Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel) (8 page)

Chapter 13

“You’re buying, right?” Rembert took another glance at the menu. “I’ll take the grilled New York strip and a bottle of Guinness stout.”

“The glazed ahi tuna,” Garin decided. “And bring a bottle of your Laetitia Pinot Noir...with my meal.”

“I’ll have my Guinness now,” Rembert cut in.

The restaurant was busier than Garin had expected it to be at five o’clock. Perhaps the older archaeologists were used to eating early, all those senior-citizen specials that restaurants around the country advertised. No such specials were advertised here. He handed the menu back to the waiter. Fortunately, they had a table against the far wall, with empty ones all around them. Garin had told the waiter they needed privacy for a business meeting.

“So, Mr. Hayes, you’re Annja’s cameraman for the weekend, but not usually her cameraman. Do I understand that correctly?”

Rembert chortled. “Look, I thought you said you wanted to talk to me, not Annja.”

“I do want to talk to you. I only mentioned Annja.” Garin studied Rembert’s face, finding a mix of emotions he couldn’t quite lock down. “I know Annja Creed, and—”

The waiter brought the Guinness and retreated.

“Well, I know her, too. All too well, and that’s why I don’t usually work with her. It’s a long story.” Rembert shook his head and poured the stout into his glass and took a big swallow. His smile showed his approval. “I was with her in France and...well, let’s just say sometimes things get difficult and dangerous around her. I have a family to consider. And I’m rather fond of my own skin. But things are tough so I’m here shooting some footage
of
her for the producer. All promo stuff.”

“All of it?”

Rembert smiled. “Well, I sold some video to one of the local networks. I was here when—”

“—one of the bodies was wheeled out. I saw you recording it.”

“Yes. I got some choice pieces. Right place, right time kind of thing.” Rembert drew his features together. “You’re a curious fellow. You said you had a story for me. Is this for
Chasing History’s Monsters?
I’m not working with Annja, not really. But I do lots of other shoots for the channel, some freelance work on the side.”

Garin softened his expression in an effort to put Rembert at ease. “No, this isn’t for
Chasing History’s Monsters
. A silly program, really, and I rarely catch it. This is something you can sell to a network for news, though I suppose your channel might do something with it. It’s topical and could earn you a fine turn of coin. Maybe one of the nationals would pick it up. But no, there’s no monster in it. Nothing to interest Annja Creed. To be honest, I would prefer—I would insist—that this remain between you and me.” Garin scrutinized Rembert’s eyes. As many years as he’d walked the earth, he’d learned how to read men. “Do we have an agreement?”

Rembert looked dead serious and didn’t blink. “I don’t have to tell Annja. I don’t have a problem with that. But I want to know what this is about before I make any promises about anything.”

“Ah, a man of integrity.” Garin leaned back to let a silence fill the space between them. Despite his words, he doubted Rembert Hayes had much integrity at all; he’d done a little checking, and the man needed money. The need for money made men desperate. And that would make Rembert easy to manipulate.

Garin picked through some of the hushed conversations several tables away—everything seeming to deal with this lecture or that seminar, or speculation about the deaths of three archaeologists. Apparently the woman from this morning had just bitten that proverbial dust. “I appreciate a man of principle, Mr. Hayes.”

Rembert finished the stout. “I’m also a man who could use some money.”

Garin was surprised at the frankness. Maybe Mr. Hayes was a little more honest than he’d first thought. That pleased him; he found honest men easier to coerce, because at the heart of everything, they tended to be trusting.

“There, it’s on the table, Mr. Knight. I need money.” Rembert ran his finger around the lip of his glass. It produced the faintest hum: crystal. “But you know that somehow, don’t you?”

Garin didn’t answer the question. Annja’s colleague was astute. Was this one more misstep he was making this weekend, going with an honest
and
astute man? One more chance to tempt fate? First letting Annja know he was here? Bringing Keiko? And now approaching Mr. Hayes? He hadn’t thought the man all that savvy. Had his own bravado overpowered his common sense to approach Mr. Hayes? Or had he just gotten a little too reckless with his goals after so many years? He grinned. Maybe he’d been bored lately and was looking to make things interesting.

No matter. He’d started this. He might as well see how it played out. So Rembert Hayes was perceptive—not a trait Garin was looking for in the man, but he could overcome that.

“Mr. Hayes, I don’t care what your financial situation is. But if you’re selling footage to the networks over a few...deaths...at an archaeology convention, you could profit more with something of considerably greater interest. Death? That happens all the time. But this—”

The waiter brought salads and cracked pepper over the bowls.

“Another Guinness,” Rembert said. Then he edged forward, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m interested. I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t interested. But I don’t know anything about you. And I don’t know what this is about.”

“And you’re going to walk away when all of this is done still not knowing anything about me,” Garin said as he speared a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth. The raspberry vinaigrette dressing was delightful. “Other than that I’ve a penchant for some very old things. A history buff, so to speak. Do you have a problem with that?”

Rembert picked at his salad. “Fine.”

“Good.” Garin ate the rest of the tomatoes and nudged the salad plate away. He kept his voice low; there was enough space between this table and the nearest occupied ones. No one could hear; but he was still careful. “There is an artifact-smuggling ring operating under the noses of the conference organizers. Some serious artifacts, and the pieces will be sold tomorrow night.”

Rembert coughed and grabbed his water glass, downing it to clear his throat. “Smuggling? Illegal, right?”

“Very.”

“Like the stuff stolen from the museum in Cairo in the riots?”

Garin was pleased Rembert kept his voice equally quiet. Both men stopped talking when the waiter returned with their meals. The waiter opened the wine and let it breathe. Garin sampled it and nodded his consent, then paused until the waiter left. He continued, “I can’t tell you where the artifacts came from, only that they belong in museums. Taken from digs, I’d guess, pocketed and smuggled when they should have been showcased and cared for elsewhere. Most likely archaeologists involved are making some money on the side by not reporting everything they find, by putting a few pieces up for sale. Most archaeologists are scrupulous caretakers of history—like Annja Creed. But not all of them.”

Rembert dug into his steak, his eyes closing in obvious pleasure. “And you’re telling me this...because?”

“It rankles me,” Garin said. In truth, a part of him was bothered by the whole notion of smuggling pieces of history. The larger part of him just wanted to get one up on Annja, to bring to light something that she would have reveled in exposing...had she the opportunity. To get what he wanted and best her all in the same instant. It would paint him as a hero, wouldn’t it? Even though he would remain on the sidelines. But more than all of that, he would be getting one up on Roux.

“How do you know about it, this smuggling ring?”

“Not your concern.” Garin tasted the grilled ahi, finding it more than acceptable.

“Why come to me?”

“I can go elsewhere.” Garin continued to eat. It was as fine a meal as he’d enjoyed in the best restaurants in New York and Paris. And here...in the Midwest...who would have thought it? “And perhaps I should. A newsman from Milwaukee or Chicago or—”

“No need to do that. I said I’m interested.” Rembert took another bite of his steak and a long swallow of the stout. “But you’re getting something out of this, right?”

“Of course. I always get something out of my endeavors.”

They finished their meals and the waiter took their plates.

“Dessert?” Garin asked.

“Yes,” Rembert answered as if on autopilot. “Black forest cake.”

“The chocolate marquess.”

“So what are you getting out of this, Mr. Knight?”

Garin’s smile was tight and thin. “I am buying one of these smuggled relics. I am buying one and you’re not interfering with that or recording that transaction. In fact, you’ll help. You’ll not videotape me or my purchase...if you want to keep that skin of yours that you say you’re fond of. But you are free to cover the rest of the sale, revealing whatever participants and whatever antiquities you want. Artifact smuggling is news, Mr. Hayes. Big news. It is certainly the stuff that newspapers and networks would buy from you. Why, your uncovering such a ring, and I know this one has been operating around the world for at the very least a few years...well, you could practically write your own ticket, couldn’t you?”

Rembert stared.

“I’ve looked you up. You’re a newsman at heart. You don’t need Annja Creed on this. You don’t need anyone.”

“I don’t like the idea that you’re going to buy something. That makes you a crook—”

“It makes me a collector.”

“I don’t like it, but I’m in,” Rembert said. “All in.”

Garin sat back as the waiter brought the desserts.

“I hope you have a very small video camera, Mr. Hayes. Tiny.”

“I’ll get one.”

“By tomorrow night.”

Rembert waved his hand to get the waiter’s attention.

“One more stout,” he said.

Chapter 14

“All of it is connected,” Manny said. “Dr. Schwartz’s murder, Dr. Papadopolous’s supposed heart attack and Mrs. Hapgood...whatever the hell killed her.”

Annja had overheard the radio chatter about her dying in the hospital’s critical-care unit.

“Everything is connected,” he repeated.

“Including the men who tried to run us off the road,” Annja said.

“Yeah, them. I’d sure like to know why they were after us. Don’t have anything that—” The detective’s voice trailed off and he ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Well, maybe I do have something. Just have to connect all the dots, so to speak, before two weeks are up.”

Two weeks? Annja thought more like two days, with the conference ending this weekend. She didn’t have two weeks. In eight days she was scheduled to fly to Morocco to film a segment of
Chasing History’s Monsters.
She’d set up interviews, and she wouldn’t change those plans.

“Two weeks and I’m out of here, you know.”

Annja thought the detective sounded sad about his upcoming retirement.

They took a booth in the cozy diner and glanced at the one-sheet menu.

“Two weeks, after how many years on the force?” She redirected her attention to their waitress. “Two cheeseburgers, one of them a double, no onions.”

Annja didn’t want to have onion breath in the car with Manny. “A large order of fries, chocolate milk shake and a piece of apple pie, a big one, with cheddar crumbles.” She handed the menu back to the waitress. “Oh, instead, nix the milk shake. Bring me two big mugs of hot cocoa. Do you have any?”

“Sure, sweetheart,” the waitress said. “We’ll fix you some hot chocolate. Do you want whipped cream on it?”

Annja nodded.

“Cola,” the detective said, letting the waitress know that Annja’s drink order wasn’t for the both of them. “Biggest you have, and light on the ice. And...I think I’ll have a bowl of your chicken soup and a piece of pie, too. Pecan if you have it, otherwise apple is ducky.” He gestured to the counter, where pies were showcased under a glass dome smudged with fingerprints. “Put a scoop of ice cream on my pie. No, put two.”

It was a step above a greasy spoon, but not by much in Annja’s estimation. It was, however, the first restaurant they’d come to after being thoroughly debriefed by both the state police and the sheriff’s department. It was just outside the Lakeside city limits, its blinking sign Open 24/7 catching their attention in the dimming light. The place had a big faded orange-and-yellow canopy out front that extended partway over a lot that also apparently served as a used-car dealership. That part of the business consisted of an array of old and battered cars and motorcycles, a sign on the side of the restaurant reading Everything Runs. He parked as much of the Impala under the canopy as would fit, and he and Annja managed to get out and into the diner without getting any wetter. The rain was coming steadily still, but the wind had settled down.

“Forty-three years,” he said in answer to her question. “Signed on after four years in the army and after two in a community college down in Oglesby, Illinois. Associate of Science degree, took a lot of criminal justice courses and found an opening in Madison.”

“I don’t know if I could stick with anything forty-three years. Congratulations.” She raised a water glass to him. Annja had brought Edgar’s folder in with her, spreading the bits and pieces out on their table to sort through, all the while her mind reeling with questions about the men who had chased them. No trouble reading anything here; and the only sounds to distract her were minimal—dishes and silverware clinking and rattling behind the counter, and rain still rat-a-tatting outside. Only three other customers, and they sat several booths away. She and Manny no doubt had missed the dinner rush; it was approaching seven o’clock.

“Interesting stuff, isn’t it?” the detective asked. “I made copies of everything before lunch, but some of the printouts were so light not everything picked up. So take care, those’re all the originals. I’ll have to log them back in tomorrow morning.” He growled. “Have an appointment with my chief twelve hours from now. Probably gonna hand my wrinkled ass to me over that...well, over that.”

Annja knew he meant the whole ordeal on I-94. She set all the newspaper clippings aside. In the car she’d thought they were about two murders, but apparently there were several deaths—seven, dating back to WWII, all unsolved and all from Lakeside. Spread out over that many years—almost eight decades—it wasn’t odd or untoward, other than the fact Edgar had apparently gathered them together. She had no clue as to what they had to do with the rest of the folder, but a part of her believed what Detective Rizzo had voiced: “It’s all connected.”

She skimmed the news clippings, then put them aside. Then she went onto Edgar’s notes and archaeological assumptions, reading quickly, focusing on the fishing map of Rock Lake and the scrawled notations around its sides.

One of the other patrons got up and dropped some coins in the jukebox. Bon Jovi’s version of Cohen’s “Hallelujah” came on.

“It’s important, what you’ve got there. Important to solving this,” Manny said. “Ah, here we go.” The waitress set the drinks down.

Manny took a long pull of the soda. “I know it’s important because your Professor Schwartz hid it between the mattresses, clearly didn’t want someone to find it.”

“But you found it.”

“Learned a lot over forty years. First place to look is between the mattresses.”

She smelled her burgers cooking, the aroma making her mouth water.

“So he was probably killed over it...over something in it,” she said. Fringe archeology, that was what Peter had called Edgar’s research. Ridiculous, he’d said. Indeed it smacked of something incredulous to her, and all the odd notes about the Aztalan Park and people missing the bigger picture. She kicked herself for not coming a day earlier and going on the tour of the Native American mounds. If nothing else, she would have met Professor Papadopolous, who apparently was involved with Edgar’s discovery. The squiggles of Mayan symbols, latitude and longitude marks. Mayans in Wisconsin? Unbelievable? Maybe not. Maybe something was real enough to get Edgar killed over it, and Papadopolous, too. Annja had seen some pretty preposterous things in her time.

“Annja, I’d wager everything that he was killed over something in that folder.”

She turned the pages faster, skimming now and looking for the most relevant pieces. If she could somehow talk the detective into letting her keep the folder tonight, she’d give it a more thorough read. There was a name and a phone number at the edge of the map, and next to it, “Lake diver, $100 an hour, boat included.”

“He had someone dive the lake.”

“A lot of people dive the lake.” Manny signaled for a refill on the cola.

Annja took a break and downed one of the cups of hot cocoa and reached for the second. “And a glass of water, please.”

“He really thinks...thought...” She still had trouble believing Edgar was dead. “He really thought there was something in the lake.”

“He isn’t the only one.”

Annja looked up from the paper.

“There
is
something in the lake. Water.” Manny laughed. “Just kidding. There were some fishermen lots of years back discovered mounds in the lake. There are more like them, the mounds—above water—at the park.”

“Aztalan.”

“That’s the one. People still dive the lake from time to time, looking for more of the mounds. You read about it in the paper once in a while. But the lake, from what I’ve heard, isn’t an easy dive.”

Annja held up a photo of the park clipped from a magazine.

“Still, aren’t the mounds Indian, Wisconsin Indian, not Mayan Indian?” Manny grabbed a spoon when the waitress set the bowl of soup in front of him, sloshing some of it on the table. “I’ve been to the park.”

“Out of vanilla ice cream,” the waitress said as she plopped down the pie. “Do you want whipped cream?”

He shook his head. “Can’t stand whipped cream. This is okay.” He started on the soup. Between sips, he said, “That’s a lot of food, Annja. You’re not gonna stay so skinny if you have many meals like that.”

She didn’t reply to his comment. Instead she asked, “What will you do, Manny?” Annja reached for her first sandwich.

He cocked his head, his bushy eyebrows arching.

“I don’t mean in this...investigation. In two weeks, when you’ve retired. What will you do?”

“You mean, after I get all the accolades for solving a triple? ’Cause don’t let no coroner’s report fool you. I’ll bet my pension that Mrs. Hapgood was killed, too.” He put his soupspoon down and took another drink from his soda glass. “Move to Texas. Already bought a place. Brownsville. Acacia Drive.”

“Do you have relatives there?”

His faced clouded momentarily. “Don’t have relatives. Well, a brother in Detroit, but we hardly speak. Never married, no kids that I know of.”

“So why Brownsville?”

Manny gave her a lopsided grin that she considered his most endearing expression. “Tired of the cold, Annja. Wisconsin winters can be brutal. Searched on the internet and found Brownsville to my liking. Took a trip down there over Easter and chatted with a Realtor. Picked me out a two-bedroom, two-bath ranch, bigger than my house here. Garage, outbuilding, patio, inground pool even, comes with all the appliances, a washer and dryer only three years old. Central air. It’s a good neighborhood, too. Paid a hundred and twenty-three thousand. God bless the housing slump. Gonna sell my house here, all the furniture included. Getting me some new things to sit on down there.”

She started on her second sandwich. “It’s hot in Texas,” she said around a bite as she reached for some French fries.

The lopsided grin grew wider. “Yeah, ain’t it? Let me tell you something, Annja. You don’t have to shovel hot. And you don’t have to mow it, either, lawns so brown down there so I’m thinking my mower won’t get much of a workout. That swimming pool will, though.”

He’d finished the soup. She noticed he was only nibbling at his pie and was watching her intently, amazed at how quickly and how much she could eat. Annja stuffed a few more fries in her mouth.

“I was so hungry,” she finally said as way of explanation. “Breakfast, I didn’t really have any, and—” She let the thought trail off and finished the second sandwich and the rest of the cocoa. She stuffed a few more fries in her mouth, looked at her apple pie and picked up a fork. “And I get a lot of exercise.”

“I think even Lieutenant Greene could’ve caught on to the notion that you were hungry.”

“Wonder if he found anything out at the conference.”

“Listen,” he said. He pushed the pie away and finished the soda. “Before you showed up at the station to see Dr. Chia what’s-his-name, I’d shuffled through the folder, made the copies, like I said, and I checked with the police in Rio Ranch.”

Rio Ranch was a suburb northwest of Albuquerque. Annja had been there once to visit Edgar. She stopped eating and gave the detective her full attention.

“Edgar’s place.”

“They said his home had been broken into and gone through. Clearly searched, but not a complete tossing like you see on TV. Somebody was careful, if you get my drift. Like they knew exactly what they were looking for. Next-door neighbor said she spotted a man walking through the house really late last night but didn’t say anything, thought it was Professor Schwartz’s son.” He shrugged. “Maybe they found what they were looking for.”

“Then why kill Edgar here?” The question was for herself. “If they found what they wanted?”

“Because maybe they didn’t find what they were looking for. Maybe they searched his house after they killed him. Didn’t find it here, so looked there.” Another shrug. “Maybe they didn’t find what they wanted in his hotel room because they didn’t know to look between the mattresses. Your friend Edgar was murdered over what was in the folder.” He reached into his front pocket and pulled out a small, clear police-evidence bag. “Maybe somebody knew your Professor Schwartz had these, and they wanted them. Maybe this is why those idiots in the Explorer were dogging us, looking for this or wanting to see if we knew where it was. Follow the money—that’s what they were doing. They could’ve killed us easy by ramming us, but they were playing, trying to just knock us off the road. I’m betting they wanted to talk to us. Didn’t work out too good for them, eh? Anyway, I gotta get this back first thing tomorrow or it’ll be my hide for good.”

It made a heavy
thunk
for its size.

Annja pushed her plate away and leaned over it. “Gold.”

“Yeah, gold. It was in a plain white envelope inside that folder. Bet it’s worth a good chunk. It looks old. Really old.”

“Ancient.” Annja’s heart raced. Without opening the bag, she moved the contents around. Three gold circles, each a little larger than a silver dollar, though twice as thick. One had a froglike creature on it with a bird head, another something that looked vaguely like an insect with a human head. The fine details were remarkable. There were symbols around the edge, which looked to be a language. The third momentarily stole her breath. It depicted an elk—an elk in its body and antlers—but it had a stylized Mayan man’s face. She turned the evidence bag over to note images of the sun on the other sides. “These are Mayan.”

“Yeah, Mayan, Aztec, Incan, old. Some expert from the Milwaukee museum is coming in tomorrow for a look-see. Coins, huh? Ancient coins.”

“Uh, Mayans,” Annja corrected, “didn’t use coins for commerce. They used jade beads. These were from a piece of jewelry. See.” She pointed to each coin. “The small holes. These were part of a necklace or something. All of this is pre-Columbian.”

“Pre—”

“Pre-Columbian. From before Columbus came to the New World.”

“Guess you really are an archaeologist.” He ate more of the pie. When the waitress returned to their booth, he grabbed the evidence bag and put it back in his pocket. “Jeez, I could get in trouble for having these. Serious deep trouble for not leaving these in evidence lockup. Wanted you to see ’em.”

“If those belonged to Edgar, they should go to his sons.”