The Inquisitor's Key (20 page)

THE MISTRAL HAD COME ROARING BACK AT NIGHTFALL,
churning through the leaves of the trees in Lumani’s garden. I tossed and turned for hours, chasing sleep without catching it—like a donkey forever pursuing a carrot suspended just beyond its nose. I was finally getting my first taste of it when I heard a tapping at my door, so light it was all but drowned out by the wind. I sat up in bed, instantly on full alert. “Hello? Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Dr. B.”

“Miranda? Are you okay?”

“Yes. Sort of. Not really.”

Switching on the bedside lamp, I scrambled out from under the covers, fumbled with the lock, and opened the door in my T-shirt and surgical scrub pants. Even by the low light spilling from my room, I could see how ravaged her face looked. “You look like hell.”

Normally, this would have prompted a smart-ass response, but she simply nodded and crumpled against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her and patted her back. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head. “Do you want to go get some coffee or something to eat? If we can find someplace that’s open?” She shook her head again.

“I just don’t think I can be by myself. Can I come in?”

“Of course.” The room wasn’t designed for company; the only places to sit were the bed and a narrow wooden chair in the corner. I nodded toward the chair. “Do you want to sit down?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but what I’d really like is to just sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, but I got really creeped out in that hotel room. I could still smell Stefan’s cigarettes and cologne in there; still feel his presence.” She drew a deep breath, then blew it out through pursed lips. “I just so desperately want to sleep. Would you mind if I slept here with you?”

“Miranda, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Maybe not, and I’m sorry to ask, but I really don’t want to be alone.” Her eyes looked sad and weary. “Just sleep. I promise. Please? I need a friend right now, not a boss.”

Five minutes later I was sharing my bed with Miranda, and I knew there’d be no sleep for me. I was lying on the far side of the bed, on the edge of the mattress, my thoughts and emotions swirling. I focused on my breathing, making it as regular as possible. Three seconds a breath.
In-in-in. Out-out-out. In-in-in. Out-out-out.

The covers rustled, the mattress shifted slightly, and I felt Miranda press against me. She spooned up behind me, her knees tucked into the bends of my legs, her chest and belly against my back. She wrapped one arm around my shoulder and laid a hand on my chest. She patted my heart—
tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump
—and I swear, it beat in time with her touch. Gradually her body went slack and her breath grew deep. With each breath
in, her belly swelled against me; with each exhalation, the hair on the back of my neck stirred.

Her body twitched slightly—a dream, or some neural synapse firing at random—and she took a deeper breath, then settled more closely against my back. Despite the bizarre and bloody events of the past twenty-four hours, the feeling of her body snugged against mine gave me a profound sense of well-being and comfort. A line from Meister Eckhart popped into my head: “If the only prayer you ever say is ‘Thank you,’ it will be enough.” Lying there with Miranda spooned up behind me—alive, unhurt, and important to me in ways that I didn’t understand fully, or perhaps was afraid to face—I prayed again:
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

WHEN I WOKE, SHE WAS GONE. ON THE NIGHTSTAND,
I found a note in Miranda’s small, neat script. It said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Underneath the thanks, these words: “A souvenir. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything, but maybe it’s important.” I tucked the note—an odd souvenir, I thought, or at least an odd inscription—in the drawer of the desk.

A few minutes later, as I was brushing windblown leaves off a chair in the garden, Jean appeared, a cordless phone in his hand. “A call for you.”

Inspector Descartes was on the line. “I have something interesting to show you,” he said. “Can you come to my office?”

“Yes, of course. I was just about to have breakfast. Tea, toast, and strawberries in the garden. Can I eat first, or do I need to come right away?”

“You can eat first,” he said, then, “or…I could come there. We could talk over breakfast.”

“I’ll ask Jean—”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said, and the phone went dead in my hand.

DESCARTES TOOK HIS COFFEE BLACK AND CONCENTRATED
: a small shot of espresso so dense he could almost have eaten it with a fork. Turning one of the lounge chairs by the fountain to face the sun, he set his espresso and a plate full of strawberries on a small table, then settled into the cushions, loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. “Ahhh,” he grunted happily. If not for the threadbare dress clothes, he might have been settling in for a day of Riviera sunbathing.

I sat in an adjoining chair with my cup of tea, now cold, along with two pieces of crusty toast slathered with cherry preserves. I sat without eating, waiting to see what he wanted to show me. He was in no hurry. His breathing grew slow and deep, and I wondered if he was going to sleep. “Inspector, you wanted to show me something?”

“Mmm? Ah,
oui,
of course.” I was glad I’d asked. “Yes, it’s right here.” He patted his shirt pocket, then pulled out a folded sheet of paper. With almost maddening slowness he unfolded it and peered at it, then handed it over. “Yes, I thought you might find it interesting.”

It took a moment for the name on the letterhead to sink in, but once it did, my adrenaline surged, and my eyes raced down the page.

“We found it in the office of his apartment,” he said. “We almost missed it. It was in his fax machine. It’s the report—”

“I know, I know,” I interrupted. “Good God.” I reread it, just to be sure I hadn’t misunderstood. “Or maybe I should say ‘Jesus Christ’ instead.” What I held in my shaking hands was the report from Beta Analytic, the Miami lab where we’d sent the teeth for
C-14 dating. The figures practically leaped from the page: “1,950 +/- 30.” According to the lab, the teeth—the teeth I’d pulled from the skull in the ossuary—dated back to the year
A.D
. 62, plus or minus thirty years: the century in which Jesus had lived and died. “So they might be the bones of Christ after all.” My mind was racing as fast as my pulse. “You said you found this in his fax machine. Had it been faxed to him, or had
he
faxed it to someone else?”

He smiled. “You would make a good detective, Docteur. The answer, I believe, is both. We looked at the machine’s archive, the log, I think you call it. He got a fax from Miami around eight
P.M
. on Saturday. Right after that, between nine and nine thirty, he sent three faxes.”

“Three? Did the first two fail?”

“No. All three went through. They were to three different places. Rome, London, and the United States.”

“Damnation,” I said. “I think Miranda was right—I think Stefan was up to no good. He made such a big deal about keeping the bones secret, but the minute he got the lab results, he ran to the fax machine. Have you tracked the numbers yet?”

“We’re working on it.” He frowned. “There’s some bureaucracy we have to go through to get the records.”

“Do you know where in the United States?”

“Ah,
oui
. The city is Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” I was stunned. “My God. Some guy in Charlotte got in touch with me a week ago. Asked if I would examine some bones and artifacts from the first century.”

Descartes sat up straight, no longer sunbathing. “Who is this guy? Where do we find him?”

“His name”—I rummaged through my mental trash bin—“is Newman. Dr. Adam Newman. Director of the Institute for Something-or-other. Ah: the Institute for Biblical Science.”

He took out his notepad and wrote down the name. “You know this place, this institute? It’s a serious scientific institution?”

I shook my head. “I’d never heard of them.” Suddenly I made a connection. “But
Stefan
had heard of them. I showed him the letter they sent me. He warned me to stay away from them—said they were religious nuts, and if they disagreed with my work, they’d try to damage my reputation.”

“Interesting,” Descartes mused, “that Monsieur Beauvoir knew more about this American group than you did.”

“You think that’s who he faxed in Charlotte about the bones?”

“
Peut-être
. Maybe so. It’s a good place to start.”

“What about the London and Rome faxes? Who was he faxing there?”

He shrugged. “Other people he wanted to know about the age of the bones. But which people, and why?
Sais pas
—don’t know.” He selected a crimson strawberry from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if testing the strawberry, and an appreciative smile dawned across his face. “Ah,
délicieuse,
” he breathed. “The food and wine in Provence are so wonderful. If I weren’t living on a policeman’s salary, I would love it here.” He cast a swift, wistful look around the garden and at the lovely buildings. Then, to my astonishment, he took a croissant from the platter, wrapped it in a napkin, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Seeing the expression on my face, he raised his eyebrows. Was he inviting me to tease him? Daring me to challenge him? I did neither, and after a pause he continued. “Perhaps, Docteur, you can help us find out who he was faxing. If you are willing.”

“Me? Help how? Does it require me to do anything illegal, immoral, or dangerous?”

“Illegal, no. Immoral, also no.” He smiled. “Sorry if that disappoints you.”

“You didn’t say it’s not dangerous, Inspector. I’m guessing that means it is?”

He held out a hand and waggled it. “Perhaps.”

“Does ‘perhaps’ mean ‘definitely’?”

“You can say no, of course.”

“You think someone killed Stefan for the bones?”

“Unless someone killed him for screwing your assistant.”

I hadn’t expected that. I felt the blood rush to my face, and I realized that I might have just stepped into a trap. Did Descartes still consider me a suspect? If so, had my reaction just raised his suspicions, made me look guilty? I was too angry to care. “Look, Inspector, I know what you think—Miranda’s personal life is fair game. Fine; you do your job. But if you want me to help you dig up dirt on Miranda, the answer’s no; you’re on your own.”

He seemed surprised by my reaction. “No,
pas du tout
—not at all. I was being ironic. I forgot you were sensitive about that.” Was he being sincere? There was no way to tell. “Of course the murder is about the bones. Immediately after he gets this report”—with his right index finger he pointed to the paper in my hands—“he faxes it to three people.” He held up the finger. “A few hours after that, he’s dead.” He held up his other index finger, then brought the two fingers together. “They are connected. How?” He tapped his temple. “I think he tries to sell the bones. I think he has three potential buyers—three fishes on the line. And one of the fishes kills him.”

“So,
cherchez le squelette,
” I reminded him. “Find the skeleton, you’ll find the killer.”

“Maybe.” He drained his cup and studied the sludge in the bottom. “Yes, maybe he takes the bones to a rendezvous at the chapel, and the buyer kills him and takes the bones.” I nodded; that was my guess about what had happened. “But I think not.” I looked at him in surprise. “Kill him, yes; shoot him—
bang!—
and take the bones, sure, it makes sense. But crucify him? Why? Why kill him in a way that’s risky to get caught? A way that’s slow and painful? Maybe to try to get information from him. Torture him into talking. You see?” I nodded; there was logic to that. He held up the finger yet again. “Also, why search his apartment, if you already have what you want?”

“Maybe to make sure there’s no evidence at the apartment, no paper trail for the police to follow?”

“
Non,
” he scoffed. “Whoever searched that apartment wasn’t looking for a piece of paper. He was looking for the bones. Of this I feel certain.”

“So what do you do now, Inspector?”

“I ask you to contact the three fishes.”

“Me? Why?”

“To offer the bones for sale.”

“But I don’t
have
the bones,” I pointed out.

“A minor complication,” he said, smiling. “You pretend to have them.” Suddenly the “dangerous” part of his request was becoming clear.

“Why don’t
you
pretend to have them, Inspector?”

He laughed. “Ah,
oui.
I will send this fax to the three fishes: ‘
Bonjour, monsieur,
if you still want the bones of Jesus, bring ten thousand euros to my office at the police station tomorrow morning.’ Like that?”

“No, not like that. Go undercover. Cops do it all the time.”

“I would make a terrible undercover officer,” he said. “I cannot act. My acting smells like shit. Besides, perhaps the killer has seen me already, at the chapel yesterday.”

“If so, he’s seen me, too—I got there before you did, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Ah,
oui,
but you were there as a witness, not an investigator. In fact, it’s good if he saw you there. You would be the logical person to have the bones, since Beauvoir no longer does. You, or perhaps Mademoiselle Lovelady.”

“No!” I practically shouted. “Not Miranda. I can’t let you put Miranda at risk.” He raised his sunglasses and squinted at me. “I’m responsible for her.”

“
Pourquoi?
She is an adult, yes? Twenty-five years? Thirty years?”

“Of course she’s an adult. But she’s my assistant. That makes me responsible.”

“But didn’t she come to Avignon to work for Beauvoir?”

He had me there. “Okay, technically, you’re right. But most of the time, I’m her boss. Keep Miranda out of it. Please.”

He shrugged. “I can try. But as I said yesterday, you are both involved. Perhaps you and I are not the only ones who have an interest in her.”

My cell phone rang; the call was from Miranda. She was talking even before I finished saying hello. “Slow down,” I said. “I can’t understand you. Are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been robbed,” she sobbed.

“
What?
Just now? On the street? Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not hurt. It must have happened last night. My room—somebody broke into my room while I was sleeping there with you.” She drew a few shuddering breaths. “When I got up this morning, I went for a long walk. Then I ate breakfast. I just got back to the hotel five minutes ago. My room had been trashed. They took my computer. My passport. My money. I’m scared, Dr. B.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER—SPURRED ON BY MY FEAR
for Miranda and my hope that if I did what Descartes asked, I could deflect danger from her to me—I signed my name to the message I would fax to each of Stefan’s three fish. The wording Descartes and I had finally settled on was meant to be both tantalizing and threatening:
I am Stefan’s partner. I know about your dealings with him. Now you must deal with me. Contact me within 24 hours, or I will go to the police. Brockton.

Descartes reread the note and grunted his approval. “Okay,” he said, “if they don’t already have the bones, this will make
them think that you have them. If they
do
have the bones, they will think you are blackmailing them. It might work. What do you think, Docteur?”

“I think it might get me killed,” I said. “If they think I’m blackmailing them, what’s to stop them from just shooting me—
bang!
—or crucifying me?”

“We’ll be watching you,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think they have the bones. If they did, why break into mademoiselle’s room?”

“And what do I do when they call our bluff and want me to deliver the bones—the bones I don’t actually have?”

“Simple. You set the
hameçon
—the fishhook—and I reel in the line. You meet them, and we arrest them.”

“Before or after they shoot me?”

He laughed. “Trust me, Docteur.”

We took the note inside to Lumani’s office, a tiny alcove just off the dining room—nothing more than a desk built into a recess in the wall. After Jean had made sure the machine would not transmit the inn’s name or phone number, we sent the note to the three fax numbers.

Now, we waited for the fish to strike. To strike
me
.

“LATELY I FEEL LIKE A TIME TRAVELER,” I SAID TO
Miranda. “Or like there are two of me. One me is here now, in the present, trying to help Descartes find Stefan’s killer. The other me is somewhere back in the thirteen hundreds, trying to figure out how that box of bones ended up in the wall of the palace. And how in bloody hell the Shroud of Turin and this painter Simone Martini are connected to it.”

We were back at the library again, once more on the trail of Martini and the Shroud. I nodded toward the immense reading room that had once been a vast banquet hall. Computers and steel shelves and halogen lights surrounded by frescoed walls and
leaded windows and a coffered ceiling. “I feel as schizophrenic as this library.” From somewhere below, an annoyed
sshh
floated up at me.

Miranda surveyed the space, the lavish architectural metaphor I’d just staked out for myself, then turned to me with a slight smile. “You could do worse,” she whispered. “Pretty damn fancy, as psychoses go.” I squelched a laugh and motioned her out into the stairwell so we could talk without disturbing everyone else. “We might as well hang out in the Middle Ages,” she resumed with scarcely a pause. “Descartes himself said as much. He’s busy bird-dogging those fax numbers, and you’re waiting for the fish to bite. Meanwhile, why not keep plugging away on the bones and the Shroud?” Miranda had bounced back remarkably from her scare. It helped that the hotel had moved her to a new room, and that Descartes had agreed to post a guard outside her door at night. It also helped, I figured, to have something to occupy her mind.