‘This Ludo get the name of the garage?’
‘No. But that wasn’t what stuck in his mind.’
‘What did?’
The SUV driver had eaten in the diner, but the Lincoln owner hadn’t. Soon after the paying customer left, Mr Lincoln owner came in and used the washroom. Then he reappeared and went straight back out again. This got the supervisor pissed, because they hate people just using the john and not ordering anything, so he went outside to shout at him. Only he didn’t holler because he saw the guy was at his car and looked like he was in pain. Ludo said he was struggling to get into the seat, holding a stack of paper towels to his arm. Then, as the Lincoln drove past him he saw the plates. He asked himself why a diplomat wanted to use his bathroom so urgently and why he needed a stack of towels for his arm.’
‘And?’
‘He went back to the restroom and found spots of blood on the floor.’
‘I’m going to ask a stupid question. By any chance did he mop up and keep the rags or sponge?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not, but deep inside me lives a young pixie called Hope and sometimes she just won’t shut the fuck up.’
Kirstin laughs. ‘Well, your pixie might be in luck because Ludo did notice something strange. Despite the spatter on the floor, there were no stained towels in the bin. No mess. Just the drips.’
‘So he came over all Dexter and did some blood analysis?’
‘Kind of. He thought maybe Mr SUV had been caught banging Mr Lincoln’s wife and been chased down to the diner where it all kicked off. He went outside to check everything was okay and saw the SUV being trucked away.’
Mitzi curses a lost opportunity. ‘Shame about the blood.’
‘Not really. My boyfriend’s a CSI. He went round and swabbed the floor for me. Even though it had been cleaned, he got traces from the mortar between the tiles. They’ve been processed in the labs and we have two good DNA profiles.’
‘Two? As in killer and victim?’
‘I guess that’s your pixie mouthing off again, Lieutenant. I really don’t know what he got. I’m just about to run the profiles through Records. You want to join me?’
58
The two bodyguards are not as tall as Marchetti but they’re more muscular and much younger.
In contrast, their employer is a small, slender man in his mid-forties. The Italian can hardly believe this unassuming figure is the notorious Josep Mardrid. He walks them through to the lounge area of the suite.
Mardrid sits on a cotton sofa, while the muscle stand around him like bookends. ‘Are you disappointed, Marchetti?’ He unbuttons his jacket. ‘Did you expect me to come wearing a black cape and have the horns and tail of a devil?’
‘I didn’t expect anything. Your intermediary gave you one of the burial crosses. Do you want to do business or not?’
‘What do you have for me?’
Marchetti slips a hand onto the shelf beneath the table and produces a Celtic cross.
Mardrid takes it and turns it in his palm. ‘You promised me valuable artefacts and secret information, Mr Marchetti. All I see there is a lump of old iron.’
‘It’s more than that. It’s an Arthurian burial cross.’
There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. ‘Tell me more.’
‘When one of their knights is killed, he is buried with a cross placed on his chest. It is said they are forged from the same ore as Excalibur.’
‘A quaint story. How is this any use to me?’
‘It’s more than quaint, it’s true. Thousands of these men have been buried for centuries on land owned by Gwyn. They are laid in what the Order knows as Knight’s Graveyards. Sacred plots in secret places, all over the world. I imagine that if I were to give you their locations, and you were to make them public, then as the police and press began their enquiries, it would be advantageous to you to see Sir Owain exposed in such a way.’
‘Go on.’
‘I can do that.’ He picks up the cross. ‘This circle in the middle of the crucifix isn’t Celtic; it symbolizes the Arthurian round table. You can expose Gwyn as a fantasist, or whatever you like.’
‘I may have misjudged you, Mr Marchetti. If this cross is all you say it is, why did one of your men try to sell it, or one like it, to a Jew dealer in America and then have him killed?’
‘A mistake. Some idiots I employed acted out of turn. It was a question of money.’
‘Idiots do that kind of thing.’ He turns the cross over in his hands. ‘I would like to do what you said. It would be pleasing to see Gwyn’s warriors dug from the earth, and amusing watching him cope with the press fervour.’ He stretches out a hand. ‘Give me the details of these burial grounds.’
Marchetti laughs. ‘I may have employed idiots, but I am not foolish enough to have such details here with me. They are safe and tradable.’
‘Then let’s trade. What do you want for them?’
‘Ten million dollars for every graveyard.’
Mardrid smiles. ‘A ridiculous price. But not unreasonable for the ruin of Owain Gwyn.’ He gets to his feet and straightens out his suit. ‘Mr Marchetti, know this: there is now no going back on this deal.’ He wags the cross at him. ‘If you do not deliver as promised, I will have my men dig you a grave and bury you alive with your cross. Good day.’
59
Mitzi tips the water cooler and drains the last drops into a blue plastic cup. It’s enough to swill down another dose of painkillers.
Kirstin Collins stares at a monitor. She’s waiting for the national lottery of databases to play out and tell her if she’s struck lucky with matches to the two DNA profiles created from blood found at the diner near Dupont Circle.
‘How we doing?’ Mitzi drags a chair next to her.
‘Still searching. I like how on TV cop shows it’s all done in a single click.’
‘Yeah, and the guys in the squad are so handsome and have hearts of gold.’
The screen pings up the first result.
‘Profile One is not a winning ticket,’ says Kirstin. ‘No matches to any known offender.’
There’s an agonizing pause before the second profile result is revealed.
‘We have ourselves a hit! Bradley John Deagan. Forty-two years of age. One previous conviction for fraud.’
‘What kinda fraud?’
Kirstin scrolls down. ‘Something to do with a painting.’ She reads on, ‘Looks like he tried to sell one that never existed.’
‘What?’
‘Hold on. Let me click through to find the rest.’ Kirstin follows a link to supporting documentation. ‘Okay, here we go — the artwork was done by a guy named Eyck. It’s called The Ghent Altarpiece and was made up of different paintings — what they call panels. One of these was stolen and never found. Deagan tried to con a man called Christie by saying he had it and wanted to sell it.’
‘I think you mean Christie’s — it’s an auction house, not a person. They specialize in art and antiques.’
‘My bad for not knowing. I don’t buy a lot of art. Not unless you count my Chippendale poster.’
‘I don’t.’
‘If you saw it, you’d change your mind.’
‘I’m sure I would. Does the report say anything more about the piece he tried to sell?’
Kirstin scans the text. ‘Not much. Says part of the altarpiece shows four groups of people gathering in a meadow to worship the Lamb of God and Deagan claimed his painting showed a fifth group, one that had never previously been identified.’
‘Any values on there? Either for the real painting or what Deagan wanted for his fake?’