The Stolen Chalicel (14 page)

The three assistants picked up their ends of the sheet.

“One, two, three . . .
Lift!
”

They gently cantilevered the sling and lowered it onto the scanning bed. After they were done, Holly bent over and reexamined the ancient figure.

The linen was degrading a bit, but there was no real damage to the bones. Almost like clockwork, a young assistant’s stomach began to heave. He started tearing at his surgical mask.

“Excuse me!”
He coughed and rushed out.

As the door swung shut they could hear him retching loudly in the next room.

Opening up a mummy case always resulted in an utterly unique eye-watering aroma of ancient resin, embalming spices, and organic decomposition. Carter had once described the smell as “two-thousand-year-old potpourri mixed with the odor of a ripe garbage can.”

Holly looked down at the slim body. The phrase “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” popped into her head. Fragile wrappings clung to the rib cage—the torso was festooned with strips of linen the color of dried
coffee. The leg bones were all rickety knees and delicate shins. Only the feet were intact, with parchment-like skin stretched over them.

The cadaver still looked very human and appeared to be grimacing in pain, its teeth protruding. The head was tilted at an angle that, if it had been alive, could only have been interpreted as agony. The scalp was covered with patches of russet hair, and the skin on the mummy’s face was remarkably smooth, the texture of glove leather.

“OK, go on . . . all of you . . .” Holly sighed, pulling off her mask and making shooing motions to dismiss her assistants. They scrambled out gratefully.

After everyone left, the room was silent.

“This will take just a moment,” she quietly instructed the figure on the slab. “We need to know more about you. Then we’ll let you rest. I promise.”

Holly usually talked to her mummies. Some people questioned her about it, wondering if she was a little batty. But she explained that it was a gesture of respect. These former human beings had gone to considerable expense and effort to ensure that their afterlife would be comfortable and dignified. Who was
she
to thwart their final wishes?

The radiologist was waiting behind the glass window to begin the scan. She joined him in the adjacent room, which served as a control booth.

“This is one patient who won’t be squirming around,” the young radiologist said with a grin.

“I can guarantee this one’s not budging.”

He pushed the button and they watched the ancient figure slide into the machine.

“It’ll take about twenty minutes. Mind if I step out for a sandwich?”

“Sure, no problem,” Holly agreed. “Why don’t you set the timer for a few minutes longer. Because he’s dead, we can get a lot more detail without risk of overexposure.”

“I’ll set the clock at forty-five minutes. The body will come out automatically. But I should be back.”

“OK, don’t rush.”

Holly sat down on a chair and watched the monitor. Every angle of the figure—both internal and external—would be scanned. They would image the body at 2-millimeter thicknesses at 1.5-millimeter intervals. New techniques in the medical field were helping Egyptologists every day: radiography, computer tomography, endoscopy scanning, electron microscopy, and even DNA testing. Looking at the high-resolution images, they would be able to determine what the man died of and any medical conditions that he suffered from while still alive.

But all that would come later. Right now, there was really nothing to observe. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes to rest.

Holly woke up with a start, surprised to find herself in the hospital imaging room. She had been dreaming about the gala. Her body was stiff from being immobile, and she was again aware of the fatigue from the late night. The lab was empty. She looked through the window and saw that the mummy was still inside the machine.

The door behind her opened. But it wasn’t the lab worker. There was a handsome man standing there. Tall, possibly in his early fifties, dressed in a blue blazer and gray slacks.

“Sorry to disturb. The attendant said I could come in.”

“How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a Dr. Hollis Graham.”

His voice was soft, and he gave a slight smile. Holly sat up, adjusting her white coat.

“I’m Dr. Graham.”

“I’m Ted VerPlanck. I believe your friend John Sinclair told you I would be in contact.”

“
Mr. VerPlanck,
nice to meet you! I was expecting to hear from you, but not in person.”

“I called the museum and was told you could be reached here. I was wondering if we might talk after you are finished?”

“This scan will take a few more minutes, so I have time now.”

“Excellent.”

“Won’t you sit down?”

She offered him the only other seat in the room, a rolling stool. He perched there and started explaining how a rare Egyptian sardonyx cup had been stolen from his home. Did she think it could be recovered?

Halfway through his account Holly realized that he was talking about
the
Sardonyx Cup—the famous artifact that had been fashioned from an Egyptian drinking vessel, carved from a single block of sardonyx. Holly had always assumed the chalice was in a museum in Europe, not a private collection!

“What did the police say when they looked at the crime scene?” Holly asked.

“I didn’t call them.”

“Why not?”

“There can be absolutely
no
publicity,” he replied brusquely.

“I assume you have photos of the object.”

“Yes, for the insurance records.”

Holly considered that for a moment. He didn’t look like someone who was involved in insurance fraud. But she had her reputation to consider.

“I must admit, I’m not comfortable with this.”

“Why?”

“The theft at the Met. You are telling me the two events occurred the same evening?”

“Yes.”

“If so, the police may already be involved in this case. It’s not a matter for private investigation.”

“I am very convinced the events are not related.”

“Well, there is always the FBI Art Crime Division if you want to investigate quietly. Why not go to them?”

“I can’t do that.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”

He flushed, clearly embarrassed by the question.

“
Certainly
not!”

The timer on the control panel began to beep. The scanning process for the mummy was nearly complete.

“I’m sorry, but I have to take care of this.”

“Of course.”

He followed her into the other room, as if waiting for an answer. The digital display was counting down the last ten seconds. Holly looked around. Still no sign of the technician.

“So you’ll help me find it?” VerPlanck pressed.

Completely absorbed, she didn’t answer.

“Dr. Graham?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive,” she said, glancing up at him. “But no. I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.”

“You
won’t
?”

“Not unless you tell me the whole story.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. VerPlanck. But the way I see it, you should go to the police.”

The machine beeped, and the mummy began to appear. The skull, with its horrible grimace, slid out first. VerPlanck recoiled and stared at the bundle of rags and bones. As the body emerged, the stench increased. VerPlanck stumbled backward toward the door, holding his handkerchief to his nose.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Dr. Graham. Thank you for your time.”

15 Desbrosses Street

A
CELL PHONE WOKE
Tipper VerPlanck. She opened her eyes and realized she was still in Conrad’s bed. A clock on the night table said three p.m. She and Conrad had been naked since they finished lunch. He was snoring gently, exhausted from their strenuous activities. She pushed his heavy arm off and felt around the floor for her phone.

Her ring tone was the hit song “Society Girl”—written for her by the lead singer of the band the Blades. Tipper’s fingertips made contact, and she slid the cell phone out from under the bed.

“Hello,” she croaked.

“It’s Charlie.”

Who the hell was Charlie? She thought about it for a long, fuzzy moment.

“Charlie
Hannifin.
”

“What do you want?”

“Is now a good time to talk?”

“Actually, no.” She groped for the bedsheet, pulling it around her. Then she suddenly remembered.

“Wait!”
She asked, “Do you know anything about the Sardonyx Cup?”

“That’s what I’m calling about.”

Conrad stirred next to her and mumbled something unintelligible. She turned away and whispered, “Charlie, did you
steal
it?”

There was a long pause.

“Not personally, no.”

Tipper gasped.

“I never agreed to
anything
! We were just talking.”

“Is there a way we could meet?” he asked.

Tipper looked over at Conrad. His face was crammed into the pillow and he was snoring with his mouth open.

“Sure, I’ll meet you at the Red Parrot.”

There was a long pause.

“Where’s that?” asked Charlie.

“Tribeca.”

“You’re kidding!” Charlie said in disbelief. “Are you still seeing that rock star?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Charlie, just meet me at the Red Parrot in an hour.”

Red Parrot Bar,
Vestry Street, New York

W
HEN
T
IPPER WALKED
into the Red Parrot, the bartender called out his usual greeting. He was a longtime acquaintance—but not of her uptown world. A gold earring dangled from one earlobe and he wore a red bandanna knotted over his bald cranium.

“Simon, get me something for this hangover.”

He looked at her critically and moved his head side to side with pursed lips. His eyes were calculating.

“Was it hard liquor or wine?”

“What?”

“Last night. What’d ya drink?”

“Both,” she said woefully.

He slid his hand across the bar and patted hers sympathetically. There was a small plastic ziplock bag hidden under his palm. He slipped it to her and then moved away to pick up the vodka bottle.

“Vodka? Or something more exotic?” he asked innocently, holding up a bottle.

Tipper sat very still, her palm covering the drugs.

“Simon, I just got out of the clinic.”

“Hey, no pressure. I’m going to make you a fabulous cocktail and you just sit there.”

He turned his back and began to shuffle bottles. Tipper felt the small plastic bag burning a hole through her palm.

She tried to clear her mind. She had been foolish to drink so heavily at the gala. It had started her on another bender. As far as drugs went, it would be very stupid to begin that all over again.

But her life was horrible. Her Upper East Side friends didn’t call anymore, and Conrad’s downtown friends treated her like a fossil from Madame Tussauds. No, actually she felt like a mummy: wrinkled outside, dead inside.

Tipper slid off the bar stool and headed to the ladies’ room. Simon turned around and glanced at the space where her hand had been. The bar was empty.

“Back in a moment, Simon,” she called over her shoulder. “If someone comes in asking for me, tell him to wait.”

“You got it, honey.”

The ladies’ room was at the back of the large space, marked with a Queen of Hearts playing card tacked to the door. She entered cautiously, making a lot of noise. You never knew
what
was going on in there.

Charlie walked by the Red Parrot twice, thinking he had gotten the address wrong. Then he realized her genius. Who would find them in a dump like this?

“May I help you?” The bartender eyed him speculatively.

“I’m meeting someone. I guess she hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Is it Tipper VerPlanck? She’s inside. Can I get you anything?”

Just then Tipper appeared looking very bright and cheerful. Surprisingly normal.

“Hello, Charlie. Glad you found me.”

He was relieved. At least he wasn’t going to have to sit in here alone.