She reads as she scrolls. ‘The altarpiece was fifteenth-century — and wow was it big — eleven feet by fifteen.’ Kirstin spots a dollar sign. ‘Ten million. Deagan wanted a minimum of ten million bucks for his fake. Man, it must have been good.’
Mitzi mentally lists her catalogue of clues:
The panels of The Ghent Altarpiece.
A Celtic cross.
A memory stick full of code.
A murdered antiques dealer.
A dead crook.
A missing art fraudster linked to a British diplomat who’s left the country.
A man’s voice breaks her concentration. ‘Listen up.’
‘Hang on,’ she says to Kirstin. She looks around and sees Captain Fulo in the doorway.
He lifts his pitch, so the cops and clerks at the back of the room can hear him, ‘People, give me your attention. I just got a call from the hospital. Lieutenant Patrick Fitzgerald died ten minutes ago.’
There are gasps and he waits a respectful second or two.
‘Anyone want to talk privately, I’m in my office.’
60
There are things that Angelo Marchetti had forgotten to tell Josep Mardrid. Things that could now get him killed.
Sat in a run-down pub, next to a seedy strip joint, he throws back his third shot of vodka and tries not to think of the mess he’s in.
He lied when he said he had the details of all the Knights’ Graveyards. He hasn’t. Truth is, they were on a digital file that he made on an SSOA memory stick when he was based at Caergwyn Castle in Wales. He copied them from the master computer along with scans of sacred books kept in the Arthurian Library.
The plan was to demand money from Gwyn in return for the stick. But he lost his nerve and looked for another way of making cash without directly exposing himself to the wrath of the Order.
His chance came when he returned to America.
He was put in charge of the burial of a young knight killed by arms traffickers. The internment was close to Glastonbury inside the Meshomasic State Forest in Connecticut.
After the ritual he sent his men away, telling them he needed time alone with his fallen brother. Only instead of paying his respects, he stole the man’s burial cross and those of his father and grandfather, who had been laid to rest in the same tomb.
Marchetti had connections who could sell them for him. Men who supplied him with drugs. Gang bosses who were likely to kill him if he didn’t settle his debts soon.
Out of financial desperation, he ended up giving one of the crosses and the original SSOA memory stick to Kyle Coll, the head of the Mara Salvatrucha family. He’d separately transcribed parts of the books on to a sheet of paper, so a dealer would be interested in the extracts, but he’d kept back the key to the code.
What he hadn’t realized, until he checked the copy he’d made for himself, was that whenever the data was copied to non-SSOA software or hardware it corrupted. The copy he’d kept for himself became worthless.
Despite that setback, for a short while, it looked like things were still going to work out. The gang found Goldman, who specialized in religious artefacts. He came up with a deposit and was keen on buying all three crosses. When they threw in the extracts of the books he saw big dollar signs.
Then the old man did something stupid. He chipped his offer price at the last minute and threatened to expose them to the cops if they didn’t accept it. The bluff cost him his life.
Things lurched from bad to worse.
Angelo had arranged to meet Brad Deagan at the Dupont diner, but he got wasted on crack and arrived late. So late, that all he saw was George Dalton leaving the parking lot. He watched the Lincoln go, then the tow truck come for Deagan’s SUV. It was then that he knew the game was up and he had to flee the country before the Order got to him.
Now he has another chance.
A final one.
He finishes his drink and prays he doesn’t blow it.
61
There’s no way Mitzi can sit at Irish’s desk. It wouldn’t be right. Neither would hanging around while colleagues badmouth him.
She grabs a cab and gets to thinking she could have developed a soft spot for Irish. Bad boys and broken-downs have always been her type. And he was certainly a renovation job.
Back in her room at Silver Fall Lodge, she flips open the minibar, finds a bottle of the hard stuff and unscrews the top. ‘Here’s to you, Lieutenant Fitzgerald. I hope heaven has a free bar and a good woman to love you.’ She jolts back enough brandy to burn her throat, then grabs a dose of painkillers and lies down for a five-minute rest.
Two hours later, she’s woken by the jangle of her phone.
Her heart hammers as she grabs it from the bedside table. ‘Hello.’
There’s a pause before a man answers, ‘Is that Lieutenant Fallon?’
She struggles to sit up. Pain drives a stake through the middle of her face. ‘Yeah, it is.’ She sees the number is withheld. ‘Look, if you’re another cold-calling asshole trying to sell me insurance or a car loan, then I warn you buddy, now is NOT the time.’
‘This is Sir Owain Gwyn, former UK ambassador to America.’
She closes her eyes and begs for the floor to open up and swallow her.
‘You called me and several of my colleagues saying you needed help with regard to a homicide investigation. How can we assist you?’
Mitzi is so not ready for this. The sleep and painkillers have left her mind all fugged. ‘My apologies. The case I’m working involves the death of two people and there’s a link to one of your staff, a Mr George Dalton. I’d like to ask him a few questions.’
‘What questions, Lieutenant?’
‘Where he was at certain times, who he was with and what he was doing. The usual kind of questions.’
‘He was most probably with me. He’s a senior member of my staff and I’m afraid I work him very hard. How about I have my secretary call you and you submit a list of questions for Mr Dalton? I will see that he answers them for you.’
‘How about I talk to him directly?’
‘I don’t think that’s preferable or convenient for us. There are certain protocols we have to follow.’
Mitzi senses she’s being shut down. ‘Your consul and my homicides are linked to a religious relic, a Celtic cross; would that mean anything to you, ambassador?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘What about Code X?’
He pauses. ‘I’m sorry; someone distracted me with a message. Can you repeat what you said, please?’
Mitzi knows she’s struck a nerve. ‘Code X. Does that mean something to you?’
‘It does, Lieutenant, but I can’t speak about this on the telephone. It is somewhat complicated, and delicate. Is there a way we can talk face to face?’
She lets out a long sigh and faces up to the inevitability of a painful flight to the UK. ‘I can be on a plane tomorrow.’
‘Good. My secretary will call you to make arrangements. I’ll have a driver meet you at the airport.’
The phone goes dead.
She slaps it down on the table and collapses on the bed. ‘Shit. Shit. Shittety-shit.’
It rings again.
She gives it a sideways look that could melt iron then takes the call. ‘Hello.’
‘Mom, it’s Amber.’
‘Oh, hiya, honey. How are you?’
‘I’m sick. Aunt Ruth says I have gastro-something.’
‘Gastroenteritis?’
‘Yeah, that. I’m just living in the bathroom and Jade’s driving me crazy. When are you coming home? I really need you, Mom.’