When the drink was delivered, he took a sip and glanced around. Near as he could tell, just about everyone in first-class was fast asleep. Thankfully, this included Elizabeth who was curled up beside him on her reclined aisle seat ever since their brief stopover at London’s Heathrow Airport. He didn’t begrudge her this deserved solace in the least. If anything, he was grateful.
God knew she’d more than earned it over the past several days.
Despite her own personal sorrow over what had transpired, she’d somehow yet managed to keep them to their original flight schedule. Not an easy task considering the circumstances. The only significant alteration to their travel agenda would take place upon their arrival in Boston. The initial plan called for DeCaylus Corp’s plane to meet them upon landing and fly them down to her seldom-used Chatham summerhouse on Cape Cod. Instead, the company plane would now take them directly to Cornell University in Ithaca, NY, there to wait at her disposal for an as yet undetermined period of time. She was never one to pull rank or expect special privileges, but the urgency of the situation had left her little choice in the matter. Not surprising, her management team was more than happy to comply with her wishes, assisting in every way possible.
There were perks being the sole owner of a multimillion dollar company.
As regards young Jake, no scheduling change was warranted, or even contemplated. It was always their intention to give him time to finish out the last six weeks of his spring semester back in Greece before being brought stateside for the summer. To alter this long-planned arrangement because of the tragedy involving Peter was deemed unnecessary. Too, they knew Jake was left in capable hands. For over a decade, Nick and Maria Travlos were the closest thing to real family they had in Salonika. Additionally, their son, Marko, was not only the same age as Jake, but also his schoolmate and very best friend.
David finished his drink and put his seat into a reclined position. Within a few minutes he closed his tired eyes, allowing the alcohol to achieve its desired effect.
Dallas, Texas. 11:35 am. The Same Day.
Carlos Diego Ruiz, Mexico’s Senior Consulate General stationed in the U.S., buzzed in his secretary as he straightened the loose folders scattered atop his much-prized mahogany desk. Ornately carved in the Old Spanish colonial style of several centuries past, the antique was a treasured possession belonging to his family for many generations—not unlike a number of other pieces occupying his large, eighth-floor office. Being an instinctively cautious man, he briefly considered slipping the paperwork into one of the desk’s drawers. But this he now rejected as unnecessary. None of it was of such a sensitive nature as to warrant concealment.
He lifted his eyes as the door opened.
“Sir?”
“Trudy, I’m leaving a bit early for what will be a quick business luncheon. I fully expect to be back at my regular time. However, if this changes for any reason, I’ll call on my cell and inform you.”
“Should I phone down for Office Services to provide—”
“No need. There are always plenty of cabs outside the front lobby. I thought perhaps it might be an opportunity for me to use one.”
Though she appeared momentarily surprised to hear this—her boss being a fastidious man of fixed routines—she only nodded at his decision.
“Very well, sir.”
After returning to her station, she rechecked her copy of his daily appointment schedule, thinking she’d somehow missed an entry and forgotten to remind him at their morning briefing. Doing so was one of her responsibilities. But no business luncheon was entered for today’s date. Not by her—and definitely not by him.
She shrugged if off and returned to work.
Twelve minutes later and a full seven city blocks to the southeast, Ruiz paid the cab driver and entered the fashionable restaurant named Tuscan Gardens. It was an establishment he’d only dined in twice before—and then only in the evening dinner hours. This would be his first opportunity to sample its touted luncheon fare.
The headwaiter recognized the distinguished figure immediately, a pleased smile growing on his face as he hurried to greet a valued customer he knew from experience to be lavish with his tips.
Regardless of his well-earned reputation for generosity, Ruiz’s general appearance was definitely not of anyone who might easily be lost in a crowd. At sixty-one, he was both tall and lean, and always immaculately dressed. His smooth, high cheekbones—combined as they were with the sculpted contours of his darkly handsome and ascetic face—endowed him with the undeniable caste of old-world nobility, physical indicators of his long and cherished Spanish lineage.
“Ah, so nice to see you again, Mr. Ruiz. Any preference in seating?”
“A booth in the back, if you please,” he answered amiably. “I’m expecting a guest shortly and prefer a little privacy.” Without seeming to do so, he slipped two folded twenty-dollar bills into the man’s hand. “When he arrives, please be so kind as to direct him to my table.”
“Of course, sir.”
Once Ruiz was properly seated, the headwaiter asked, “Do you wish a drink while you wait?”
“Just a coffee for now.”
After it was speedily delivered, Ruiz took note of the time, anticipating his guest’s impending arrival. Did it involve some unforeseen trouble that needed to be addressed? He expected this was the most probably answer, for it wasn’t often that his top man, John Marino, ever found the need to request a direct face-to-face meeting with his employer. By mutual agreement, such rare occurrences were kept to an absolute minimum—and had been over the past five years of their successful working relationship. Other means of regular contact and communication had always proven effective. So what made today different? he wondered. He knew it didn’t involve their initial shipment of gold to Zurich. Everything had gone precisely as planned, the money confirmed and now secure in his secret numbered account. But if not that, then what could the problem be?
He saw Marino enter and head in his direction.
He’d doubtless learn soon enough.
Their long association of achievement and mutual trust was such that neither wasted time on casual pleasantries. Thus Marino sat down and came quickly to the point of the clandestine meeting, saying that in his judgment a potential situation had developed that required immediate resolution.
“Explain,” said Ruiz.
Marino dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper.
“It involves the disposal of that young man I told you about. I take full blame, but it seems I acted far too hastily when I gave Patch permission to have his way with the body. It was a mistake on my part.”
“How so?”
“There was little in the boy’s wallet beyond the basics—driver’s license, social security number, an out-of-state student I.D. card—nothing to indicate there might be a serious problem with Patch passing it all off as a drug deal gone wrong. Near as we could surmise, this Peter Connor was a virtual nobody. It was only later when the sheriff’s department made contact with his next of kin back east that we discovered otherwise. As it turns out, he came from a rather prominent family. In fact, his grandfather is the Dean of Cornell University.”
Ruiz saw the ugly implications.
“So what you’re saying is that it’s quite likely we can expect some form of investigation to begin any time now.”
Marino nodded.
“Which brings me to the point of our meeting,” he said. “I’ve given this considerable thought. My conclusion is Patch should be removed from the equation. True, he’s been a valuable asset over the past few years, but I honestly can’t see him standing up well under any form of intense scrutiny or questioning. If this happens our whole operation could be placed in jeopardy.”
Ruiz narrowed his eyes.
“Does he actually know enough to do this?”
“Not directly, of course, but what he does know could cause a serious set back to all we’ve worked so hard to accomplish. He might be the proverbial loo
se thread that slowly unravels everything.”
“When you say removed from the equation—”
“I mean eliminated, period.”
“Within what time-frame?”
“No more than a couple days.”
Ruiz agreed with this analysis. With their operation finally in place and running smoothly, having a local Sheriff in one’s pocket was no longer a necessity. It was unfortunate for Patch, to be sure, but no one lived forever.
His decision made, Ruiz eased himself forward, cautioning Marino in as equally low a voice. “His death must draw no overt suspicions. Something of apparent natural causes would be best. If not that, perhaps a fatal accident—but only so long as it’s completely untraceable to you or your people. May I assume you’ve already developed a plan that can be readily implemented?”
“I only need your permission.”
“Well, you have it. And the sooner it’s done, the better. As you know, I’ve scheduled next week to be at my ranch outside Allende. A yearly family obligation that includes the celebration of Sinco De Mayo.” He paused, pointedly adding, “If possible, see that it’s done before I leave.”
Marino again nodded.
This said, Ruiz now relaxed back in his chair and waved over the obsequious headwaiter. “So, how much longer before your flight back?”
“Another three hours, sir.”
“Good. That allows you adequate time to enjoy a decent meal.” He smiled reassuringly for the first time since Marino’s arrival. “I can’t speak from personal experience, mind you, but I’m told the luncheon menu here is really quite excellent.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Peter’s on-campus funeral service took place within Cornell University’s famed Sage Chapel, a non-denominational church dedicated in 1875. Located alongside the carefully tailored lawns of Ho Plaza and directly across from stately Olin Library, its dignified nineteenth-century façade was constructed of unpretentious red brick, which only belied its elaborate interior of Tiffany glass windows and beautifully executed mosaics.
Due to the close timing of their arrival, David hadn’t as yet found the opportunity to fully gauge Richards’s emotional and physical condition. This would come later that afternoon when he and Elizabeth returned to the dean’s residence following Peter’s internment at East Lawn Cemetery.
However, what little he did observe, he found vaguely disturbing.
They sat beside Richard and Elise during the ceremony, and he noted the unusual rigidity of his friend’s posture. Though this by itself wasn’t unexpected, there was also what could only be described as a surprisingly fierce—even glacial—aspect to the man’s fixed profile that struck David as somewhat unnatural. Rather than the face of someone struggling to maintain composure during a time of deep grief, Richard’s features instead projected an aggressive image of scarcely controlled rage.
Curious, he lifted his eyes to follow the direction of Richard’s gaze.
Well above the flower-covered casket was a stained glass memorial dedicated to three civil rights workers—one being a young graduate of Cornell—who were all found brutalized and murdered in Mississippi at the hands of the Ku Klux Klan over forty years ago.
A pointed reminder of Peter’s cruel fate?
He now suspected what it was that sustained his mentor throughout this emotional ordeal. Richard was drawing strength from his own intense anger and frustration at what had befallen his grandson.
If true, then David could foresee dire consequences. Any perceived benefit would, at best, only be of short-term duration. Ultimately, this effort would merely serve to prolong—or even greatly magnify—the inevitable surrender to unexpressed grief that must eventually follow.
David’s ominous conclusion was further reinforced several hours later when he and Richard walked the short distance over to the dean’s empty office. It was now twilight, and with Elizabeth remaining at the residence to comfort Elise, it gave them an opportunity to finally speak privately—something Richard clearly wished to do. Once inside, he went immediately to his desk, extracting a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
Most telling to David, the bottle was already half empty.
After pouring a double shot into each, Richard took his glass and stood silently for some moments, staring out through his bay window that overlooked the campus quadrangle. A slender, small-boned man of around average height and thinning white hair, he seemed to be organizing his thoughts as he took his first swallow. Outside, the sun was now dipping below the horizon, its last rays spreading across the tailor lawn and bouncing off the administration buildings.
Yet it was doubtful Richard saw any of this.
His mind was clearly elsewhere.
David sat in one of the padded chairs across the desk, more than willing to allow his old friend all the time he required to gather himself. If he was to learn anything, he instinctively knew the direction of their conversation must initially come from Richard.
Gradually, and in the smallest of increments, the rigidity of the dean’s posture began to ease, the tension in his shoulders visibly loosening as if a great weight was slowly being withdrawn. Not entirely, to be sure—but just enough that David felt marginally encouraged as he at last turned and sank into his swivel chair. But this optimism was only fleeting, for the look Richard now gave him contained both helplessness and immeasurable exhaustion.
His first words provided evidence as to why.
“I—I need your help,” he said wearily. “There’s simply no one else I can call upon except you.” He paused to give a despairing shake of his head. “It’s not enough that the horror inflicted on Peter will now go unpunished—but they’re also determined to destroy his good name and reputation. This damnable outrage can’t be allowed to happen! I won’t let it!”
David blinked in confusion, unsure of what he was hearing. Will now go unpunished? Either there were some new developments he knew nothing about, or the great strain on his old friend had pushed him into paranoia.
Conscious of this possibility, he framed his response cautiously.
“You know I’ll help any way I can,’ he said reassuringly. “This goes without saying. But surely you don’t think the police investigation in Texas has already been wrapped up? That’s extremely unlikely. Why, it’s scarcely been over a week since they found—”
“Yet it’s true,” interrupted Richard. “Though I’ve not received written notification—and seriously doubt that I will—three days ago I was informed in no uncertain terms over the phone that the case was officially closed and no longer in active investigation . . . And this from the local sheriff in whose jurisdiction the murder occurred! As far as his department is concerned, it simply doesn’t warrant any further scrutiny on their part. Based on his supposed long experience, Peter’s violent death has already been written off as purely drug related, apparent retribution of some sort for a drug deal gone bad. A most unfortunate incident, he told me, such things occasionally happening that close to the Mexican border. His advice being I should simply accept their professional conclusion and move on. If you can believe it, the pompous ass actually sounded annoyed that I even troubled myself to contact his office.”
“You get his name?”
“Sheriff P.T. O’Malley—the same man who initially released Peter’s body and paperwork for shipment back to Ithaca.”
“And this phone conversation was three days ago?”
“It’s not proof, I realize, but it sure as hell makes one wonder how rigorous their investigation could’ve been.”
“I agree,” said David thoughtfully, feeling his own anger rising. If what his old mentor said was true, then perhaps no proper investigation was even contemplated. But why not? So many questions needed answering that he scarcely knew where to begin.
He started with the obvious.
“Clear up a few things for me. Tell me about your most recent contacts with Peter. I overheard Elise mention to Elizabeth that the last time she saw him was over th
e Christmas holidays.”
“Correct.”
“Last I understood, he was preparing to enroll into advanced archaeology courses at the University of Michigan. Something he was still pursuing?”
“Indeed,” answered Richard. “He was to begin this fall, in fact. Due to his high grades here at Cornell—not to mention his extensive field experience working alongside you last year in Salonika—he was readily accepted.” Though his face remained drawn with fatigue, a flicker of a smile now crossed his lips. “Since it was your old Alma Mater, I’m sure he wished to somehow emulate your career. You must’ve known how much he idolized you.”
David chose not to acknowledge his pain at hearing this.
Instead, asked, “So what took him to West Texas of all places?”
The old man sighed, the faint smile no longer present.
“I’m not entirely sure. He had several months on his hands, and we both know how much he loved to travel. I do have a suspicion, however, that might possibly explain some it.”
“Such as?”
Richard finished the last of his drink before extracting a folder from his top drawer. He hesitated only a moment, and then pushed it across the desk.
“It’s all in here. This is what little I know of Peter’s activities since his last visit—and also copies of what scant information came to me when his body was returned. Those are photos mainly, most of them too gruesome to—to—”
He stopped, struggling with his emotion before he could continue.
“Anyway, he was never very big on phoning or writing, understand, but you’ll find the folder also includes several unusual mailings from him that struck me as being curious. You’ll want to look through them carefully and see what you can make of it all. There’s no real explanation. Mostly just hand-drawn sketches.”
“Of what exactly?”
“Well, it seems he’d recently developed a rather surprising interest in ancient southwest petroglyphs, of all things. From where this new infatuation sprang, I’ve no idea. There’s about two dozen sheets in all.”
The Emperor's Treasure Page 3
