If she was guilty, the evidence would eventually show that, but for now he would step back from Carey as a suspect and look elsewhere. He still had a lot to explain and men to identify. The security guard had backed up Carey’s story, explaining that he too had heard angry male voices in the office with Brian. While the question of how they got into the secure mansion was still unanswered, so was their admittedly hasty exit. The expensive and state of the art security cameras hadn’t picked up anybody coming or going.
He admitted freely that he didn’t like Carey. There was something about her that rubbed him the wrong way. He didn’t like the fact that both her husband and boss had died in similar ways, she the only link between them. To his way of thinking, there were only two possible scenarios: either Carey was an exceptional liar and cold-blooded murderess, or the Russian mob had taken out Brian Nichols. Which was something the investigation into the man’s life had yet to reveal, and only had Carey’s word for it, the head of security who’d been by her side when she’d discovered the body unable to confirm the identity of the men.
Neither had the security camera’s shown any intruders, though the footage was with computer forensics to be reviewed for tampering. The men had gotten in somehow but until he knew more about them, he could hardly investigate the case thoroughly.
He needed to have another chat with Carey Madigan.
Chapter 8
Carey woke up feeling somewhat refreshed, despite Brian’s murder and the unwanted and endless questions from the pompous detective who had already called her twice. The first call was at seven which she’d promptly ignored, the second a half an hour later. Whatever he wanted, he could wait. She owed him nothing and in fact was somewhat angered by his lack of courtesy towards her. She was, in a way, a victim. She might not have been the one to be murdered but she was the one who had to find the body and relive some unpleasant memories which she could’ve done without. The fact that he hadn’t believed her was also a sore spot. If she had it her way, she would’ve been quite happy not to have been involved at all.
She had recharged her batteries overnight and was now almost bouncing off the walls. She had showered before tackling her apartment. She rarely had the chance to do a proper clean and rather than waste a day, she got right into it, scrubbing every surface until it sparkled. She cleaned out her fridge and pantry before vacuuming and mopping. She was feeling less energetic towards the end and was glad she only had a tiny apartment.
She tried not to think of poor Brian. He had been an ass but he didn’t deserve that fate. She could remember every time he had dumped his work on her so that he could go out drinking with some buddies, or when he completely messed up the details to the opening of a new exhibit and needed her to save him. She was forever reviewing his work and going back and editing it for him. The list was endless, and if it hadn’t been for her contacts around the world, Brian would’ve never shined on the board’s radar. She had never once gotten a thank you and he’d always treated her with contempt, forever adding to her already long list of duties. She had always taken the extra work with a smile on her face, even though her teeth were clenched.
She knew Brian had been worried about her taking his job. She was the more qualified of the two and didn’t mind the work. Which was probably why he had always made things difficult for her, in hopes she would quit, and sometimes the pure arrogance of the man had almost made her do just that. The only thing that kept her at Hamilton’s was that she was doing the only thing she loved. Art was in her blood and antiquities in her bones. The detective had been right. She had plenty of motives for wanting him dead.
Collecting her stack of laundry, she trudged down to the basement to the laundry room, once again a place she did not visit very often. She usually paid her neighbor, a stay at home mom, to clean her apartment and do her laundry once a week. The arrangement seemed to work and helped them both.
She went through the simple task of separating her darks from her lights and her lingerie and delicates from the rest. It was still fairly early in the morning so the laundry room was deserted and she could use three washing machines at once. Only one dryer was on and was making quite a bit of noise. She loaded up the machines, placed in the suds and was about to hit the last ‘start’ button when she heard a man speak Russian just outside the door, the dryer drowning out the exact words. She only got every third or fourth word but she knew without a doubt it was Russian, her sharp ears able to pick out the language. The door to the laundry opened and a lanky man entered, his ear glued to a cell phone as he continued on his conversation.
She studied him covertly out the corner of her eye as he threw his clothes into the washing machine without any thought to separating them. He didn’t appear to notice her as he talked to someone about the big job they were getting paid for. She didn’t like the sounds of that. She hit the ‘start’ button on the last machine and bolted out the door. Fear pushed her to run up the seven flights of stairs, although that was rather silly since all the man needed to do was catch the elevator up and could meet her at the door to her apartment. She just didn’t like the idea of being cooped up in a confined space, not with someone who could possibly have ties to the Russian Mafiya nearby.
She threw open her apartment door and slammed it shut, most likely annoying her neighbors with the loud, harsh sound. She flicked the lock and deadbolt, adding the secure chain, which was a complete joke anyway. If they wanted in they were getting in no matter what precautions she used.
After a moment, she strolled over to her computer. Now that her heart rate was finally slowing down and she could breathe again, she thought of her emails. Her phone had been chirping at her all morning with the arrival of yet again another email.
She found her phone and plugged it into her MacBook to charge as she pulled up the messages. She noticed right away most emails were condolences; obviously Brian Nichols’s death had reached the antiquity world. She immediately deleted all the junk emails and marked the condolences to be followed up on, later. When she was feeling up to it or was extremely bored she would email them back, thanking them for thinking of her during this time. One email was from the board of directors for Hamilton Museum, confirming what she already knew from their conversation last night that they wished to inform her that under the stressful and unfortunate circumstances following Brian’s demise, she was now acting curator until a suitable candidate could be found.
She continued opening emails and found one from Google Alerts. She had set up an account to email her with any news article about Russian art and antiquities. It was a more efficient way to track the art world’s comings and goings than searching through newspapers. She’d found forums dedicated to the preservation of Russian artifacts and had tracked down a few unusual pieces because of the alerts sent to her.
She brought up the email. It was a Georgian newspaper article from a few weeks ago. She skimmed the article, the language translation on the bottom:
A Georgian man of sixty-two, Alexander Milyukov, was found murdered three days ago in his home in Gori. Found hidden in his home along with his body was a beautifully rendered porcelain plate authorities believe to be part of the Imperial Treasure. The Romanov seal was said to be found on the bottom of the plate. Since the plate was discovered, more antiquities have been found amongst Milyukov’s belongings.
She would love to be a fly on that wall. She would have to remember to contact the Ministry of Culture in Russia for comment. A find of that magnitude would set the art world ablaze. She stopped moving, her hand poised over the keyboard as once again her ears picked up the sound of the Russian language being spoken. Straining to hear what was being said, she slowly got up from her seat and quietly moved across her apartment to the door. She pressed her ear to the thick wood, listening. The sounds moved closer and she peered through the security peep-hole.
Laughter drifted past her door as a young couple walked past, speaking in rapid Russian about what they’d like to do to each other once
they got inside their apartment. She shook her head. She’d never noticed the high volume of Russians before. Now she was hearing them everywhere. Paranoia. Although she figured she had a damn good reason to be paranoid. If Mikhail decided she was too big a risk, he might send his men back to finish her off.
Carey moved back to her computer, determined to finish the emails. Several emails later, she came across one from a close friend who worked at the Kremlin. She opened the email and read it. She was not happy. The curator informed her that the shipment of porcelain figurines she had sent last week had not yet arrived. She scowled. She had filled out the manifest herself and had placed it on her desk. She cursed, remembering Brian telling her he would take the box to Customs to be shipped. He’d said he had some shipments to pick up and deliver, so why should she make another trip? She had been extremely busy that day and hadn’t had the time to appreciate the out of character kindness Brian had displayed.
If something happened to that damn box…
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. What could she do to him now? All she could think was Brian was lucky he was already dead.
A message appeared on screen overriding the previous message. This one was from the Customs holding area. She let out a deep breath. There was a shipment sitting in Holdings, as it had been incorrectly filled out. The delivery address was in fact the museum’s address, as opposed to the sender’s, and if she wanted it to be moved to export she should come down and rectify the problem. She had thirty days before the shipment would be destroyed.
Damn it. She would have to go to the office to get the manifest number before she could go to Customs. But it had to be done. She didn’t want to piss anyone off, or burn any bridges with Russia. If she did that, her career was dead in the water.
She grabbed her keys, ignoring the rest of the emails, and took the elevator down to the street.
Chapter 9
Halfway to Hamilton Museum, Carey got another email, her phone chirping for attention. Without taking her gaze off the road, she lifted her phone so that it was in her line of sight and pressed her finger to the email app. The email appeared immediately. It was her friend from Russia again:
My apologies, Carey, disregard last email. Figurines have arrived safely like always. Do Svidaniya.
She read it again and relief filled her. That was one less thing on her mind. She frowned and tapped her fingertips against the steering wheel. If the figurines were now back in Russia, what the hell was being held up at Customs?
She swerved to avoid hitting the rear fender of the car in front of her, whose driver had decided to turn right at the exit he’d just passed. She merged into the left lane narrowly avoiding hitting another car as she did so. She peered into her rearview mirror and watched as a navy blue SUV followed her into the left lane, causing the traffic to brake and the angered motorists to honk their horns in outrage. A sharp pain pierced her chest when she glanced back at the man driving the car behind her. Was it just her paranoia, or did that look like one of Mikhail’s goons?
She kept her gaze on him, her heart beating in her throat. Yes, without a doubt that was him. What was she going to do? Would he try to run her off the road, even with all these witnesses? Nothing was out of question for the Russian Mafiya. She knew from experience and swallowed heavily.
Pressing down hard on her accelerator, she made a hard right, merging back into the lane she had just vacated. A heavy weight settled in her stomach as the dark SUV followed her.
Really, he wasn’t being at all subtle.
She tried to think of what to do. Should she call 911? Would they be able to help her? She would probably sound crazy and they’d more than likely put her up on a DUI. Hamilton’s immediately came to mind. It was only a few minutes away. Could she make it inside before he caught her? Would he try to follow her inside? Did he have knowledge of another way in? Hamilton’s wasn’t as secure as she’d thought. The Russians had come and gone like ghosts the night before.
After tossing the idea back and forth inside her head, she eventually decided on continuing to Hamilton’s. She could call the security guys to follow her later if need be. She cut another raging motorist off as she took the exit that led to Hamilton’s. Mr. Thug was still behind her, riding her bumper. Already going ten miles over the speed limit, she didn’t want to chance losing control and crashing. She took several deep breaths and tried to remain calm, in and out, in and out.
She yanked hard on the steering wheel making the car skid as she turned into the gates guarding the drive leading up to the mansion. Usually she liked to take her time, let her gaze settle on the magnificent well-manicured grounds. The previous owner Gloria Hamilton-West had loved her garden and had six gardeners attending to it when she’d died. Her hybrid peonies and lilies had won more than one award, bringing the magnificent Hamilton Gardens prestige and a permanent place on the map. A porcelain statue of a nymph encased in a foundation marked the end of the drive and the turn around to head back to the gates. She stomped on the brake, using her emergency brake as well to stop the speeding SUV and snatched up her purse and ran towards the entrance to the museum. A car stopped behind her.
She ran through the front double doors into the foyer, passing through the metal detector that started shrilling. She hadn’t bothered to remove all metal from her person before stepping through. The guard seated behind the x-ray machine, used to scan purses and bags, stepped in front of her, blocking her way. She slammed painfully into his broad chest and actually stumbled back, losing her footing. The guard grabbed her arm to steady her before she fell flat on her ass.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the guard said. “You need to be searched and you can’t park your car there.”
She narrowed her eyes at the guard. He must be new. She didn’t blame him for being a stickler for the rules, especially after last night. She held out and keys and dangled them in front of Mr. Helpful.
“Well, can you please go move it for me?” she asked sweetly. She nervously searched the entrance to see if Mikhail’s man had followed her in. Relief filled her when she didn’t find anybody, her heart rate slowly returned to normal, easing the painful tightness that seemed to be a permanent fixture in her chest.
“I’m not a valet,” the guard said, offended. “Please lift your hands up and out.”
She did as Mr. Helpful asked. She didn’t want to give him any reason to shoot her. The mafiya would certainly like that, less dirty work on their part. The guard started with the hand held detector, and when it went off she placed her keys and purse on the guard’s desk. He began a cursory inspection with his hands.
Great, the first guy who touched me intimately in years and I don’t even know his name.
“What the hell, Carey?” a voice came to her.
She glanced around the guard and spotted Milo coming down the main stairs. He turned off the shrill alarm, bringing silence once more to the museum. Her ears continued to ring.
“Oh hi, Milo. Sorry about that. I was in a rush and I thought—” Again, the DUI charge might still apply here if she told him some guy had been following her when there was clearly nobody around. She double checked, and she was right. Mikhail’s man was long gone, probably waiting outside the gates for her when she left.
Now there’s a cheery thought.
“I’m only going to be a second. Just have to grab some paperwork then I’ll be on my—hey, watch the hands.” She batted the guard’s roaming fingers away.
“She’s okay,” Milo said to his subordinate.
The guard stepped away, handing Carey her purse and phone.
“Sorry about all that,” she said.
The guard shrugged. “No problem, I think I came out the winner anyway.”
She gave him a glare as she moved past Milo and ran up the stairs to her office.
Chapter 10
Carey opened the door to the outer office. The crime scene clean up crew had come and gone, cleansing the space after the police had taken what the
y’d wanted, and now the room smelled of disinfectants. Looking about the office now, no one could’ve known Brian’s brains had been the decoration on the walls last night. Most of the papers on the floor had been boxed up and taken to the police station as evidence, and over half the paper had been ruined, either torn or saturated with blood. It would take her some time before she could sort out all the files and acquisition forms. She moved over to her desk and found the key to his office that was kept hidden in her drawer for emergencies.
At the connecting door that opened to the curator’s office, she unlocked it, stepping inside. This room had also been swept clean, all papers obviously missing. Some of the drawers to the filing cabinets lay open and empty. She moved over to his desk and unlocked the drawers before opening them. Hopefully the police or the Russians hadn’t cleared them out as well. She had no idea where to search for the forms should they not be here. With any luck, Brian, not wanting his little scheme to become known especially if his files were audited, would’ve kept his illegal activities under the blanket.
She breathed a sigh of relief to find Brian’s desk drawers untouched, the sigh then followed by a sound of disgust. Brian was nothing if not a slob. By the looks of the mess, he had often dumped receipts, gum wrappers, and discarded papers in his bottom drawer. If Brian had gone to the Customs office with the box, she should find a copy of the consignment here.
Please, Brian, don’t let me down. Not now when I can’t call you on it.
There was another option. There were the papers the officers had taken as evidence. If she couldn’t find the consignment amongst his crap, she had another option. Although deep down she didn’t want to have to go down that road. If she asked Detective Harrington to see the papers, he might decide to be a prick and hold them longer than required. She flicked through the mass of files and found pay stubs from 2002.
No Law (Law #3) Page 5
