Authors: Cameron
T
homas Crane focused on the woman pictured on his computer’s screen saver. She was smiling, her hair pulled back off her face in a ponytail that made her look like a girl in her teens. She wore shorts and a T-shirt and carried a trowel in her hand. The dig was just outside Mycenae; two marble columns stood in the background.
The photograph had always been his favorite. Sometimes, when he stared at the screen saver long enough, he could feel himself slipping away, surprised to discover that an hour or more had passed.
Like today. He’d spent the morning checking out The Lunite Web site. There’d been a lot of activity lately, people posting on the board about the death of a fortune-teller in California.
All sorts of information showed up on The Lunite Web site. Thomas knew most of it was crap: a new conspiracy theory or a sighting of the Eye. Once, there’d even been a rumor about Spielberg making a movie about the life of Estelle Fegaris, a sort of Indiana Jane thing. The board had lit up like Christmas for weeks. Turned out the whole thing was bullshit.
But this fortune-teller in California. Now that sounded like something interesting.
Thomas Crane smiled. He hadn’t felt this good in years. Twelve, to be exact. Right around the time his sorry-ass pregnant girlfriend—a woman he’d asked to marry him—had left him.
No, that wasn’t right. She hadn’t left him. That made it sound as if he’d done something wrong.
She’d
abandoned
him. She’d
stolen
his kid. She’d sneaked out in the middle of the night, making him look like a fucking idiot to his friends and relatives because he couldn’t hold a family together.
She’d left him in Greece. The day she’d found out about her mother’s murder, he’d dropped down on one knee and asked her to marry him, knowing that she was carrying his child. She’d smiled and said yes.
Two days later, the cops picked him up and she’d disappeared forever.
Only, by then Thomas had already called home with the news. He’d told William, his big brother, all about his wife-to-be and the baby. William, who had the perfect wife and family.
Every day, Thomas thought about it. Abandoned. Humiliated. Cuckolded.
And his reputation? Gone. Destroyed. The best work he could get these days was on the level of a shovel bum for a couple of lame archaeological digs in New Jersey. Thomas Crane, a man who had once thought to take a position at Harvard.
When she’d come to him and told him she was pregnant, he hadn’t exactly been excited. He’d been screwing around with the boss’s daughter. But afterward, he started thinking maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that he’d knocked her up. He’d need support to get away with this thing he’d done. Who better than the daughter of the woman he’d killed?
Two days later, when the cops came to get him, he found out that his fiancée—the woman who was carrying his child—was the very person who had handed him over to the authorities.
But then, you couldn’t count on people being grateful. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Those first few months afterward, all he could think about was getting her back.
After a couple years, he just wanted her dead.
She was the sword hanging over his head, the one person who could show up someday and point the finger, just like she’d done in Greece. The reason he couldn’t get back his career, always worried that she’d show up and nail his ass with her accusations.
You killed her!
He could almost hear her shouting her accusation in his head.
Fucking bitch.
There’d been a time when he’d been right there in the thick of things. He’d been Estelle’s protégé. He’d held the Eye in his hands. How many people could say that?
But it had all gone to shit. The Eye was gone. So was the money.
And it was her fault. She could have saved him. Instead, she’d bailed, leaving him nothing.
He moved the mouse, erasing her face. He checked the board for any new postings. He sifted through the dross of “maybes” and “what-ifs” and “I heards,” trying to find
something
. When that didn’t pan out, he started searching the Web for information on the dead fortune-teller.
And then he smelled that peculiar scent: like burned sulfur.
That was always the warning. He’d smell the odor of something burning. Next his hands would begin to shake. He tried to stand, reach the couch to sit down, but he didn’t make it. Instead, he fell to the carpet, flopping like fish with a seizure.
When it was over, he couldn’t remember what had happened. It was like that a lot. Like losing time. When he sat up, he looked up at the computer screen and saw her face.
And then it all came back to him.
“You destroyed me, Gina,” he whispered to the photograph.
He took a deep breath and squeezed his hands into fists to keep them from shaking. The doctors couldn’t figure out what the hell was wrong with him. They tried pushing some stupid pills on him. Antiseizure medication. But he knew better. These attacks were all her doing. The witch had put a hex on him. And there was only one way to stop her.
Blood must be spilled—a sacrifice made. The rules hadn’t changed since the dawn of time.
He rose to his feet and stumbled back to the couch, collapsing onto the cushions. Reflected in the mirror above the hearth was a tall, thin man with a receding hairline and graying blond hair. His cheeks were sunken and he hadn’t shaved.
He was aging fast, half the man he used to be. Slipping away into nothingness. He wouldn’t make the grand discoveries he’d planned all his life. There wouldn’t be a Chair named after him at a major university. His name wouldn’t be published in the textbooks.
Not unless he found the Eye.
And for that reason alone, he needed to find her. He would force her to take him to the Eye.
And then he would kill her.
And he would get away with it.
Just like before.
E
rika paced up and down the squad room, waving her hands in the air. She did that a lot—used her hands to talk. She said it was because
she
was Latina. She informed Seven that, despite his very French-Canadian grandfather,
he
couldn’t have a drop of French blood or he, too, would use his hands.
Only now she was holding a cup of coffee, and Seven kept wondering when that damn latte would fly right out of her grip and across his desk, propelled by one of those animated hand gestures. The woman was pumped.
“So I started reading up on this Fegaris chick. Remember the professor, Murphy? All that stuff about psychic archaeology and how Fegaris was this colorful figure in the field? Well, let me tell you, the woman is practically the cult goddess of archaeology.”
Seven tried to imagine the female version of Murphy, the professor they’d gone to see about the glass bead they’d found in the parrot’s mouth. But the picture came out all wrong, the woman appearing bald and wearing glasses like Murphy, carrying a substantial spare tire.
“Twelve years after her murder, Fegaris has this Web site, like she’s a legend and everything about her had to be memorialized. They call themselves The Lunites, followers of Fegaris. You see, the Greek word
feggari
means moon. Luna? Moon? Get it?”
“No,” he deadpanned. “Because I didn’t get past kindergarten.”
“It turns out,” she continued, completely ignoring him, “it wasn’t just her psychic abilities that turned Fegaris into the black sheep of archaeology. She didn’t exactly run a tight ship on her digs.”
“Okay, that one you can explain.”
She was way ahead of him. “Fegaris helped finance her digs by training amateurs and letting them in on the fun. The practice goes back to the nineteenth century, a pay-to-play sort of thing. Only, colleagues argue these amateurs end up messing up digs with their lack of experience. Fegaris had them in droves after Harvard dumped her. She was searching for the Eye of Athena, ‘a treasure beyond all worth,’ according to the Web site.”
“Wait a minute. They called it that? A treasure beyond all worth?”
“Yup.” Erika flashed a smile. “Just like Harrison Ford in
The Temple of Doom
. Presumably, the necklace has this power to help the wearer see the future. The Eye became Fegaris’s raison d’être. After she lost her position at Harvard, she became completely obsessed. The Eye is like the Holy Grail to this woman.”
Seven grabbed the coffee from her hand after another precarious gesture. “How many of these things have you had?”
Erika shot him a look that said she didn’t appreciate the interruption. “Trust me, I need the caffeine. So, just like the professor laid out for us a couple of days ago, Fegaris learns the Eye is part of this looted tomb. Apparently, tomb raiders cleaned the place out back in ancient times. It’s called Agamemnon’s tomb—even though his dad, Atreus, is supposed to have been buried there with him, so it’s also called the Treasury of Atreus, which is kind of confusing. I mean, is it a treasury or a tomb?”
“Atreus, that’s the guy who cooked his brother’s kids for supper?”
“Bingo. Seven, you
need
to see at least a photo of this place, this Beehive Tomb. It’s like the freaking pyramids, it’s
that
impressive.”
Without the latte in her hand, she was free to really express herself, her arms waving all over the place.
“It’s like walking inside a giant beehive,” she said, “all made of huge, chiseled stone. Each piece fits together perfectly. Nobody knows how they did it back then, because some of the stones they used weigh, like,
tons
. It’s a mystery, just like the pyramids. So is the missing treasure they buried. It must have rivaled the stuff they found with the Pharaohs.”
But then the lightbulb flashed on over his head. “Wait a minute. Didn’t the professor say Estelle Fegaris was killed by looters?”
Erika nodded. “Yeah, but the tomb was looted in ancient times. The people who supposedly killed Fegaris—the case is still open—were modern-day gangsters working the black market in antiquities. And it gets even weirder. Fegaris apparently
predicted
her death. Left a bunch of psychic-type clues, pointing the finger to one of her students. Of course, they couldn’t make it stick, so the Greek authorities let the guy go.”
“And you’re thinking, another dead psychic…how can this be a coincidence?”
Her expression turned serious, her animation suddenly reined in. “It’s no coincidence.”
But he wasn’t so sure. “Come on. This was what? Ten or twelve years ago?”
“Why does that matter?” she demanded. “The very definition of a serial killer includes a cooling off period. Think about it, Seven. Remember that bind-torture-and-kill guy in Kansas, the BTK murderer? The guy waited longer than twelve years before sending the police more letters. He missed the attention.”
“Okay, sure,” Seven said. “But if this bead we found is worth so much, why leave it behind at the scene of the crime?”
She rolled her eyes, as if he was being dense. “It’s only
one
piece of the necklace. Someone has the rest, right? Besides, why should it make sense? We’re dealing with some sick fuck.”
“Or,” he said, “someone trying to make it look like that.”
Erika raised a brow and sat down across from him. He could see from the expression in her eyes that she was putting it together, using her partner radar.
“Give,” she said, when he hesitated.
He wasn’t so sure he was ready to show his hand. He hadn’t said anything about the night before with Rob from FSU, how the two of them had gone over the footage from the interview with Gia Moon, discovering that she knew Mimi Tran’s security code.
I guess she did it
. That had been Rob’s take on things: guilty. Seven didn’t think Erika would disagree.
And still he had trouble going there. He could see that image of Gia Moon, her blue, blue eyes staring up at him, wide and guileless. She didn’t strike him as a woman who had anything to hide.
And then there was the bite of that static charge when they’d touched.
So he made a decision. The security code. He’d go straight to the horse’s mouth. Then, after he had a better grasp of the information, he’d tell Erika. Let her weigh in.
“Seven?” Erika prompted.
He said, “Here’s the thing. While you were expanding your consciousness, reading up on archaeology and the Holy Grail, some of us were doing
real
police work. I went over Tran’s PDA.”
That was something else he’d done early this morning. Checked Mimi Tran’s handheld personal digital assistant device they’d found in her office.
He slipped the printout across the desk to Erika, trying to rationalize his actions. He wasn’t exactly lying to his partner, he was just dealing with one lead at a time. The PDA was something more tangible.
He tapped the date of the murder. “Remember what Alice said about Mimi Tran having had a light lunch before she died?” he asked, referring to their meeting with the coroner.
Any PDA had software that allowed the user to synchronize the device with a desktop computer. The software also allowed the user to print out a hard copy of any data on the PDA, like a personal calendar—which was what Seven showed Erika now, pointing out the fact that Mimi Tran had scheduled a lunch with a “D.G.” on the day she died.
They had met at a place called Le Jardin. Seven flipped through the log, pointing out to Erika every time D.G. came up. The initials appeared to be a regular thing. Once a week at Le Jardin.
“So, Erika,” he said. “How do you feel about Vietnamese food?”
Seven confessed he’d never eaten Vietnamese food.
“Weird, huh?” he told Erika as they drove down Brookhurst into Garden Grove. “I grew up a stone’s throw away from the largest population of Vietnamese outside of their country and I manage to skip out on one of their biggest contributions—the food. How does that happen?”
He’d eaten Chinese and Thai. Japanese, for sure; sushi was practically a staple of the SoCal diet. He’d even had Korean barbecue. But never Vietnamese.
Erika pretended to think about it. “Let’s see. This from a man who considers a burger from In and Out fine dining?”
“Unless you count Lee’s Sandwiches,” he amended. “I’ve had plenty of those.”
Lee’s was the Vietnamese version of a deli chain. You couldn’t go three blocks in Little Saigon without running into one. They were as ubiquitous as Starbucks anywhere else. They served a wide array of Euro-Asian style sandwiches, but specialized in
banh mi,
a Vietnamese take on the sub. The sandwiches usually involved a lot of pork served with interesting condiments.
Erika gave a short laugh of disbelief. “If memory serves, you order the turkey club on the ten-inch baguette with a Coke. Not exactly a step into the exotic.”
“What do you know. Next time, I might just order myself one of those avocado smoothies. I’ve always wondered what those things taste like.”
He could see she was trying hard not to smile. “
That
I’d like to see. Really I would, cowboy.”
He shot her a look as she drove. “You don’t think I’ll do it?”
But Erika just rolled her eyes and braked in a California-style stop—not stopping at all, just slowing down enough to make sure there was no oncoming traffic before crossing the intersection. A few blocks later, she turned into the parking lot.
Like most restaurants in Little Saigon, Le Jardin was hidden in a strip mall. But once Seven and Erika stepped past the entrance, they left the world of strip malls far behind. Seven wasn’t sure if the place was five-star, but it had to be close.
The decor was modern: the confetti design of the carpet, an arched facade painted red accenting the window frames, a blue-and-gold-striped counter. There was a view to the open kitchen and a bucolic painting near the entrance. Pristine linens covered tables bracketed by rattan chairs. Acoustic guitar warred with Vietnamese spoken by lunch guests and bustling waiters in white shirts and black ties. There wasn’t a white face in the place.
According to the manager, Mimi and her guest preferred dining in the courtyard.
“She came here a lot,” the man said. “With Mr. David. That’s his table right there.” He pointed to the far side of the courtyard, to a private corner. “He orders the white asparagus and crabmeat soup. That’s his favorite.”
“And Ms. Tran orders the jellyfish salad?” Seven said.
“
Goi sura tom thit
. Every time.”
Seven pulled out his notebook. “You have a last name for David?”
“Of course,” the manager said. Only he didn’t volunteer the name. Instead, he peered anxiously at Seven. “Look, this is a very good customer. An important man. I don’t want to make trouble.”
“I thought he and Mimi Tran were just having lunch?” Seven asked in a casual voice.
Again, the manager seemed to think about it. He was in his fifties, definitely old enough to be part of the old guard, someone who had come to this country as a refugee with a healthy distrust of authority figures. Seven wondered if that look of fear and suspicion ever disappeared.
“David Gospel.” The manager glanced back at the room teeming with patrons. “If that’s all, Detectives?”
“For now, yes. Thank you.”
Erika followed Seven outside. They didn’t say a word, acting very casual, as if it was an everyday thing for them to have a name like Gospel—a top player in the local economy and politics—come up during a murder investigation.
According to the printout from the victim’s PDA, Gospel may very well have been the last person to see her alive.
It wasn’t until they reached the car that Erika stopped and looked at Seven.
“D.G. is David Gospel?”
She said it as if maybe she’d imagined the manager saying the name.
“David Gospel,” Seven echoed.
He was pretty sure she mouthed the words
holy shit
before she opened the Crown Vic’s door and slipped inside.