Reluctant Runaway (12 page)

“One thing puzzles me, Mr. Spellman—”

“A great many things puzzle me about this situation.” He scowled.

“Why do you consider us your adversary? We’re here to serve—especially in the wake of a break-in.”

Spellman leaned toward her. “You must not understand what a disaster this theft is for us. All of our Native American artifacts are on loan from the tribes. A tribal lawsuit and all the negative publicity … ” The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“So someone needs to get the blame.”

He sat back. “You do see my position. Nothing personal. I’m sure you have insurance.”

“As do you.”

“But our reputation … ” He lifted his chin. “We’re a standalone facility, Ms. Jacobs, dependent on donations and grants to survive. We don’t have an international presence to carry us over the bumps. This can’t be the first successful theft in a facility protected by HJ Securities. You’ll recover. We might not. Particularly with a death.”

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Spellman. Let me also be clear. I have no intention of allowing HJ Securities to become a scapegoat in this tragedy. No fault has yet been determined. And, like you, I support my staff. That’s why I’m staying at Jo Cheama’s house. My main electronics expert is her sister.”

The administrator sniffed through that large nose. “And related to two of the prime suspects. I have it on good authority that this Maxine Webb will be thoroughly questioned.”

Desi’s blood heated. The Rookie and Swamp Eyes of the APD again. “The FBI cleared Max Webb of suspicion.”

“Oh.” Spellman blinked. “But I thought … The police were positive she had to supply the thieves with privileged information about our alarm system. Much of it is her brainchild.”

“The police officers’ assumptions were based on inadequate information. While Maxine Webb did design the security template around which your individual system was built, she had no access to the facility-specific safeguards on the computer control room.”

Spellman went stiff. “Are you accusing me now?”

“That makes as much sense as accusing Max. No motive. Why do you think neither you nor your curator is high on the suspect list, even though you had access? Motive is a prime factor that law enforcement must have in making an arrest.”

The administrator pursed his lips and glanced down. “But she is related to—”

“A pair of young people whose guilt has yet to be proved.”

Spellman stared her in the eye. “But she is married to—”

“A man she helped bring to justice.”

The administrator deflated. “So we’re left with a mystery.”

“We are indeed.”

Spellman spread his hands. “My position hasn’t changed. The board will discuss the engagement of a different security service at the meeting tonight.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, but that’s your prerogative.” Desi rose. “May I at least walk through your museum before I leave? I’d like to see the theft site.”

Spellman stood. He puffed out his cheeks and then expelled a breath. “Very well. But after you go, tell your staff that they’re no longer welcome here.”

Desi inclined her head and went to the door. She turned with her hand on the knob. “Since you brought up my company’s record, you might be interested in a statistic. In the past decade, none of our clients has sustained loss due to either systems or operations failure. In every case, human error or human tampering was at fault. I believe this event will prove no exception.”

Desi left the administrator with his mouth open, nodded to the red-eyed secretary, and made her way back into the public area. A sign said she was in an exhibition of Western American artists—as if she couldn’t guess from the vivid Joseph Henry Sharp on the wall.

Commanding her knotted muscles to relax, Desi stopped to examine a Frederic Remington sculpture and gather her thoughts. She took deep breaths and let patrons flow around her. The way the robbery had happened bothered her.

She wandered over to an Albert Bierstadt painting, but her mind was too far away to appreciate it. The thieves’ methodology was schizophrenic. Finessing entrance to the museum took
brains and elegant planning, but once inside the building, they acted like thugs—bludgeoning the guard and leaving him sprawled in the lobby, then smashing the display case. Whoever masterminded the theft employed nasty people to do the hands-on work.

Shaking her head, Desi passed a George Catlin display and stepped into a hallway. She checked her cell phone. On and charged, but still no call from Tony. She looked around. Where was the Native American exhibit?

She found a museum directory A whole section devoted to Southwestern artist Georgia O’Keeffe?
Temptation, get thee behind me!
Desi looked at her watch. The museum closed in thirty minutes. Not enough time to pay proper respect to Georgia and scope out the theft site.

On to the Native American exhibit. Oh, no! Danger! The route to the theft site took her through the O’Keeffe exhibit. She’d have to ignore the display. Desi forged ahead. O’Keeffes flowed by left and right. Stunning floral studies. Delicate shells. Multihued landscapes.

Feet? What are you doing?

Desi stopped in front of a landscape. Every brushstroke proved Georgia’s love of her New Mexico desert, the place where she could see forever—her “faraway.” The painting that drew Desi showed a rust brown and tan butte. Evenly spaced black arches in the cliff face betrayed the touch of ancient man. Georgia’s flowing strokes and delicate mix of hues beckoned the viewer with a promise—
Life is simple here
.

If only that were so.

Georgia had created a brilliant artistic illusion. Life wasn’t any simpler for those cliff dwellers than for people today. More elemental, fewer choices, but human nature wasn’t any different then than now. And she was in the same boat as Ham Gordon
on one thing—she couldn’t see herself using an outhouse on a regular basis. Or worse, a handy creosote bush.

Desi stepped into the Native American history exhibit and came to a case of Mesa Verde black on white pottery, examples of a firing technique lost today. A decent find of these could make a dirt-grubbing pothunter rich overnight. Why weren’t these taken?

She turned and found an empty rectangular case minus a glass cover standing in the middle of the floor. The theft site. No sign of the break-in remained except for the bare display pedestals. What was missing? She looked at the labels on the pedestals—a hooked-bone gutting knife, a curved flaying knife, and a black on white bowl. Good value to the pieces, but not as much as items sitting a few feet away.

Desi studied the label on the side of the case.

Anasazi Religious Artifacts. Chaco Canyon. Circa AD 1130

Below the label was a set of small headphones and a button to push for recorded information about the exhibit. Did it still work? She put on the headphones and pressed the button. A mellow female voice filled her ears.

“Anasazi is a term coined early in the twentieth century to describe the ancestors of today’s Pueblo Indians, such as the Zuni and the Hopi. The word
Anasazi
is Navajo for ‘ancestral enemies’ and is not a term embraced by modern Pueblos. The Hopi call their ancient ancestors Hisatsinom, or ‘the Old Ones.’

“These Old Ones were an agrarian people who inhabited portions of Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico until around 1300 AD, when their settlements were abandoned. The reason for the disappearance of the Anasazi is an unsolved archaeological mystery. Modern-day Pueblos maintain that the Anasazi haven’t disappeared, for they are them. But the fact remains that impressive settlements such as Cliff Palace and Pueblo Bonito were abruptly left empty
.

“What
enemy did the Old Ones flee? Or what natural disaster overtook them? The answer remains shrouded by the mists of time
.

“Likewise, the purpose of the implements displayed here is not known, but their discovery inside a sacred kiva suggests that they were used in rituals of worship. Dark rumors of cannibalism among these ancients persist. Some archaeologists maintain that the evidence is strong that the Anasazi, like the Aztecs, partook of a sacred meal of sacrificed human flesh mixed with corn. The nature of these implements suggests their use in rituals that involved blood sacrifice.”

Blood sacrifice? The words hit Desi between the eyes. Her head whirled, and her knees weakened. She staggered backward.

What did Agent Ortiz say about the theft? That someone wanted certain artifacts. Desi’s heart slammed against her ribs. What did she say back to the agent?
If you find out why the looters grabbed those particular pieces, you might know who took them
.

Tiny millipede legs crawled across her skin. She knew a religious group with a twisted obsession about salvation through body and blood. They were building a commune, complete with Anasazi kiva, somewhere in the desert.

Desi shook her head. No! She was thinking crazy Who could conceive an act of cannibalism, much less carry it out? Her flesh crawled. The Anasazi may have done it, the Aztecs did, other tribes and peoples throughout the world—all in the name of worship. But not here in the heart of the good old U.S. of A.!

Why not? Didn’t she say it to herself a few minutes ago? Human nature hasn’t changed.

Acid flavored Desi’s tongue. She swallowed. Hard.

Karen, have you already become a human sacrifice?

Nine
 

T
houghts whirling, Desi left the museum. Perspiration coated her skin—and not from the heat. Inside the rental car, she cranked up the air-conditioning with a trembling hand.

Should she try calling Tony again? No, if he were free to talk, he would have called. With his job, he could be in a situation that didn’t bear interrupting.

Like this wasn’t a priority situation?

She reached to press the autodial and then drew back. There was someone else she could contact. Desi scrambled in her purse and found the card Agent Ortiz had given her with the cell phone number on the back. She placed the call.

“Ortiz.” The agent’s voice came through crisp and clear.

“Oh, thank goodness, you answered your phone.”

“Desiree Jacobs? Are you all right? You seem—”

“Ready for a white jacket?” Desi laughed, the sound about an octave too high.

“Where are you?”

“Sitting outside the museum.”

“Oh, yes, you said you’d scheduled a visit with the administrator. So what’s up? There hasn’t been another theft … ” The woman’s voice took on an edge.

“Nothing like that. It’s just … ” Desi bit her lip. How did a person share something so bizarre over the telephone? They didn’t. “I’ve run across information that may shed new light on
your case. Can I speak to you about it in person?” At last she sounded like she had some wits about her.

“Sure. I’m at the office. Need directions?”

“Please.” Desi scribbled on the back of the card.

She drove, stomach churning. Despite the air-conditioning, her hands were clammy.

Was she running off half-cocked with this Anasazi ritual notion? Did two and two add up to four like she thought, or had she worked herself up into making two and two equal five? But she had to report her findings, didn’t she? And if she couldn’t talk to Tony, she needed to talk to somebody who could do something. But how could even the FBI help? That was one big desert out there, and with no location for this Holy City, her suspicions were speculation. Except she’d had an eyewitness gander at plans for a desert compound. She wasn’t speculating about that.

Desi turned into the guest parking lot. She studied the soaring fortress surrounded by a high iron fence. Would Ortiz listen to her appalling deduction about the use of the stolen artifacts? Or would the agent laugh her out of the office?

Desi squared her shoulders, wiped her palms on her pants, and marched up to the guardhouse. She stated her business and showed her ID, and the guard pressed the button to admit her beyond the fence. She went up the walk between a trio of flagpoles and entered a walled-in foyer. Another guard behind a desk stood up, ready to run her through the metal detector. Desi detoured to the reception cubicle behind bulletproof glass, where a dark-haired man sat.

“Excuse me. I’m here to see Agent Ortiz.”

The man came to the window. “You’d be Ms. Jacobs?”

Desi nodded.

“Ortiz had to go out on a call, but she’ll get back to you as soon as she can.”

Desi’s heart flopped to her toes. “This can’t wait! A woman’s life is at stake.”

He snatched a pen. “Give us the situation and the location, and we’ll get someone there.”

She blew out a breath. How
about I just bang my head against this counter?
“I hoped the FBI would be able to find the location if I gave the situation. Is the peanut-eater around?”

His lips twitched. “Agent Rhoades is with Agent Ortiz, ma’am.”

Oh, so now she was ma’am. Pigeonholed somewhere between a crank caller and a harmless hysteric. She gave him a thin smile. “As an agent at Boston HQ would be happy to testify, I’m a miserable failure at waiting when it’s time to act. Every minute wasted may mean a wife and mother will never be reunited with her family.”

The receptionist scratched behind his ear. “We can’t respond to an emergency at an unidentified location.”

Desi deflated. “I know … and I apologize for overreacting. Frustration’ll do that.”

“Maybe this will take the edge off.” He sent a white envelope through a slot in the bottom of the window. “Ortiz left it for you.”

She took the envelope. “Thank you. And you may tell Agent Ortiz that I’ve gone back to Jo Cheama’s. Let me give you my cell phone number.”

“Not necessary.”

“Of course not. You’re the FBI.”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

She gave him a look under lowered brows.

He cleared his throat. “Miss?”

“Miss or Ms. Jacobs, or even Desiree, will do. Anything but the way I address my friend’s ninety-year-old grandmother.”

The man laughed. Even the guard snickered.

“You’re a long way from being anybody’s grandmother,” the receptionist said.

She smiled and headed for the door. Back in her car, Desi ripped open the envelope from Ortiz and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

Desi stared at the words. Tell Jo? How many more shocks could Max’s sister absorb?

“Good work, everybody” Tony surveyed his sweaty squad assembled near the semi cab. “Get home and grab some shut-eye while the lab processes what we’ve got. Come back in the morning ready to hit the ground running.”

With nods and waves, the crew dispersed. No smiles, no jokes, but a lighter step as they walked away The vise around Tony’s heart eased the smallest bit.

For a day full of shocks, they’d been due a couple of pleasant surprises. The crew emptying the trailer hadn’t found a mere scrap of a jewel case but a whole DVD crushed in a corner. And the money, wads of it in the extra tank under the truck chassis.

Tony headed for the car Slidell had driven to the scene. His own vehicle had been towed away. What had he said? It’ll
get broken in soon enough
. Famous last words.

Slidell took the driver’s seat. Minnesota’s spot. They were going to find out why he’d never be in it again, and someone was going to pay. Tony got in beside the computer expert. Haj
and Polanski took the backseat. On the way back to the office, Tony had Slidell tell the others his findings in the Gordon Corp stockholders report.

When Slidell finished, he angled a look at Tony. “So who do you think is gutting Gordon’s company?”

Polanski snorted. “Not much to figure out. Gordon’s gotten heat from us for years, so he siphons cash out of his company, runs a big moneymaker with pirated property—”

“—and now he’s about to do a powder.” Haj nodded. “We need to let Albuquerque HQ know to double the surveillance on this pug-ugly.”

Tony nodded. “Done. As soon as I hit the office.”

Slidell cleared his throat. “One minor quibble. We’re assuming that the same person is bleeding the company and running the bootlegging operation.”

“Two crooks in the same corporation running dirty deals?” Polanski frowned. “C’mon, Dell, the odds aren’t with that at all.”

Slidell held up a hand. “Just saying.”

“Point noted.” Tony dipped his chin at the math whiz. “We won’t close our minds to a more complicated picture, but right now Ham Gordon is our biggest target. Literally.”

Haj snickered. Polanski chuckled. Slidell gave no reaction as he guided the car onto the freeway. They continued to bat ideas around until they reached the office.

Tony climbed out in the parking area. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Polanski got out and stretched. “I’m going to give my family extra hugs tonight.”

Haj stepped out beside her. “Ditto.”

Slidell pulled away with a wave.

Polanski took a couple of steps then turned. “You’re the
best squad leader I’ve ever worked with. It wasn’t your fault about Ben today just dumb rotten luck.”

Tony’s throat tightened. “I appreciate that.”

Polanski nodded and walked away.

Rotten luck? More like not enough information about the guy they went out to interview. What more could they have done to be prepared?

Hands in his pockets, Tony watched his people drive away. If only Des were in town. He needed to see her. Firming his jaw, he went up to his office. He had messages on his phone from ASAC Cooke and Henderson from OPR. He called Albuquerque HQ and left a message for Agent Ortiz about increasing surveillance on Gordon, and then he punched in Cooke’s extension. The man picked up on the third ring.

“It’s Lucano. I’m back in the office.”

“Good. What did you find?”

Tony updated him.

“You’ve accomplished a lot for today.”

“Just getting started.”

“Right, but give it a rest for the night. Take some downtime.”

Sure, go eat ravioli with his mom and make small talk. Like she wouldn’t throw an Italian fuss and then pray him half-bald. Prayer was good, but … “I think I’d rather keep busy, sir.”

“Lucano, I’m going to stay here until Henderson’s done taking your statement. If you don’t get your hind end out of here right afterward, I’ll put you on report.”

Tony swallowed a sharp answer. He was getting the same advice from a superior that he had given his team. “Can you tell me one thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“Erickson’s family. Who let them know?” He cleared his throat. “I should have been the one.”

“It’s done. He came from a small town, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. I made the call to their local PD. They sent a couple of uniforms over. Known faces. More personal that way. The parents are getting a telegram from Director Harcourt, too.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “I want to go to the funeral, and the only thing that’ll stop me is if I’m putting the cuffs to Ham Gordon at that very moment.”

A pause on the line. “You’ve got time off coming. Take some. Hand the case over—”

“Respectfully speaking, sir, but you’re off your rocker if you think I’ll let anyone else get their hands on this case.”

“Then get some distance and perspective. I’m ordering you to have a chat with the in-house psychiatrist tomorrow, make sure your head’s on straight.”

Tony’s lungs went hollow. “Haven’t I done all right so far?”

“We want to keep it that way. Plus, we need to make sure the Bureau has crossed every
t
and dotted every i when it comes time to make arrests. We don’t need to give any fancy defense lawyers ammunition to use against the people we had on the case.”

“I can buy that. I’ll make an appointment.”

“No need. You’re set up for the first slot in the morning.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good. Now get done with Henderson so I can go home, too.”

Tony walked down to the Office of Professional Responsibility department. Henderson looked up from his desk. The OPR agent pointed toward the door of a small conference room.

They went in and took seats at a small table. Without preamble, the OPR agent punched the record button on a portable machine. They went through the usual spiel. Yes, Tony
acknowledged his awareness that the session was recorded. Of course, he would give the facts with veracity. Blah. Blah.

Henderson folded his hands on top of a manila folder he’d brought in with him. There’d be initial feedback from the coroner, early lab results. Tony’s fingers itched to snatch the folder out from under the smug little OPR’s hands. Instead, he balled his fists under the table.

“All right, Agent Lucano—” Henderson nodded to him—”tell me what happened that led up to the shooting incident.”

Incident? An agent was dead! That was no incident. It was a senseless tragedy.

Tony walked Henderson through the anonymous phone call and checking up on Bill Winston, aka Elvis. Henderson stared at a spot in the corner of the ceiling. Tony’s skin warmed.
Look at
me,
you—

The OPR agent fixed Tony with an unreadable gaze. “So after you did due diligence on verifying Bill Winston’s identity, you went to Gordon Trucking to see him in person.”

“The next logical step.”

“But you already suspected that his real name might not be Bill Winston.”

“Correct. We hoped a little fishing expedition might get us more to go on about his identity and, more importantly, point us to the next guy up on the food chain.”

Henderson pursed his lips. “Give me the sequence of events after you and your squad members arrived at Gordon Trucking and confronted the trucker.”

Every muscle rigid, Tony laid out the bare facts—Winston standing with his manifest, the three agents getting out of the SUV, Polanski heading toward the rear of the trailer, the trucker going for his gun, the shouts, the shots.

“Stop there.” Henderson held up a finger. “You yelled for Erickson to get down as soon as you saw Winston reach into his jacket? And he didn’t respond to the command?”

Tony rubbed his palms down his pants. “He might not have heard me. Sometimes when the fight-or-flight instinct kicks in, auditory input doesn’t register from a source other than the danger point.”

“I’m aware of that, but—”

“Evidently, Ben’s reaction to danger was fight. He went for his gun. If he’d been a bit faster, he’d be alive. If he’d ducked like I told him, I’d be the one cooling on a slab.”