“Gee, Ma, we like the morgue,” Nick whined and chuckling, she shooed him out.
“If you want autopsies-then go. I’ll call you later. Now go.”
Chapter Eight
Monday, January 15, 4:05
P.M.
Scowling in the mirror, Sophie scrubbed at the last of the theatrical makeup that stubbornly clung to her cheeks. “Damn Viking tour,” she muttered. “Paint me up like ten-dollar hooker.” The employee washroom door opened and Darla appeared, her face a frown of affectionate exasperation.
“You don’t have to scrub so hard, Sophie. You’re going to take your skin off.” She retrieved a jar from the vanity under the sink. “How many times have I told you to use cold cream?” She spread a thick layer on Sophie’s face and began to dab gently.
“About a million,” Sophie grumbled, flinching at the slimy coldness on her skin.
“Then why don’t you use it?”
“I forget.” It was a childish grouse and Darla smiled.
“Well, stop forgetting. It’s almost like you think if you take off your skin that Ted’s going to stop telling you to use the makeup. I can tell you right now, he’s not going to let it go.” She dabbed while she talked. “You might know history, Sophie, but Ted knows what sells. Without the tours, this museum might close.”
“And your point would be what, exactly?”
“Sophie.” Darla grabbed her chin and pulled her forward until her back hunched. “Hold still. Close your eyes.” Sophie did so until Darla let her go. “You’re done.”
Sophie touched her skin. “Now I’m greasy.”
“What you are is impossible, and you have been all day. What’s wrong with you?”
A sadistic medieval killer and a handsome cop who makes me drool even though he’s a cheating rat. “Vikings and Joan of Arc,” she said instead. “Ted hired me to be a curator, but I don’t have time to work on exhibits. I’m always doing these damn tours.”
Behind them a toilet flushed and Patty Ann emerged from one of the stalls. “I think it’s a guilty conscience,” she said ominously as she bent down to wash her hands. “Sophie was questioned by two cops this afternoon. One of them nearly dragged her off to the police car.” She glanced slyly at Sophie from the corner of her eye. “You must have done some slick talking to make him let you go.”
Darla looked alarmed. “What’s this about the police? Here? At the Albright?”
“They had some history questions, Darla. That was all.”
“What about the dark one?” Patty Ann needled and Sophie wanted to throttle her. “He chased you back to the museum.”
“He did not chase me,” Sophie said firmly, loosening the ties of her bodice. But Vito had done exactly that and her heart beat harder every time she thought about it. There was something about Vito Ciccotelli that drew her, tempted her, which was shameful in and of itself. She needed to get him the information he’d asked for so that she wouldn’t have to see him again. Temptation removed. Case closed.
She changed her clothes and escaped to the little storeroom Ted had given her for an office. It was tiny and filled with boxes, but it had a desk and a computer and a phone. A window would have been nice, but at this stage she was choosing her battles.
She sank down in her old chair and closed her eyes. She was tired. Tossing and turning all night had that effect, she supposed. Focus, Sophie. She needed to think about shady archeologists and collectors so she could make that list for Ciccotelli.
She considered the people she’d worked with over the years. Most were ethical scientists who handled artifacts as carefully as Jen McFain had handled the evidence at the crime scene. But inevitably her thoughts wandered to him. Alan Brewster. The bane of my life. She’d never paid attention to the rich donors who subsidized their digs, but Alan knew everyone. He would be a good contact for the detectives. Except…
Except Alan would ask Vito how he’d gotten his name. Vito would say, “From Sophie,” and Alan would smile like the lying cheating rat he was. She could hear his voice now, smooth, cultured. “Sophie,” he’d say. “A most able assistant.” That’s what he’d say when they’d… finished. She’d actually thought he’d meant it affectionately, that she’d been special to him.
Her cheeks heated as shame and humiliation reasserted themselves, as they did every time she remembered. Little had she known, then. She knew a hell of a lot more now.
But guilt sidled up to join the shame. “You’re a coward,” she murmured. Nine people were dead and Alan might be able to help, and she was letting her ego get in the way. She wrote his name on her notepad, but just seeing it in black and white left her cold. He’d tell. He always told. It was part of his fun. He’d tell Nick and Vito and then they’d know, too. What do you care what they think about you? But she did. She always did.
“Think of somebody else,” she told herself. “Somebody just as good.” She thought hard until another face came to mind, but not the man’s name. He’d been a fellow grad student working that same dig with Alan Brewster. While she’d been “assisting” Alan, this guy had been researching stolen antiquities for his dissertation. She ran a search, but found no such dissertation. But the guy had a friend… Hell.
His name Sophie remembered. Clint Shafer. With a sigh, she searched the white pages and got a number. Before she could change her mind, Sophie dialed. “Clint, this is Sophie Johannsen. You might not remember me, but-”
He cut her off with a wolf whistle. “Sophie. Well, well, how are you?”
“Just fine,” she said. Nine graves, Sophie. “Clint, do you remember that friend of yours who was researching stolen antiquities?”
“You mean Lombard?”
Lombard. Now she remembered. Kyle Lombard. “Yeah, that’s him. Did he ever finish his dissertation?”
“No, Lombard dropped out.” There was a pause, then slyly, “That was after you left the project. Alan was just devastated.”
There was laughter in his voice and Sophie’s cheeks heated as she bit back what she really wanted to say. “Have you heard from him?”
“Who? Alan? Sure. We chat often. You come up a lot.”
She bit down harder on her tongue. “No, I meant Kyle. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from Kyle since Avignon. He dropped out of the program and I signed up to join Alan’s team on that Siberian dig. So, you’re in Philly?”
Sophie cursed caller ID. “Family emergency.”
“Well, I’m up in Long Island, but you knew that already. We could… get together.”
One stupid mistake and I’m still paying. She forced a brightness into her voice as she baldly lied. “I’m sorry, Clint. I’m married now.”
He laughed. “So? So am I. That never stopped you before.”
Sophie exhaled slowly. Then stopped biting her tongue and let it fly. “Foutre.”
Clint laughed again. “Name the time and the place, sweetheart. Alan still calls you one of his most able assistants. I’ve waited a long time to evaluate you myself.”
Her hand shaking, Sophie carefully hung up the phone. Then she took the sheet of paper on which she’d written Alan Brewster’s name and crumpled it into a tight ball in her tighter fist. There had to be someone else the police could contact.
Monday, January 15, 4:45
P.M.
“Here. Don’t say I never give you anything.”
Vito looked up when a bag of corn chips landed on the missing persons printout he’d been scanning. Liz Sawyer was leaning against the side of his desk, opening her own bag. He looked over to Nick’s empty desk where she’d thrown a second bag of chips. “Nick got barbeque flavor. I wanted barbeque flavor.”