Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) (14 page)

“Do you have any idea who might be?”

Her dark eyes went wide. “No, I don’t.” She had skin the color of cocoa and was small and delicate. Dressed in a severe black suit, her dark hair parted in the middle and twisted into a tight bun in the back, she could have been a cross between an Asian princess and a nun.

Miranda looked down at the clipboard with the names the admin had given them for effect. “Chopra,” she said after waiting enough time to make anyone uncomfortable. “That’s an Indian name, right?”

“Yes. Northern India.” She spoke with a clipped, almost artificial accent. A British accent with just a hint of exotic.

“But you’re English?”

She re-laced her hands again, tightly this time, her face strained. “Of course. I was born here. My grandfather was from New Delhi. But both my parents were born here in London, as was I. And if you’re wondering about my loyalty to the museum, all I can say is that this institution is my life. Sir Neville Ravensdale can vouch for that.”

Defensive.

Miranda slid off the desk and took a half step toward her. “You were with Sir Neville on the morning the dagger was to be presented, correct?”

“
Yes, of course. I was waiting for him in the storeroom. He arrived a few minutes before—” she inhaled sharply. “Before we went up to present the dagger to the public and place it in the display. That didn’t happen of course.”

“No, it didn’t,” Parker said
, his voice thick with sympathy. He was playing the “good PI” role this round.

As if she hadn’t heard him, Miranda took another step toward the curator. “Ms. Chopra, did you have an opportunity to be alone in the
storeroom with the crate that held the dagger?”

“That morning?”

“Or any time after it was delivered.”

She jolted slightly at the implication. “No, I didn’t. I left early the night before and came in early to make sure the designers were putting the finishing touches on the Cleopatra exhibit. I went down to the
storeroom about ten minutes before Sir Neville arrived.”

“Were you the only one in there then?”

“I just told you. Mr. Eames was there and Toby Waverly came in a few minutes later.”

“Toby Waverly?”

“He’s an intern who occasionally helps us in the storeroom, as he was doing that day.”

Miranda nodded slowly, gave the clipboard a tap.
“Can anyone verify your whereabouts?”

“
On that morning? Mr. Eames can, as I just said.”

“What about the night before?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. She turned her head and stared out the window, robot-like. “I live alone. I went home that night, had dinner. I spoke to my mother on phone for about half an hour, then I went to bed. Really. I resent your insinuations, Ms. Steele.”

Miranda drew in a slow breath. She hated harassing the lady. She was probably telling the truth and had just been doing her job.

Parker rose and came around the desk. Now it was his turn to perch on the corner. “My partner is simply following protocol, Ms. Chopra. I apologize this is so trying.”

She stared down at her hands and drew in a breath.
“It’s all right. I realize you’re only doing your jobs.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us that might help us find who perpetrated this horrible crime?”

“It is horrible. Whoever did this has no regard for antiquity. For beauty. For the preservation of ancient cultures. All they care about is lining their own pockets. That’s how I know George Eames isn’t guilty. He loves this place. But if I knew anything, believe me, I’d have already told the police.”

So they were zero for eleven.

The last victim on the list was the Executive Director of Security, Arthur Yeats.

He came lumbering into Sir Neville’s office, head down and sank into the chair, his lanky body overflowing it vertically. He had on worn
jeans and a rumpled shirt. His longish brown hair looked like he hadn’t combed it in a week and his five o’clock shadow might have been from yesterday.

“Mr. Yeats,” Parker began. “We’ve asked you here—”

“I know why I’m here, Mr. Parker. I saw Emily in the hall.” He raised his narrow, elongated head and pulled at his long nose in an agitated gesture. “I haven’t been able to sleep since the…incident.”

Miranda believed him. From the information they had, Yeats was a computer geek in his mid-thirties
, but he looked like he’d aged twenty years.

“I’ve been over and over
every detail of our security system ever since Thursday morning.”

Sure
he had. He might lose his job and never get another one in the field.

“Of course, you could always do more if funds were unlimited, which ours definitely are not. But we have an
exceptional system. My department is responsible not only for guarding the collections against theft, but also accidental damage, fire, flood and such.” He let out a weary sigh, as if a natural disaster would have been easier to deal with.

“Tell us about your security measures,” Parker asked.

Yeats sat up in his chair, eager to spill all. He began giving them a diatribe of technical details. The number of units, their strategic placement, the calculations for the sensors.

Miranda’s skin started to crawl. This was getting them nowhere. “Mr. Yeats, all we need
from you—”

He held up a hand. “Wait. Why don’t I show you?”

She scowled at him.

“I have a theory.”
His sunken eyes plead with her.

Miranda looked back at Parker. He nodded.

They followed
Yeats’ lanky frame down the tall marble staircase where they’d first seen Sir Neville, while he babbled about the problems of security and the details of electronic devices. At the bottom of the steps, they took a turn and crossed the huge open space into one of the smaller halls.

It was
one of the rooms in the Ancient Asia collection, Miranda realized as she found herself surrounded by a breathtaking assortment of archaic doodads. Sandstone figures of Buddhas. Life-sized statues of emperors from long ago dynasties. Glass shelves filled with ivory and porcelain and jade, each object embossed with delicate patterns.

Yeats’ athletic shoes
trod steadily over the shiny tiles of the floor past a large tapestry of women in kimonos under flowering trees. “Many of the pieces have wireless sensors. The faintest touch sets off an alarm in the control room.”

He
came to a halt before a bronze statue of a naked woman, possibly some ancient goddess, her metallic hair piled two feet atop her head. “Here. I’ll demonstrate.” He pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Humphries?”

“
Yes, sir,” a rough British voice answered.

“Testing 12B4.”

“Very good, sir.”

He waved a palm
close to the statues’ bare navel and a beeping sound came over the radio.

“12B4 operational
,” confirmed the man on the other end.

“Thank you.
That’s all for now.” Yeats disconnected.

Miranda peered hard at the statue. She couldn’t see a
ny sensor on it, then she lowered her gaze and spotted it. It was hidden on the white pedestal, its beam going straight up. No one could touch the thing without the control room knowing it.

“I’m impressed.”

“Yes,” Parker echoed.

“Thank you.”
A hand behind his back in a geek-military fashion, Yeats gave them a triumphant smile then turned and strolled into the next hall. “We have alarms on the window, guards patrolling twenty-four seven.”

They
went through another door and made their way past walls covered with ancient maps and carvings and depictions of journeys over unknown waters. Finally, the space opened into the museum’s entrance.

The place was open for business, all right.
Visitors were coming in the doors, as if nothing had happened a few days ago, though the crowd seemed a little sparse. Friendly looking guards greeted each patron as they entered.

Yeats
turned his gaze up and nodded to the thick square columns spread around the room. “Cameras at the entrances show us every face that enters the building. The film is observed by the guard you just heard in the control room as well as recorded.”

“And you’ve reviewed the film around the time of the theft?” Parker wanted to know.

Yeats nodded. “The week before and the morning thereof. Haven’t spotted anything suspicious.” He waved a hand toward a small line at a table. “We also do a search of parcels anyone brings in.”

Miranda saw one of the smiling guards
searching a student’s backpack. “It looks pretty thorough. But there has to be a hole somewhere.”

Solemnly, Yeats nodded.
“That’s my theory. Follow me.”

He led them
back across the open space with the big marble staircase to a small hall where a set of locked double doors barred the way.

“Service
entrances like this one are always locked. Only employees who have the correct clearance can enter. With a keycard.” He showed them his card then swiped it through a box on the wall. The doors opened.

They stepped into an enclave
where the service elevator was. Yeats pressed a button and they went inside. He pressed another button for the basement. He was taking them to the storeroom.

Parker let out an audible sigh
of frustration. “I believe we’ve already spoken with the staff members who have access to this area. And we’ve seen the storeroom.”

Though it wouldn’t hurt to see it again
, Miranda thought.

Yeats raised a long finger in the air. “Bear with me. You haven’t seen this.”

The doors opened to a long hall with bare eggshell colored walls. There was a solid wall to their left and the only way to go was right. They turned and trudged down the passageway, passing more secured doors that Yeats pointed out as closets or utility rooms or break rooms.

He came to a halt in front of the
aluminum double doors to the storeroom and pointed to the pad on the wall. “Entrance to this area requires a special code. The code is issued to only a select few of the museum personnel. Myself, the storeroom supervisor, the collections manager. And the director, of course.”

“Yes,” Parker said. “We noticed Sir Neville
using it when he brought us here.”

“
Others have to be buzzed inside by someone already there. The code is changed every other month, though people complain about it.”

“A sensible policy.”

“The museum cut the budget for cameras here, so we installed motion sensors inside the room that form an intricate pattern. That’s also changed periodically. The last person out of the room in the evening uses the code to reset the sensors.”

Now
Miranda was getting irritated. This guy was wasting their time telling them things they already knew. “And so?”

Yeats eyed her down the length of his narrow nose.
“And so it would be very difficult for someone to enter the room with the sensors engaged. They would detect the person’s presence, which would set off alarms in the control room, similar to what I demonstrated in the Ancient Asia collection.”

“
You’re saying the sensors would have to be turned off,” Parker said.

“Correct.
And you can only do that by accessing this panel.”

Which meant someone on the inside had to do it. Like George Eames. They were going in circles.
Miranda watched Parker’s eyes narrow as he gave the Security man a hard look.

“And where were you
Wednesday night, Mr. Yeats?”

The tall man
grimaced, his lips twisting as he raised a hand to them while he studied the floor. “I was with my fiancée all night, I’m afraid. The police have already spoken to her.”

But
she might have lied to them.

Yeats turned back to the panel.

“We don’t need to go inside,” Parker told him flatly. “We’ve already seen it.”

Yeats shook his head. “That’s not what I want to show you. It’s down here.” He
made a quarter turn and headed off down the hall.

They followed him, winding this way and that
, up four concrete steps, up another set of five and finally came to another pair of double doors. They bore a green sign marked “Exit” with a picture of a stick figure going out a white opening.

Yeats gestured at
the doors and stated the obvious. “These lead outside. They’re always locked.”

Miranda folded her arms and grimaced at the metal push bars. “And your point is?”

He blinked at her as if it should be clear. “There are no cameras here. But again, you need to swipe a keycard with the correct security clearance to enter from outside.”