The Cruel Ever After (23 page)

“You mean about selling you the seal?”

“No, just in general.”

“Why would he?”

She ran a finger along the top of her wineglass. “No reason.”

*   *   *

Majid glanced at a menu, sitting at a table by the windows. When the waitress finally appeared—she’d been standing by the open kitchen, talking to one of the cooks—he ordered a cheeseburger and fries and asked for a refill on his coffee. She acted as if he were a weirdo for ordering a burger at a Greek restaurant, but it was on the menu, so screw her.

Pushing the empty mug around in his hand, he looked back at the woman who had seated him. She stood next to the cash register talking to a man and a woman who were paying their bill. Majid couldn’t use the phone at the gallery, and he couldn’t use his cell. That’s why he’d driven here so late on a Sunday night. The waitress was probably pissed at him because he’d come fifteen minutes before closing time. If she didn’t lighten up, he could easily linger over his meal for hours. He’d brought a book.

Once the customers had left, Majid pushed away from the table and walked over to the counter. “Could I use your house phone? I need to make a call.”

The woman handed him a cordless as she rang up the sale.

He removed a sheet of scratch paper from his vest pocket and punched in the number. Stepping over to a bench in the front foyer, he sat down. He’d already decided to use an accent. He might sound like a Texan, but his mother spoke with an Iranian accent softened by years of living in Britain. He had a good ear and could slip into it with no effort at all.

“Hello?” said the woman’s voice.

“Is this Julia Martinsen?”

“Who’s calling?”

“You bought the Sumerian cylinder seal, yes?”

“Who are you?”

“It was stolen from the Baghdad Museum in Iraq. You must return it. You must not keep it. Do you understand me?”

“Stolen? You mean it’s real?”

“Very real, madam. If you thought it was not real, why did you purchase it?”

“I … who are you?”

“A friend. Do what is right. You will be cursed if you do not.”

He hadn’t planned that last bit, it just came out. Smiling to himself, he hung up and handed the phone back and then went to his table to eat his burger. Slowly.

26

The next morning dawned gray and rainy. Shortly after ten, Jane left her house, backing her car out of the driveway in a dreary downpour. She wasn’t positive, but at first she thought she was being followed. A van had been parked just up the street. As she passed it, the driver pulled away from the curb. It disappeared in traffic before she turned onto the freeway. When she sped off onto the Lexington Avenue exit, nobody came off after her. She figured she was safe. Even so, it reminded her of an ant crawling up her leg at a picnic. Even when she looked and knew nothing was there, she still felt it.

Parking across the street from the gallery, Jane grabbed her umbrella and slid out. The clouds were starting to break up. Perhaps a change in the weather would give her mood a lift.

Halfway up the front walk, she saw a sign in the front window that said
CLOSED
. Perfect. She should have called before she drove over, but she hadn’t because she’d been itching for movement. She wanted to look at the gallery, maybe meet Irina Nelson, ask if she knew Chess personally, if she thought he had anything to do with her mother’s murder.

Jane was studying the turret that jutted off the east side of the house when a man’s voice said, “Can I help you?” Turning around, she found a dark-skinned, Arabic-looking man with a trimmed beard, sultry brown eyes, and a serene expression standing a few feet behind her.

“Oh, hi. The gallery’s closed.” Always good to start a conversation by stating the obvious.

“We’ll be open again tomorrow.”

She was surprised by the broad Texas accent. “Do you work here?”

“I’m the manager. Majid Farrow.”

“I was sorry to hear about—”

“Morgana? Yeah. It was a blow to all of us.”

“Do the police know who did it?”

“Not that I’ve heard.” He stared at her for a few seconds. “You look kinda familiar. Have we met?”

Her dad’s run for governor had splashed her face across way too many news reports. “Jane Lawless.”

“Oh, sure. You’re Raymond Lawless’s daughter. He lost.”

He sounded awfully chipper about it.

“Yes, he did.”

“I liked him,” he continued, “but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t bring myself to vote for him.”

“That’s okay. I forgive you.”

He seemed to like that and grinned.

“Do you give appraisals?”

“Are you a collector?”

Honesty might be the best policy, but it didn’t always get you the information you wanted. “I am.”

“Sure, we do appraisals. May I ask what you have?”

Might as well shoot the moon. She showed him the snapshot of the bull.

“This is quite beautiful.”

“It’s called the Winged Bull of Nimrud.”

“Are we talking the Nimrud gold?”

How the hell did she know? “Of course.”

“As far as I know, all of the Nimrud gold is in a vault in Baghdad. Are you sure what you have is authentic?”

“That’s what I need to find out—before I buy it.”

“So it’s not in your possession.”

“Not at the moment.”

He nodded. “Well, sure. Bring it by.” He took out his billfold and handed her a card. “Give me a call and we can set up a time. I’d love to take a look.”

“I’ll do that. You’ve been very helpful.”

“We aim to please.” His Texas accent implied, although he didn’t actually add,
little lady
.

*   *   *

“Married, huh?” Nolan eyed her with amusement.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny.”

“Not if Chess comes after me and demands half of what I’m worth before he’ll grant me a divorce.”

“And you found this out after he was arrested?” He blew on his coffee before he took a sip.

“My dad gave me the good news last night.”

He whistled. “Bet that’s a conversation you’ll never forget.”

Wiping up a spill off the Formica-topped table with a paper napkin, she didn’t answer.

“You’re about as tightly wound as I’ve ever seen you,” said Nolan, “and that’s saying something.”

Nolan had called her as she was leaving the gallery, said he had a few minutes and why didn’t they meet at the coffee shop, the only one he ever went to these days—Anodyne on Forty-third and Nicollet. He’d more or less made it his official office away from his home office. He didn’t care about the organic coffee, or the grungy chic ambience; it was the cold meat loaf sandwiches that had won his heart.

“I got a lead on why those men are trying to find Chess.” She removed the snapshot of the bull from her shirt pocket and handed it to him.

“What’s this?”

“The Winged Bull of Nimrud. It’s an ancient artifact. Apparently, it’s worth over a million dollars. Chess has it. He’s trying to sell it to my friend Julia Martinsen. I got jumped on Saturday night by one of the guys watching the restaurant.”

“You
what
? Is that why your nose is bruised?”

“Yeah, but listen. The first question the attacker asked me was did I know where Chess was. I lied, told him he was in Chicago. Then he said, ‘What about the bull?’ I had no idea what he was talking about until I went over to Julia’s place last night for dinner. She gave me the snapshot, told me Chess wanted to sell it to her. The more I think about it, the more sure I am that everything that’s happened has been related to this bull. Somebody wants it, and they’re willing to kill for it.”

Nolan handed the photo back. He removed his mirrored sunglasses and began to clean the lenses with a paper napkin. “You think Dial’s death and Beck’s are related?”

“Yeah, I do. That’s why I’ve got to talk to Chess. I called over to the jail this morning, and they said he can’t have any visitors.”

“Not until he’s charged. And if and when he is charged, unless you’re on his visitor’s list, you won’t get in. ’Course, sometimes those lists are kind of slow getting to the right desk.”

Her attention was drawn abruptly to the front windows. A long-haired blond man stood outside looking in. When their eyes met, he turned and took off.

“That’s one of them,” said Jane.

Nolan glanced over his shoulder.

“The blond guy with the long hair.”

Nolan unsnapped his shoulder holster strap with a flick of his thumb and rushed outside. Jane waited a couple of seconds, not sure she wanted to come face-to-face with the guy again, but decided that if Nolan caught up to him, he might need her help. She pushed back her chair and raced out after them. She made it to the next block before she realized she’d taken a wrong turn. She retraced her steps, listening and looking, trying to determine where they’d gone. When she reached the alley behind the coffeehouse, she stopped. Nolan was about fifty yards in, but instead of beating the crap out of the guy, he was crouched down, talking to him.

She sprinted toward them. “Hey.”

As Nolan rose, she saw that it wasn’t the blond guy he’d been talking to but Lee. He was sitting on the ground, his back against a garbage can, rubbing his jaw and swearing.

“The asswipe clipped me,” he said, moving into a crouch and then standing up. “I shoulda had him. I would have, too, except I tripped.” He kicked a rock into the garage on the other side of the alley.

“You know this guy?” asked Nolan, still breathing hard from the chase. He was in good shape for a sixty-year-old, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be.

“A. J. Nolan,” said Jane. “Meet Lee. Don’t know if that’s a first or last name.”

“Lee Northcutt.” He stuck out his hand, and Nolan shook it.

“How did you know that man was following me?” asked Jane.

“Because I’ve been following both of you,” said Lee, a red welt appearing just above his jawline. “I had nothing better to do. Actually, it was kind of fun, and I thought it might help you.”

“I never saw you.”

“You wouldn’t. I’m a lot better at what I do than those idiots.”

“Will someone explain to me what’s going on?” asked Nolan, hands rising to his hips.

“This is the guy I told you about,” said Jane. “The preacher who noticed the restaurant was being staked out. Let’s go back to Anodyne. I’ll buy you each a round coffee and we can talk.”

“I’d rather have a beer,” said Lee.

“Me, too,” said Nolan.

The rainy morning had given way to a muggy midday. It was days like this, especially the humid early summer, when Jane felt the entire world was about to mold and rot.

“Fine, beer it is.”

They walked over to the Driftwood, where Jane stood at the bar and paid for the brews, then snaked her way back to the table.

They all clicked bottles and took thirsty swallows.

“Lee’s an ex-cop,” said Jane. “Ex-seminarian. Ex–security consultant.”

“At the moment, I’m living on my severance pay. I’m also an ex–army brat. Lived all over the country. I guess I’d like to find a place to settle.” He turned the longneck around in his hand.

“Maybe you should become an anti-preacher,” said Jane.

“Probably wouldn’t pay very well. Besides, at the end of the day, nobody ever changes anybody else’s mind.”

“I use to be a cop,” said Nolan. “Worked homicide.”

“I worked mostly vice. In Chicago.”

“You know Dwayne Tateum?”

“Sure. I know him well. I was married back then. My wife and me and Dwayne and Ann used to bowl together. We even joined a league one year.”

“Small world,” said Jane.

“Yup,” said Nolan, tipping back his bottle. “You know Al Bruns?”

“Not well. He transferred from vice to narcotics just after I transferred in.”

“Where’d you work as a security consultant?” asked Nolan.

“Atlanta. Mears 香 Hallick. Ever heard of them?”

“Good group.”

“But I got sick of it. The pay was okay, but it bored the hell out of me. I guess I need a little more action.”

“Ever thought of doing PI work?”

Jane turned and looked at Nolan.

“I knew a few PIs in Chicago. All they did was chase husbands around to see if they were cheating, or sometimes they’d wait in a hotel parking lot all night to get photos of the wife and her lover.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” said Nolan. “I only take cases that interest me.”

“How do you survive?”

“Very well. I’ve got one of the best reps in town.”

“Huh. Never actually thought a PI could survive being selective.”

“Team up with me,” said Nolan.

Jane’s look turned into a stare. Was he doing this to bait her, to make the point that she wasn’t the only game in town?

“Just until we figure out what’s going on with Jane,” continued Nolan. “I could use your help, and so could she. If you like it, you can stick around, work with me on another case. No strings.”

Lee touched the bruise on his jaw. “Hell, I suppose I’m already involved. I’d love to get another crack at that guy.” Smiling his gap-toothed smile at Jane and then at Nolan, he said, “Count me in.”

27

Jane was prepping the ingredients for the old-fashioneds, getting out the glasses, the maraschino cherry juice, an orange, a lemon, and a lime, finding the rock candy swizzle sticks, and opening up a new bottle of rye, when her landline rang.

“It’s
me,
” came Cordelia’s excited voice. “I’m outside. Let me in, let me in.”

“Is the doorbell broken?”

“Don’t joke, not at a time like this.”

“Use the keypad. I’m in the kitchen cutting up citrus fruit.”

“How can you even
think
about vitamin C when—”

“Sigrid is stopping by in a few minutes.”

Cordelia barreled into the kitchen, cell phone still attached to her ear. “I was in the ’hood. Thought I’d stop.” She grabbed Jane and gave her what she probably thought of as a sustaining hug. To Jane it felt more like being mugged. “You need
moi
at a time like this, not Sigrid.” She reached down and gave Mouse a friendly rub.

“Steal something new from the theater’s costume department?” asked Jane, nodding to a silk confection that had come straight out of Maxfield Parrish’s drawing of Ali Baba. Red robe over white tunic. Lots of gold braid. All that was missing was the Arabian sword.