Carnosaur Crimes (16 page)

The rushing sounds of liquid hitting porcelain thundered in Ansel's ears, and it seemed to take an eternity before Dixie emptied her bladder. The acrid odor of urine just added to the overall tortuous effect, along with the cramping in her legs from sustaining such an awkward position. Finally Dixie gave the toilet paper roll a spin. The toilet suddenly whooshed and Ansel used the resulting cacophony of noise to shift her feet forward a bit to sit on her rump. Icy cold but better.

Dixie coughed and muttered lowly to herself, messed with things on the counter top for a few moments, then opened the bathroom door and exited. Ansel didn't move an inch. And she didn't intend to until she was sure that Dixie wasn't coming back. She sat there for a long time. Eventually, she rose stiffly from the tub and dared to peek around the shower curtain. The bathroom door was open again and the duffel bag was gone.

Ansel crept to the door and listened. No sounds. Once she stuck her head into the hall, she could see that Dixie's bedroom door was closed. The coast was clear. She sprinted down the hall, opened her bedroom door, and slipped inside. Her back pressed against the door, she closed her eyes and exhaled her relief. Shit, that was close. Too close. Still, if the duffel had been there, she would have risked taking another look at that file.

Dorbandt. She had to call him and tell him about the sting operation in Billings. Dixie had watched her like a hawk all evening, and she couldn't risk using the bedroom phone until she was sure Dixie was asleep. It was late, but she could leave a message.

Ansel went to the night stand and picked up the remote. She turned it on and auto-dialed Reid's number. Dead air. She pulled the phone away and looked at it. Turned it off. And on again. And off. And on. There was no dial tone. She slammed the phone. Her cell phone was in the truck. Of course, there was no guarantee it hadn't been disabled as well by Agent Outerbridge. Only he could have orchestrated this coup to neutralize her ability of communicating with anyone while LaPierre babysat her.

Ansel steamed quietly and flopped down on the bed. Outerbridge and his damn FBI gophers. They were probably staked out in a car somewhere zapping her phone lines with a remote antenna at this very moment: slurping coffee, eating donuts, and laughing at her. Then she thought about Standback. Well, maybe he wasn't laughing, she considered. A tiny smile creased her face. Parker Standback. No, he was definitely not laughing. Tomorrow she'd get to be with him.

Before she knew it, she fell asleep sideways across the bed.

Chapter 20

“Good and evil cannot dwell together in the same heart, so a good man ought not go into evil company.”

Delaware

Ansel's pulse quickened as Parker maneuvered the black Lexis on loan from the Billings FBI car-pool into the parking lot of Accent on Antiquities. Nearby, Outerbridge, Walthers, and La Pierre were copying the shop's closed circuit, video system signals on a laptop.

“Are you okay, Ansel?”

She looked toward Standback. He assumed her silence was a sign of anxiety. Far from it. She was mulling over the events of the night before and this morning. Her check of the ERT members' hands had confirmed that everyone was wearing a gray ring except Standback. Reasonable since he was going undercover. His left hand was adorned with a gold wedding band just like hers. Dixie was also in her thoughts. The paleontologist, thank God, didn't seem to have a clue about the riffling of her folders or their up close and personal bathroom encounter.

“I'm fine.”

She fussed with four concho buttons on her black moleskin skirt. Its split front nicely displayed her knee-high, black calf-leather boots. She'd hot-curled her hair before the helicopter flight to the Billings airport, and wavy tresses fell beneath her black gambler hat with concho hatband, contrasting nicely with the short-sleeve, white turtleneck blouse accenting her curves.

She'd worn her best jewelry: a silver and gold three-horse, cuff bracelet, diamond rope-knot earrings, and a thick collar necklace with matching three-horse, silhouette cut-outs. Gone was her mother's Iniskim, which she wished she could wear. However, after piling on make-up and appraising herself in the mirror before leaving, she realized that she really looked the part of a spoiled Yuppie with frivolous but expensive home decorating tastes.

Parker eyed her as he drove into a parking spot beside a silver BMW. He wore a brown shirt, black slacks, black boots, and a gaudy Texas Star belt.

“If you've got any questions, ask them now,” he said.

Ansel smiled and fingered the oversized wedding ring on her finger. “No. Let's do it.”

He chuckled and turned off the engine. “Yes, ma'am.”

Parker exited the Lexis, walked to the passenger side, and opened the door. The sudden no-nonsense look on his face was daunting. The game was afoot. Ansel grabbed her small, black saddle purse and clasped his outstretched palm. The sun was scorching bright as she shoved on her Ray-Bans with the other hand.

Accent on Antiquities was very plain. Just another store in a run-down strip mall with concrete block and tempered glass architecture. A misaligned row of pot-bellied clay planters filled with ferns dotted the concrete walkway beneath an overhang, and the broken Spanish roof tiles looked completely out of place. This was a far cry from Hillard Yancy's gallery and two very noticeable nanny cams on each corner of the store watched as Parker opened the dirty, swinging glass door for her.

The inside was cool, well lit, and rather small. It also smelled of new carpeting and a strong, fruity deodorizer. An eclectic assortment of antiquities such as pre-Columbian ceramic pots, South American sculptures, African carvings, woven Indian rugs and wall hangings, and Indonesian wooden masks were packed everywhere, along with pockets of various fossil flora and fauna curiosities. Everything Ansel saw looked to be of top quality, but of moderate price. Nothing extremely rare or outrageously expensive was in sight.

Only two-thirds of the store was filled with merchandise. Near the back, a long, wall-to-wall tile and wood counter separated the room. A single, brown-skinned man wearing a plaid shirt stood behind the counter laden down by thick three-ring catalog binders, collectible books, a computer station, electronic register, and lots of accumulated junk. He looked Indian. Two more nanny cams spied on them from rear corners of the room.

“Can I help you?” asked the large man with steely, brown eyes and a noticeable gap between his two front teeth. He didn't budge, and he didn't look particularly friendly.

Parker gave a cool glance in return. “I'm Peter Georges. I'm supposed to meet William De Shequette and discuss buying an Allosaurus head.”

The Indian's gaze raked from left to right over both of them, especially Ansel. Then, without a word, he quickly clomped through a pass-thru gate and ignored them totally as he walked to the front door. With a single twist of a deadbolt, he locked the front entrance and turned over a CLOSED sign.

As he paced toward them, Parker spoke, his voice imperious. “What are you doing?”

“Just being smart,” the Indian said gruffly as he walked behind the counter. “Billy's in the office.” He stared at Ansel. “Put your purse on the counter, Mrs. Georges.”

“What?” Ansel sputtered, making an obvious move to clutch her shoulder strap closer. “I will not. This is outrageous.”

“We aren't exactly selling goose eggs here. You both know what you're asking to purchase isn't a usual piece of merchandise.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You don't have anything to hide do you? Just put the purse on the counter so I can check it out or you might as well leave.” His square head swivelled toward Parker, eyes like black shotgun pellets. “You, too,
kola
,” he said, using the Sioux word for friend. “Empty your pockets.”

“Let's just get it over with, Angela,” Parker ordered.

Ansel huffed indignantly and plopped the black handbag on the counter. “Be my guest.”

The Indian unceremoniously dumped the contents onto the counter top and took several moments examining them. First, he carefully checked out her wallet with all her ID, then slowly surveyed everything: inside make-up containers, a pen, hair clip, small bottle of perfume, and even an open packet of tissues. He did the same with Parker's keys, wallet, and penknife. Probably searching for electronic bugs, Ansel assumed as she watched, and she'd have to Lysol the whole lot when she got home.

Eventually he pushed the mound of items toward them. “Okay. Wait here.”

He turned around and went to a closed door behind the counter, knocked three times, and waited. A lock turned, and the man disappeared. Ansel and Parker were left alone to gather up their possessions.

Knowing they were being monitored, Ansel made a show of angrily picking up her belongings and throwing them into her purse. “I hope this skull is worth all this trouble,” she groused, giving Parker a soul-spearing look.

Parker stuffed the wallet into a pants pocket. “Believe me, it will be. Stop complaining. He's right. A complete Allosaurus skull just doesn't fall from the sky.” He imprinted an eager, excited expression across his handsome features. “This is going to be great.”

A few minutes later, the Indian appeared. “Come on back.. Billy's ready for you.”

They entered a small office outfitted with a nice gray and black executive desk, workstation, and credenza. Two black fabric chairs with curved tube bases and armrests sat before the desk. The closed armoire-style TV center drew Ansel's gaze. She'd bet that the TV monitor and VCR recording equipment for the nanny cams was stashed there. The walls were basic white and filled with auction posters of beautiful antiques or cultural antiquities sold at Christie's or Lloyd's of London. Another nanny cam eyed everything from behind the desk.

“Howdy, folks,” said the friendly, gray-haired man standing just inside the door. He grabbed Parker's hand and shook it. “I'm Billy De Shequette. Nice to meet you, Mr. Georges.”

Parker grinned. “Hello, Mr. De Shequette. Wasn't sure if we were going to see you. The guy out front wasn't very hospitable.”

Billy's smile became wolfishly inviting. “Oh, don't pay Claude any mind. Just a security precaution. We've got a lot of valuable antiquities out front. Can't be too careful.” He turned toward Ansel. “And you must be Mrs. Georges.” He held out his hand expectantly.

Ansel pulled off her sunglasses and took his large-knuckled hand in hers. Billy looked sixty-ish, tall, thin, and well-tanned. Unlike the thug out front, he was quite average in appearance. His Montana duds made him appear down-home trustworthy. She looked straight into his gray eyes beneath bushy silver eyebrows, wondering all the while what possessed such a wholesome, grand fatherly-looking man to become a slime ball.

She quickly shook his hand, then disengaged herself. “Hello, Mr. De Shequette.”

That maneuver completed, Billy lost all interest in her, homing in on Parker. “And congratulations to both of you for your recent good fortune. I can't imagine what I'd do if I won the state lottery. How much was it?”

“Three million,” Parker said. “Sure surprised the hell out of us, too.”

“That's wonderful. Please, sit down.” Billy gently coaxed the agent toward the desk with a feather light touch on the shoulder. “You're really going to love the Allosaurus head we discussed by email. Your timing was perfect. It's a wonderful fossil specimen from Utah that just came on the market through a rancher whose land it was excavated from at his own expense.” The lie rolled across his tongue like clover honey.

Parker sat in the left chair and Ansel took the right. Billy hustled around his desk and sat in his executive chair before beaming his Cheshire grin again as he pulled open a lower lefthand drawer and removed a manila envelope. “I think we covered the general details about the skull so I'll show you all the legal documentation.”

“We discussed everything but the price,” Parker interjected. “What do you want for it?”

Billy chuckled. “Well, I'd prefer you look at the papers before we discuss the bottom line. It gives you a better appreciation about what you're getting for your money, Mr. Georges. After all, it's not the cost, it's the pride of owning an irreplaceable piece of antediluvial history, isn't it? Something to savor every time you look at it and to cherish for a lifetime. It's also going to become a considerable financial asset over the passing years, so what you're paying today will be only interest on the capital of tomorrow.”

Ansel wanted to gag. “Where is it? Are we going to see it?”

Billy opened the envelope and pulled out the materials. “It's much too large and fragile to retain in the store, but it's being housed nearby. I have some pictures here so you can see it's condition as you'll receive it. If you're interested in purchasing it, I'll make arrangements for you to view it. It's been professionally excavated and prepared by people who are experts in this field. The rock surfaces have been carefully cleaned, strengthened with glues, and shellacked with top quality materials and products. All of this requires a lot of time, patience, and skill. These factors must be figured into the price.” He passed four large color photos to Parker

He grabbed them and flipped through them quickly. “This is the real deal, right? I don't want a fake or a replica. I'm looking for an old dinosaur head for my new house,” Parker demanded. “I want those jerk off managers in my office to piss in their pants the next time they come to my house for a corporate bash.”

Billy laughed. “Actually, this skull is one-hundred sixty million years old. And it's damn real. All one-hundred-fifty pounds of it.”

“It looks good to me.” Parker passed the photos to Ansel. “What do you think, Angela?”

The color pictures Ansel surveyed showed the excavated skull from four views: both side shots and a top and bottom shot. They were taken in a very dark space with a bright flash. However, the skull appeared to be adequately cleaned and prepped. The two last teeth in the lower lateral jaw were missing, and there was a hole behind the ear hole, along with two teeth gouges on the cheek.

Amazingly, there was no other damage she could attribute to rough handling while being ripped from the ground by poachers, cleaned by amateurs, or hauled around the country for illegal sale. The only characteristic that bothered her was the startling bright yellow color of the skull. The fossil had been a more normal looking golden-brown in Dixie's Vernal dig site photos.

Fossils reflected the colors of the minerals and sediments that had replaced the original bone with new materials during the slow and delicate process of fossilization. Jurassic Morrison Formation fossil deposits were usually brown or gray with intermixtures of black, red, blue, gold, and maybe peach colors. The yellow tint wasn't a lighting defect or the result of using improper solvents during cleaning. It looked like a geological anomaly, almost as if organic phosphates deposited by ground waters had moved through the rock beds where the Allosaurus remains had been fossilized.

Ansel scowled. “It's broken, Peter. There's a hole on top, marks on the side, and missing teeth.”

Billy swivelled his head toward her. “There are no perfect fossils, but these flaws are all indications of its authenticity. This once living creature was brought down in it's prime by fierce competition from other predators. You not only have a validation of that fact, you also have an amazing story to go with the skull.” He looked at Parker. “Your work associates will marvel at it, Mr. Georges.”

“I don't care,” Ansel quipped. “It's too big. And that color. Yellow doesn't even go with the powder blue decor of the living room.” She grimaced as Parker's sloe eyes widened.

Billy jumped in like a pig in mud. “Well, I don't know about you, Mr. Georges, but I'd change the room colors rather than let this wonderful specimen slip through my fingers. Fossils are precious objects of joy, transcending time and space. No offense, of course, Mrs. Georges, but the Jurassic era didn't come on a color swatch. Actually that delightful buttery hue is somewhat of a geological rarity.” His smile was wide enough to gobble up Montana.

“He's right. Who cares?” Parker retorted. “Is that your only objection?” His double meaning was obvious. He wanted a definite sign that he should proceed with the buy.

Ansel sighed and tossed the photos on the desk. “Yes. Get it. Forget I said anything.”