by Lee, Rachel
Gil had to admit he couldn’t remember a one. Sometimes they came back to watch the police investigation, but as a rule they simply stayed away. “That doesn’t make him a mastermind.”
“No, it merely indicates that he thinks he is one.” Tebbins’s smile broadened. “So, he is sending us messages.”
Gil shook his head. “He’s sending messages to Anna.”
Tebbins threw up his hands. “Where is the excitement in sending her messages? No, he is certain the messages are reaching us.”
More theatrics, thought Gil. “Why don’t you just call him Moriarty?”
“Because I am not Holmes!” Tebbins spoke as if that should be intuitively obvious to the meanest intelligence. “Unless you want to be Watson?”
“I’ll pass. There’s no way on earth I’m going to get involved in your delusion.”
“Delusion?” Tebbins frowned, tipping his head back so that he could look down his nose, except the effect was ruined because Gil was so much taller. Tebbins wound up frowning at the knot in Gil’s tie. “Why did you have to be so tall?”
“I guess nature fucked up.”
“I wouldn’t go to that extreme.”
“Why not? You go to extremes in everything else.”
Tebbins’s grin returned. “In short, I’m a jackass. We agree. So, to get back to the problem at hand…”
Gil couldn’t believe the guy. He needed to be on the stage. “Yes, why don’t you describe the problem at hand.”
“Thank you, I will.” Tebbins cleared his throat. “First, we have an impossible burglary.”
Gil shook his head. “It happened. Therefore, it is not impossible.”
“Precisely.” Tebbins beamed at him as if he were a brilliant student. “Are you sure you don’t want to be Watson?”
“If I’d had to work with Sherlock Holmes, I’d probably have killed him before the first week was out. Keep that in mind.”
“Tsk, latent hostility.”
“There’s nothing latent about it. Get on with it, Hercule.”
“My pleasure.” Tebbins was enjoying himself hugely, and in spite of himself, Gil was, too.
“All right,” Tebbins continued. “We have the impossible-but-not-impossible burglary.”
Gil wondered if he’d ever known anyone else who actually spoke with hyphens in his sentences. He couldn’t recall. “Right. Clearly the videotapes must have been tampered with somehow.”
“Yes. And the lab will discover how.”
“Maybe.”
Tebbins pursed his lips. “My dubious sidekick. Also, the motion detectors had to be tampered with. And there we have an even more serious problem than the videos.”
Gil agreed. Pulling out a chair, he sat at the conference table. If he had to watch Tebbins pace like a whirling dervish, which Tebbins had just begun to do, he could at least do it from the comfort of a chair. “That bugs me. It suggests tampering with the hardware. You’ve got the security people checking that out, right?”
“I didn’t even have to ask. They’re more distressed about this than the museum, if that’s possible. Their business is on the line. Bad publicity, you know.”
Gil could have figured that out on his own, but he refrained from saying so. Something about Tebbins was beginning to remind him of a lawyer in a courtroom.
“Then, of course,” Tebbins continued, “we have the supposedly tamperproof display case.” The sparkle was coming back into his eyes, and he rubbed his hands together again as he cornered the table at about sixty-five miles per hour.
Gil wondered if he was going to get dizzy. “That,” he said, “really bothers me.”
“What? The display-case conundrum?”
“No, your pacing. I’ve never been locked up with a whirling dervish before.”
“A new experience then,” Tebbins replied placidly. “Enjoy the adventure.”
Gil barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Look, we already know all of this. Basically what we have to do is reverse-engineer the crime.”
The other man’s eyebrows lifted. “I’ve never heard anyone put it that way before, reverse-engineer. So we are engineers.”
Gil wouldn’t go quite that far. “No, we’re cops. And cops—good cops—examine the scene and work backward to discover how it’s done.”
“Exactly. Which makes us reverse engineers. I rather like that title.”
He would, Gil thought. “Let’s move on.”
“Certainly. Impatience, thy name is Garcia.”
“Redundancy, thy name is Tebbins.”
Suddenly they were both grinning at each other.
“Point taken,” Tebbins said after a moment.
“I’m not being impatient,” Gil said. “it’s just that the security people are in a better position to discover the actual means of the theft. So are the criminologists. What we need are clues that will lead us to the perp. And right now we don’t know a hell of a lot.”
Tebbins nodded, and finally came to rest in a chair. “It could be Anna Lundgren. She’s certainly in a position to do all of it. For example, that fake dagger in the case may not be the same one I saw on her desk. And we have only her word for the fact that it is.”
Gil nodded. “I agree. That thought crossed my mind at about two o’clock this morning. So if she stole the dagger before it was placed in the case, who would know?”
“And it might have been a second replica on her desk.”
But Gil didn’t like that idea, not when he thought of Anna’s frightened green eyes or her pale, delicate face. Whoa, he told himself. Not good. “It could have been,” he forced himself to say. But even so, he wasn’t prepared to stop there. “There is, however, a small flaw with that theory.”
“Yes?”
“You heard her cry out when she found it. You said so. Why would she have cried out? She couldn’t be certain anyone would hear her—not in the midst of the party that was going on. It would have made more sense for her to ‘discover’ it the next morning, when other employees in the hallway would have heard her, if that’s what she wanted.”
“Hmm.” Tebbins started stroking his moustache again. “I see your point, although it would have made it harder to claim it was the same dagger in the case. But possibly she could have pretended to discover it earlier in the day, before the party, when other employees were about.”
“Same difference.”
“However, there are also the notes. The first one, the opened, empty envelope, which she claimed was beneath the dagger in the display case. Once again we have only her word that it was the same envelope.”
Gil nodded. “And she certainly could have placed the envelope she found on her desk a little while ago. But then, so could Peter. And so could you.”
Tebbins smiled. “I’m being set up, you know.”
“Conceivably.” He didn’t add that he wasn’t about to dismiss Tebbins as a suspect.
“Oh, come off it,” Tebbins said, letting go of his moustache. “I took the liberty of standing in your shoes last evening.”
“Really? I hope you don’t have athlete’s foot.”
“Not recently. No, I stood in your shoes last evening, asking myself what I would think if I were you. A quite useful exercise. I discovered that I would be suspicious of my appearance on the scene when Anna found the dagger. After all, events held for museum patrons are rarely attended by cops, who can’t afford to make such donations. I can explain that.”
“Be my guest.”
“My aunt is a museum patron. She’s in her late sixties, filthy rich thanks to her late husband, and fancies herself a patron of all civilized pursuits, largely because she thinks the world belongs to philistines who need to be educated. She frequently calls on me to escort her to these functions. And I don’t usually mind it, unless she’s decided that some auto mechanic who has welded together car parts into an amorphous blob is the next Picasso.”
Gil had to laugh. “I’ve seen those.”
“I tend to prefer more r
ealistic art. Hence my aunt considers me one of the philistines. But that’s why I was present at the party.”
It was a good explanation. But that may have all been part of a master plan from a man who dreamed of mastermind criminals. “Okay,” he said, as if he accepted it.
“Our criminal then took advantage of my unexpected presence that night, and decided to slip yet another envelope onto Anna’s desk when I might have been responsible for it.”
“Possible.”
“Not only possible, but likely, if one assumes the thief isn’t Anna. He would, after all, like to tease us, like to make his point, and most definitely direct our attention away from him. Or her. Because Anna could have put that envelope there for exactly the same reason. To make herself look like a victim while pointing a finger elsewhere.”
“Of course.” He didn’t like it, but he knew it was possible. “So, what’s the motive, Tebbins?”
“Apart from possessing a priceless artifact?”
Gil nodded. “The curse seems to have become central.”
“Well, that again would lead back to Anna. She’s been quite definite about not believing in it. Using it in that message could be misdirection.”
“Possibly. On the other hand, the perp might not know that and might be trying to scare her witless with it. Or, he might be trying to convince her the curse is real.”
“And maybe,” Tebbins added, “the curse is real.”
Gil gave Tebbins a sidelong look that made the man shrug. “One never knows. I don’t believe in such things myself, but that doesn’t mean I might not be astonished one day. I’m willing to believe in the possibility of miracles.”
So was Gil. He’d even had a few in his life. The birth of his daughter. His marriage before his wife had gotten so bitter about his job. Those were the kinds of miracles he was prepared to believe in. “That aside,” he said after a moment, “there has to be a motive for wanting Anna to believe in the curse.”
“Maybe he just gets his jollies by terrifying her.”
That could be. Gil had certainly known enough creeps in his life who enjoyed such things. There were times when he thought that movies and video games were breeding such people. What was it the Denver police chief had said back in the early eighties? That the quantity of violence hadn’t changed, but the quality of it had. At the time the chief had held that movies affected the types of crimes that were committed, and he had cited statistics about how the murder rate in Denver hadn’t changed in years, but the type of crimes had: More women were victims, and there was more mutilation and torture.
So yes, there were creeps like that on the streets, for whatever reason. But somehow that didn’t quite fit. That newspaper clipping had felt more like a message. And he was beginning to get seriously worried about Anna.
“You’re going to question Peter Dashay?”
Tebbins nodded. “But not immediately. I want to do some background on him first. And I don’t want to make him skittish.”
Gil nodded.
“Any reports from your labs on the Malacek kid?”
“Not yet. They’re doing the autopsy tomorrow. Toxicology won’t be back for days or weeks, depending on how detailed we decide to get.”
“Of course, of course.” Tebbins for a moment looked pained, as if he resented having to rely on technology. But of course he would. Poirot had never needed a lab, nor had Holmes.
Yeah, the modern world sucked, Gil thought, and as his thoughts strayed back to his daughter and her boyfriend, he decided that it just sucked more with every passing day. A million years ago he could have gone after that fucking boy with a club.
Twenty minutes later, Gil met his daughter in the lobby. Seeing Anna’s twin gave him a momentary start. The women were as alike as peas in a pod, maybe more so, except for clothing.
“Dad,” Trina said, smiling for the first time since yesterday morning, “Nancy says we have to come over for dinner tonight with her and Anna.”
Gil paused to shake Nancy’s hand, which gave him an opportunity to consider the pros and cons of the invitation. On the one hand, he shouldn’t socialize with a suspect. On the other he could always put it down to checking out the suspect’s home without getting a warrant. Which he didn’t have grounds for anyway.
Nancy looked him right in the eye. “So you’re the gorgeous cop Anna mentioned.”
Gil felt his face heat as Trina and Nancy started to laugh. Now this, he thought, is a good reason not to have dinner there tonight. Who wanted to be thrown in close quarters with three teasing, giggling women. Although Anna didn’t seem like much of a teaser.
“Can we, Dad?” Trina asked, getting back to more important matters.
Gil looked at his daughter’s bright, hopeful face, and didn’t have the heart to say no. “Sure,” he said. “It sounds like fun.”
But in fact, it sounded like more trouble brewing.
CHAPTER TEN
Anna often worked late at the museum, using the quiet time to finish up her paperwork when she wouldn’t be disturbed by meetings or the necessity of keeping up with the exhibit upstairs. But that evening, as people departed and the building became quieter and quieter, she realized she was nervous.
Actually more than nervous. She was becoming afraid. Someone who would go to all the trouble to put that dagger and the envelope on her desk probably had something more heinous in mind than a simple theft.
Cursed.
The word scrawled across the top of the news clipping had frightened her more than she wanted anyone to know. It wasn’t just a commentary on the earthquake and fire, it was a threat. Or a warning. And she didn’t like either possibility.
Go home. A voice in her head spoke the words commandingly, and she stood up at once to start packing her briefcase. Not that she was going to get any work done at home, not with Gil and his daughter coming for dinner.
Whatever had possessed Nancy to do that? Some misguided notion of matchmaking, probably. She was surprised that Gil had accepted, because she’d seen the occasional flicker of doubt in his eyes when he looked at her. He considered her a suspect.
God, what an irony.
The phone on her desk rang, and she looked at it, unwilling to answer it. What if it was the thief, calling to torment her?
Too paranoid, she told herself firmly. She couldn’t let this turn her into the kind of person who saw a threat under every rock. Still, reaching for the receiver felt like reaching for a snake.
“Anna Lundgren,” she said, her voice not as crisp as usual.
“Anna, it’s Ivar. Come to my office for a few minutes, will you?”
“Sure.” Relief hit her. The worst that was going to happen was Ivar was going to bitch and moan. She could handle that.
Out in the lobby, she saw a couple of the docents speaking to the last handful of visitors who were getting ready to depart. No evening hours for the public tonight. The doors would be closed by seven.
She nodded to the docents, Lance Barro and Will Henderson, as she passed. They nodded and smiled back. Both of them were helpful volunteers who had put in some long hours in preparing the exhibit from the very earliest stages. They’d both done carpentry and painting, and even helped with the wiring. More than a dozen other students had been equally helpful. It was one of the nice things about a museum on a university campus.
But as she turned into the administrative corridor, something dark seemed to settle over her. Everybody on this end was gone, having checked out by five-thirty. Closed doors and dark glass looked at her from everywhere. And her neck began to prickle.
Helplessly, she swung around and looked behind her. Nothing. Nothing except silence and the vaguely echoing sounds from the lobby. She wished Ivar’s office wasn’t all the way at the back. But how else could he have his status window?
The question made her feel a little lighter, and the dread receded somewhat. No big deal. She’d walked this corridor at least a thousand times, both busy and empty.
Ivar’s
door, just around a corner, stood open. He was sitting behind his desk with his head in his hands. Oh, great, Anna thought. It was going to be one of those discussions.
“Ivar?”
He didn’t raise his head. “I managed to convince the Mexicans not to pull out the exhibit.”
“Congratulations.”
“I also managed to convince the president of the university that two thefts in two years didn’t mean our security is lax.”
She sat facing him across the desk. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Exactly. I told her we hired the best security company available. One approved by the insurance company. It’s not our fault they fucked up.”
Ivar didn’t usually swear, at least not when he was on the job. Anna felt a twinge of sympathy for him. “It was a rough day.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” He finally raised his head. “Cuestas was practically chewing the furniture.”
“I can hardly blame him. That dagger is irreplaceable.”
“Be that as it may, we didn’t set out to have it stolen. And you’re very lucky you weren’t employed here when the mask was stolen two years ago. My God, I’ve been accused of practically everything.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stood up and began pacing with his hands clasped behind him, reminding Anna suddenly of Napoleon. “And what the hell was that scene in the lobby?”
“What scene?”
“Didn’t you see? Your boyfriend took the flowers from the ticket desk.”
“Oh my God.” Anna sighed. “He’s not my boyfriend, by the way.”
“He seems to think he is. The woman at the window… Beatrice I think it was… said he couldn’t have them because you’d given them to her. He said he’d given them to you, and he was taking them back. The two of them stood there tugging on the damn vase while the guests stood around laughing. I thought about calling the police, but the police were already here, and they didn’t do a thing about it.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Cuestas saw the whole thing. I thought he was going to have a stroke. The man demanded, actually demanded, to know if I was running a lunatic asylum.”
