playing that damn cheery tune he’d never bothered to figure out how to turn off.
“Want me to get it, Dad?” His fifteen-year-old daughter’s bright voice called through the door. What was she doing up? She was a teenager, for cripes sake, and she was on spring break besides. How could she possibly sound so chipper?
“I’ll get it,” he groaned back, his voice raspy from sleep. The phone and pager beeped again, and the c-phone started playing a mad melody from the closet.
“Okay,” Trina called back. “I’m making breakfast. Sausage, eggs, grits.”
Oh, God, Gil thought, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. She wanted something. Something she didn’t think he’d agree to.
Then he grabbed the receiver, tucked it to his ear, and switched the pager off. “Garcia,” he grumbled.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” said the too-happy voice of Louise Obern. “They’re playing tag, and you’re it.”
“Shit. Louise, I was out on a case until after three this morning.”
“Sorry, big boy, but you’re all we got. DB near Sixth Avenue and Forty-third. Girlfriend came home this A.M., found the vic dead on the couch. Criminologists to arrive shortly. Uniforms are on the scene. They say it looks like an O.D. She says he never did drugs.”
“Jesus.”
“Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t arrange for all the murders this week.”
“Give me a few, will you? My daughter made me a special breakfast, so I at least need to make a quick run at it, and hear what it is she wants this time.”
“Sounds heavy. I pity you. Take your time, you poor schmuck. The vic isn’t in a hurry, and the scene is secure.”
That kind of sympathy he could do without, Gil thought. Rubbing his eyes again, he hung up the phone. Shower fast. Dress faster. Eat quickly. Say no. Soothe tears. Get back to work. Ah, the life of a homicide cop and part-time dad.
The shower helped wake him, though, and by the time he emerged from his bedroom to the smells of a good breakfast, he figured a half gallon of coffee would finish the job.
He was a tall, lean man, with the dark hair and eyes of his Hispanic heritage. He also had a great smile, one which he wasn’t ashamed to use to his advantage in his work. But basically he thought of himself as totally ordinary.
Trina, however, was a lovely, blossoming dark-haired beauty who was already attracting too much male attention. This morning she was wearing a frilly apron he’d never seen before as she stood at the stove stirring the grits in the pot. Homemade-from-scratch grits. Man, she knew the way to his heart.
“Morning, Dad.”
“Morning, honey.” He dropped a peck on her smooth cheek, then pulled out a chair at the breakfast table. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run. There’s been another murder. Just time to eat.”
“That’s okay,” she said brightly. A moment later she was filling a plate for him with eggs, sausage patties, and a heaping mound of buttery grits.
“Where on earth did you find the grits?” he asked. His cupboard held only the instant variety.
She shrugged. “I went by the grocery store yesterday and used some of my allowance. They’re better this way.”
He smiled at her. “I couldn’t agree more.” Then he tucked in, wondering how long he’d have to wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Oh,” Trina said suddenly, just as she was about to join him, “I forgot to bring in the newspaper.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I won’t have time to read it this morning.” He glanced pointedly at his watch. “Gotta run in a couple of minutes.” He waited, but still she said nothing. “This is a fabulous breakfast, honey. Thanks so much for making it. How come you went to all this trouble?”
He glanced up in time to see her bite her lip, and he found himself mentally ordering her to just tell him what was going on.
“Oh…” she said after a moment, “I just felt like doing something nice.”
Shit. It was more than wanting to go to the beach with her boyfriend… of whom he didn’t completely approve. A thought suddenly grabbed him by the throat. She couldn’t be pregnant, could she? Oh, God…
But she didn’t say any more, and he couldn’t exactly press her without making her angry by implying that he thought the breakfast was a ploy. Even if it was. Time had taught him such a conversation would go nowhere.
Finally, he asked, “What are your plans for the day?”
Her eyes shifted in a way that made him feel even more uneasy. “I’m just going to hang out.”
“With your boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about meeting Sally at the mall.”
He hoped. But he couldn’t be sure. Damn it. In fact, it sounded entirely too innocent. “Do you have bus fare?”
She smiled. “Sure. Don’t worry about me.”
The problem was, he worried entirely too much, even though she was only with him on school breaks and holidays, and alternate weekends. His ex-wife doled out time with Trina according to her convenience. He was well aware that if he upset Trina too much, she might complain to her mother, and thus not come stay with him for the summer.
On the other hand…
He was still thinking about the other hand when he walked through the humid air to his car. It was going to be a hot one. There was a certain feeling in the air that warned him. Not that he much cared. He’d lived in Florida all his life, and heat didn’t scare him.
It just wilted him a little.
Unfortunately, just as he was opening his car door, Zoe Fenster, also known as “the widow next door,” came trotting over. This morning she wore a fuchsia muumuu and flip-flops, but she’d managed to comb her ash gray hair and put on her lipstick before she attacked. Worse, she was bearing a plastic-wrap-covered plate.
“I just made you some cookies, Gil,” she trilled.
He was already drowning in her baked goods, most of which were less than stellar. “Thanks, Zoe,” he said, in his official voice. “Just give them to Trina, will you? I’ve got to get to a murder scene.”
She looked suitably impressed, thank God, and merely nodded without looking crushed. Standing there like a lost bird of paradise, she waved after him as he backed out
of the driveway and headed down the quiet, tree-lined street.
Good escape. He mentally patted himself on the back, but stopped as soon as he remembered Trina. There was trouble brewing there, and he didn’t really know what to do about it. And there was nothing in the world like a teenager to make a parent feel like an utterly incompetent idiot.
The scene was taped off, the requisite neighborhood gawkers had appeared, and the crime-scene van was just jockeying into position. Gil pulled in behind a patrol car and found himself wishing that his partner, Seamus Rourke, wasn’t on vacation. He could have used some of the nonsensical patter he and Seamus used to get through these scenes.
Oh well.
He climbed out of the car and pushed everything out of his head except his concern with the job. The always unpleasant job of examining a possible murder scene. Of course this one shouldn’t be too bad, unless the vic hadn’t been discovered quickly.
He nodded to the uniforms who were keeping an eye on things outside, two guys he didn’t know very well. A heavy young woman sat in the backseat of one of the patrol cars, her eyes red and puffy. Probably the girlfriend. But first things first.
He stepped into the house and found Frank Delgado just inside the door. He knew Frank from way back and trusted his judgment. Right now he was just making sure nobody muddied the scene. He’d even already arranged for a taped-off pathway, to confine walk-throughs to a limited area until the criminologists finished. Good man.
“How’s it going, Frank?”
“Another day, another dollar.” Frank’s stock reply. He was a short man, his belly stretching his white uniform shirt more and more as he approached fifty. Lately his favorite topic of conversation was retirement. But other than his sun-lined face and salt-and-pepper hair, Frank was still a young man. If he retired, it would be for mental reasons, not physical ones.
“And another O.D. they tell me.”
“Looks like it.” Frank stabbed a stubby finger toward the couch. “Went out as peaceful as a baby. I should be so lucky.”
Gil took in the scene, a fit young man lying sprawled on the couch, wearing a T-shirt and briefs. Around him lay scattered the detritus of a drug user. The needle lay on the floor as if it had fallen from his right hand, which drooped over the edge. A belt was looped around his upper left arm, a makeshift tourniquet. On the coffee table were a guttered candle in a brass holder, a spoon, and a bag of white powder. What a fucking waste.
