“You’re right. We just need to figure out why. Jen, what do we know about the field?”
“Nothing yet. We start sifting dirt today. I sent samples of the fill dirt from each grave along with a sample of the dirt from the field off to the lab. They should have an analysis in a few days. We can at least see if the fill dirt came from the field.”
“I’d like to know why that field,” Liz mused. “What led him to that field?”
“Good point.” Vito jotted it down. “We’ll check out Har-lan P. Winchester’s aunt. She’s deceased, but she owned the land when the first grave was dug. What else?”
“I’m expecting a lab report on the silicon lubricant this afternoon,” Katherine said.
“Good.” Vito rose. “We’re done for now. We all have our list of to-do items. Let’s meet back here to debrief at five o’clock. Stay in touch and stay safe.”
Chapter Ten
Tuesday, January 16, 8:35
A.M.
Patty Ann wasn’t at the front desk when Sophie let herself into the museum. Theo Four was, and Sophie was glad to see him. “You’re back. Now you can wear the armor.”
He shook his head. “Not today. I won’t be here for the first tour.”
“Theo. You have to stay. That knight tour is a pain.”
“For which my father pays you well,” Theo said stonily.
Sophie wanted to hit him, but Theo was a very large young man, built like a rock. “I got news for you, kid. Your dad pays-” She broke it off. Her meager salary wasn’t an appropriate topic to share with the owner’s son. She turned, headed for her office.
“Sophie, you have a package.” Theo gestured to a small box on the desk.
Annoyed with herself for getting angry at the boy, Sophie grabbed the small box from the desk and took it into her office, shutting her door behind her. With short rips she tore the paper from the box and flipped off the lid.
Then dropped the box, muffling her scream with her hand.
A dead mouse rolled out of the box. Its head didn’t follow. At the bottom of the box was the mousetrap that had been the mouse’s execution device.
Breathing hard, she sank blindly into her chair, her hand still clamped hard over her mouth. Bile rose and she choked it back. She knew exactly who had sent the mouse and why, because she’d received a similar one ten years before.
From Alan Brewster’s wife. Amanda Brewster did not like other women sleeping with her husband, even women who’d been tricked into doing so. Clint Shafer must have wasted no time calling Alan to say that Sophie had called last night. Amanda must have been listening.
I should call the police. But she wouldn’t today any more than she had the last time, because down deep she knew Amanda Brewster had a right to her anger. So she scooped up the mouse and put the lid back on the box. For a brief second she considered tossing it in the Dumpster, but knew she couldn’t any more than she could keep Alan’s name to herself last night. She’d bury it later.
Tuesday, January 16, 9:15
A.M.
Daniel Vartanian had ripped the listings of hotels from the phone book he’d found in his hotel nightstand drawer. Armed with pictures of his parents, he planned to hit the hotel chains in which they normally stayed first, then work his way down.
He was tying his tie when his cell rang. It was Susannah. “Hello.”
“It was an Atlanta area code,” Susannah said without greeting. “A cell phone, registered to Mom.”
It should have made him feel better. “So she called Grandma on her own phone to say she was coming to see you. Do you know where the phone was physically located when the call was placed?”
Susannah was quiet for a long moment. “No, but I’ll try to find out. Good-bye.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Suze… I’m sorry.”
He heard Susannah’s careful exhale. “I’m sure you are, Daniel. But you’re about eleven years too late. Keep me apprised.” And with that she was gone.
She was right of course. He’d made so many mistakes. He went back to tying his tie, his hands unsteady. Maybe this time he could get something right.
Tuesday, January 16, 9:30
A.M.
Dr. Alan Brewster’s office was a mini-museum, Vito thought as Brewster’s assistant showed him in. Brewster’s assistant, on the other hand… well there was nothing mini about her. She was tall, blonde, with Barbie-doll proportions, and Vito instantly thought of Sophie. Obviously, Brewster liked them young, tall, blonde, and beautiful.
This year’s model was Stephanie, who oozed sex with every step. “Alan’s coming. He said to make yourself comfortable,” she added with a knowing smile that invited Vito to make himself very comfortable indeed. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” An amused confidence in her eyes left the Me unsaid, but strongly implied.
Vito kept his distance. “No thanks. I’m fine.”
“Well if you change your mind, I’m just outside.”
Semi-alone, Vito took in the understated opulence. Brewster’s mahogany desk was about an acre wide and neat as a pin, with only a single framed picture of a woman with two teenaged boys to clutter its glossy surface. Mrs. Brewster and the kids.
One wall was lined with shelves filled with knickknacks from all over the world. Another wall was covered with photos. On closer inspection Vito could see that nearly every one contained the same man. Dr. Brewster, I presume. The pictures spanned twenty years, but Brewster always looked trim, tanned, and sophisticated.
Many of the photos were taken on digs, labeled with the place and date. Russia, Wales, England. In every photo Brewster stood next to a tall, blonde, beautiful girl. Then Vito stopped at the photo labeled “France,” because Sophie was the girl. Ten years younger, she stood next to Brewster, wearing her army camouflage field coat and red bandana. And a smile that went far beyond joy of the job. She’d been in love.
And Brewster had been married. Vito wondered if she’d known, then dismissed the thought. Of course she hadn’t and now her words from the day before made perfect sense. A slight noise behind him made him glance up and in the reflection of the glass covering the photo he saw Brewster standing behind him, watching silently.
Vito looked at the France photo for another few seconds, then went on to give equal time to photos from Italy and Greece as if he still believed himself to be alone. Finally Brewster cleared his throat and Vito turned, widening his eyes. “Dr. Brewster?”
Brewster closed the door behind him. “I’m Alan Brewster. Please sit down.” He gestured to a chair, then took his place behind the massive desk. “How can I help you?”
“First, I have to request that you keep what I’m about to ask in confidence.”
Brewster spread his hands, then steepled his fingers. “Of course, Detective.”
“Thank you. We have a case in which we suspect that stolen goods have changed hands,” Vito began and Brewster’s brows rose.
“And you suspect one of my students? Are we talking TVs, stereos? Term papers?”
“No. The objects we’ve recovered appear to be artifacts. Medieval, actually. We Googled history and archeology professors and yours is one of the names that came up as an expert in this field. I’m here to get your professional opinion.”
“I see. Then let’s proceed. What kind of objects are you talking about?”
Vito weighed his options. He didn’t like Brewster, but then he hadn’t liked him before he walked in the door. Just because the man cheated on his wife didn’t mean he wouldn’t be a good resource. “We have various weapons. Swords, flails, for example.”