Still As Death (21 page)

AGATHA WILLIAMS WAS MUCH PRETTIER than Sweeney had thought she’d be. When Sweeney had asked Ian if he knew anyone who specialized in antiquities, he had said that, as it happened, the woman who handled antiquities for him was over from London for an auction and he was sure she’d be happy to have lunch with Sweeney to tell her a little bit more about Egyptian funeral jewelry.

“Are you sure?” she’d teased him. “I’ll be able to get all kinds of dirt on you.”

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take. Besides, everyone from the London office has been dying to meet you. Aggie can report back. It’ll have to do until they can meet you in person.” He’d given her a little grin and disappeared into the bathroom for his shower.

Sweeney wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but “Aggie,” when she arrived at the restaurant near the university Sweeney had chosen for their lunch, wasn’t it. She was Sweeney’s age, if not a little younger, and instead of the severe bun Sweeney assumed someone named Agatha would have her hair tied up in, Aggie Williams had long, straight dark hair that fell around her perfect face and shone under the lights above their table like polished stone. It was exactly the kind of hair that Sweeney had wished she had when she
was ten and her own, impossibly curly, hair never seemed to do what she wanted it to do. It had certainly never fallen around her shoulders and the shoulders of her expensive linen suit the way Aggie Williams’s did.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said in her crisp Oxbridge accent when Sweeney sat down. “We’ve all been so curious about the woman who could get Ian out of London.” Her lips were painted a perfect red, not too bright, and Sweeney found herself wishing she’d put on lipstick.

“Oh. Really?” Sweeney wasn’t sure what else she was supposed to say to that.

“He’s such a Londoner,” Agatha went on. “When he said he was going to live in Boston for a few months, we couldn’t quite believe it.” There was a little bit of an edge to her words, but then, as if regretting it, she smiled and said, “You must be very special.”

Now Sweeney really wasn’t sure what to say, so when she looked up to find the waitress standing over them, Sweeney asked for water and ordered a Caesar salad.

“So Ian tells me you’ve gotten interested in antiquities,” Aggie said after she’d ordered too. “How can I help?”

“I’m not sure exactly. I’m doing some research into this collar and I just don’t know enough about the field to know what I’m looking at.” She handed over a copy of the file photograph of the collar and let Aggie take it in.

“Very nice. What do you know about it?”

“Just that it’s supposed to be eighteenth dynasty. It was given to the museum by a collector named Arthur Maloof and …”

“Maloof?” Aggie looked up.

“That’s right. Why? Did you know him?”

“No. I’ve heard of him, though.” She held the copy up to the light and peered at it. “Any information on where this came from?”

“The file said it had been in the collection of a British explorer who dug it up in the 1890s or something.” Aggie was looking skeptically at the photo. “It’s identified as eighteenth dynasty, from Giza.”

“It’s not,” Aggie said. “But here comes our food. Let’s talk about something else while we eat, and then I’ll tell you what it really is.” Sweeney didn’t dare argue with her.

Their salads came and they ate for a few minutes while Aggie told Sweeney about her trip. “I’ll be in Washington for a few days and then finish up in New York. There are a couple of auctions. It’s been lovely doing all this travel. Usually Ian does it. I’ve got to enjoy it while I can.” Her accent was perfectly crisp. Her eyebrows dipped and rose, and she said nonchalantly, “Of course, I don’t have much time left. We’re all looking forward to having Ian back next month and of course you as well. I’d love to show you around London a bit, introduce you to some of my friends.”

Sweeney felt her stomach drop a little. “Next month?”

“That’s what I was led to believe. I’m sorry, is that not the case?”

“Oh, no, we’re just still working out the details.” She felt a hot flash of anger at Ian. How dare he go ahead and tell them they were coming back together without consulting her?

Sweeney almost had to grit her teeth as she asked, “So, what did you mean when you said you’d tell me what the collar really is?”

“Well, it’s not eighteenth dynasty.” She pronounced it “din-isty” “Not at all. It’s older, Middle Kingdom, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t come from Giza. Look, I don’t know what you’re going to do with this information, but it looks to me like a piece that was taken out of one of the tombs at Dahshur. There were a number of princesses entombed there, and the caches found at Dahshur represent probably the best examples of dynastic jewelry ever found. The pieces aren’t as showy as the better-known New Kingdom pieces found in Tutankhamen’s tomb, but they are so much more delicately constructed. A number of pieces from the princesses tombs are at the Cairo Museum and they’re stunning. I think your museum has one of them here. But I think it may have been stolen.”

“From the Cairo Museum?”

“Possibly, but it’s more likely that it was taken from one of the tombs around 1914. It’s also possible that it was found in an undiscovered
tomb more recently and sold on the black market. It’s hard to see in this copy, but it’s really beautiful. See the detail on the falcons, and the beading. I bet it’s exquisite in real life.”

“That’s what I liked about it,” Sweeney said. “I think that’s why it caught my eye. It’s so much more feminine than the other pieces you always see.”

“You’ve got a good one. Eye that is.” Aggie checked her watch. “I’d be careful about anything having to do with Arthur Maloof’s collections.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to go telling tales out of school. I may have to deal with his estate at some point. But if that piece is stolen, it could be embarrassing for the museum. I should be on my way. It was lovely to meet you.” Aggie left Sweeney with money for her portion of the check and gave her a smile that was, Sweeney decided, more than a little bit wicked. “I think a lot of him. Ian.” The way she said his name, lovingly, as though the very taste of it in her mouth was delicious, made Sweeney’s stomach feel funny. “So do a lot of people. I hope we’ll see you in London soon.”

QUINN’S DAY HAD STARTED AT SIX
A.M.
, when Megan had woken him up and demanded to be dressed in the same pink dress she’d worn the day before. When Quinn had patiently tried to explain to her that the dress was dirty and that she’d have to wear something else, she’d screamed and insisted on it until he’d finally relented and taken the musty-smelling dress out of the hamper. He felt like he’d been doing that a lot lately, and he’d tried to explain to Patience that Megan wasn’t very flexible when it came to fashion, but for some reason, Megan let Patience dress her in anything.

When he got to headquarters, he found a message from special agent Steve Kirschner, one of the FBI agents who had worked on the 1979 Hapner robbery, along with the original case files from Cambridge PD’s investigation and the files from the investigation into Karen Philips’s death. He called Kirschner back and arranged to meet with him at headquarters at five, then headed across Central Square to get a coffee before delving into the files.

He was just starting on the files when Ellie came into the conference room and sat down across from him. “Hey,” he said. “I got the FBI files on the theft. I want you to help me go over them.”

“Okay,” she said. “But I got something on Luz Ramirez. Thought you might like to go with me.”

“What’d you get?” So far, they’d hit a dead end on the case. No one in the neighborhood had been able to tell them anything, though having to use a translator always made him realize how much he depended on being able to read people’s expressions and weigh them against the words being said.

Ellie took out her notebook and beamed at him in a self-satisfied way. “I found a friend of hers in the neighborhood who was willing to talk. She’d been working at a salon.” She pronounced it with the accent on the first syllable.

“A what?”

“A hair salon.”

“Oh. Did you get a name?”

“Yeah, it’s called My Blue Heaven, down on Mass. Ave. She didn’t know the exact address, but I’m sure I can find it in the phone book.”

“Great. Why don’t you go down and talk to them, see if you can find anything. That’s good work, Ellie. Really.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “Don’t you want to come with?”

“No. I’ve got some things to do here before the FBI guy arrives.”

“Shouldn’t I stay so I can talk to him too?”

Quinn turned to look at her. “No.” Her face fell a little, then resolved into anger. He’d never seen her angry before. Her small, feminine features seemed to curl up, her eyes cast down, her mouth twisting.

“Are you mad at me or something?” She stood very straight, her head held rigidly, her chest thrust out a little. Her whole body was tensed, like a cat’s, and he had the sense that she might spring on him if he pissed her off.

“What?” He turned to look at her again. “No. Why do you say that?”

“Because it seems like you are.”

“Well, I’m not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?”

“It just seems like you are.”

“Look, if you’re going to be a cop, you need to have a thicker skin. I’m not mad at you, okay. Maybe I’m a little distracted because I’ve got two big investigations going right now.”

“I
am
a cop.”

“What?”

“I said I am a cop. And
you
don’t have two investigations going.
We
do.” They glared at each other for a minute, then Ellie said, “By the way, I talked to Cyrus Hutchinson. He said he gives a lot of people, including Willem Keane, bottles of that scotch for Christmas. He said that maybe she stole it from Keane’s office.” Then she made some kind of face at him, a child’s scowl, and left the room.

Quinn didn’t know if he should laugh or swear.

He decided on the latter. “Goddamn!” He’d have to go talk to Havrilek, tell him that it wasn’t working out with Ellie, that he needed a new partner. Frankly, he didn’t think she was detective material, but that was up to Havrilek.

For now, though, he needed to call Keane to see about the scotch, and then he had to go through the files and prepare for his meeting with Agent Kirschner. He put Ellie out of his mind for the moment.

Tad Moran answered the phone, and when Quinn asked to speak to Keane, there was a short hesitation before Moran said, “Can I tell him what it’s about?”

“No. I’d just like to talk to him.” His encounter with Ellie had put him in a bad mood. “Is he there?”

“Yes. Hold, please.” Quinn listened to the endless silence of the telephone system and then there was a click and Keane came on.

“Hello? Detective Quinn?”

“Yes, Mr. Keane. I had a quick question for you. We found a very expensive bottle of scotch in Olga Levitch’s apartment. There was a card on it from Cyrus Hutchinson. He claims that he didn’t give her a bottle, but rather gave one to you. I’m—”

Keane cut in, “You didn’t tell him you’d found it, did you?”

“Yes, we needed to—”

“Oh, Christ! Do you see what you’ve done? He’ll know I gave it to her. Detective Quinn, you’ve created a real problem for me. Mr. Hutchinson is an important benefactor of our museum. I’m not a scotch man, so I gave it to Olga, as a kind of holiday treat. But now he knows, and I’m guessing he’s pretty offended. Damn!”

Quinn was so taken aback by Keane’s indignation that he didn’t know what to say.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Keane demanded. Quinn felt as though he were being scolded by an angry schoolteacher.

“Mr. Keane. As I told you at the museum, we are investigating a murder here. If you’ve been inconvenienced, I’m sorry, but I’m sure that if you think about this for a couple of seconds, you’ll see why we had to ask.” He hung up the phone, because he’d said all he wanted to say and because he didn’t want to give Keane a chance to admonish him again.

The mystery of the scotch solved, he turned to the file on Karen Philips’s death.

She had been found by a friend whom she was supposed to meet for lunch and campus security had been the first ones on the scene. If there was ever a straightforward kind of a suicide, Quinn thought, it was a hanging, and everyone who had investigated this one had treated it as such. Everything seemed to be in order, from what he could tell. At no point had anyone expressed any doubts about whether she had done it herself. Death had been due to asphyxiation, there were marks around her neck consistent with a strangling, etc., etc. She had used a piece of hardware-store baling twine.

But one thing caught his eye. On one of the pathology reports, someone had scribbled at the bottom, “No rope burns on hands.” Quinn knew what the pathologist or whoever was getting at. He’d seen the hands of a couple of suicides who had tied the noose themselves. If you weren’t used to handling rope, and you tried to make a
noose out of a brand-new length, it was going to show on your hands.

But there wasn’t anything else, and he put the little detail aside as a very remote “maybe” before turning to the file on the robbery. The call to 911 had been made at three twenty-three
P.M.
on November 4, 1979, by Tad Moran, who had told the 911 dispatcher that he and other staff of the museum had returned from a staff meeting to find the security guard on duty, Denny Keefe, tied up and in need of medical attention. In fact, police were already on their way to the museum, since a silent alarm had been activated behind the ticket booth. Quinn assumed that Keefe had seen something suspicious, activated the alarm, and gone outside to confront the thieves, which was when he’d been attacked.

While officers were en route to the scene, Tad Moran had called again, this time to say that museum staff had discovered that a number of antiquities had been removed from the museum. There were the reports of the officers who had responded to the call, which described what they had found when they arrived. The museum staff had returned from a meeting in the adjacent building to find Mr. Keefe tied up near the entrance door. He had been badly beaten but was alive and was immediately transported to the hospital.