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“I’m sorry. But we do need to alert the authorities to the dead man. He’s been lying in the pit since yesterday?”
“No police, either,” Crockett pleaded as she helped him settle onto the cot, and then grabbed the water flask and a towel. She had cut him on the side of his wrist and hadn’t severed an artery, so the injury shouldn’t prove life-threatening. “I think I’ve done a very bad thing.”
“Murder is a bad thing,” Garin commented matter-of-factly, tilting back a swig of whiskey from the bottle on the professor’s bedside table. “But it is sometimes necessary.”
Crockett screwed up his face in disbelief at that comment, but then he winced again, leaning forward over his arm. “You think I killed that man out there? I didn’t. I swear it to you. Who are you?”
“A friend of mine,” Annja quickly said. “Trustworthy.” For the moment. “Did the man out there attack you?” she asked while inspecting Crockett’s wrist. The battle sword had cut neatly to the bone, but she was able to close the flesh with liquid bandage and figured it shouldn’t get infected thanks to the whiskey. She wrapped a tight bandage around it. It would serve until he could get medical attention.
“Attack me?” Crockett was starting to hyperventilate and sweat beaded on his forehead. “Didn’t you see who that was?”
“His face was covered with dirt. Who dragged him into the pit?”
“I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Call the authorities?”
“I...” The professor tugged away from Annja’s hold. “I didn’t kill Simon.”
Annja stilled. “That’s Simon Klosky out there?”
He’d arrived on the morning of her last day at the dig. Annja had only worked with him half the day before leaving for Cádiz to meet James Harlow. Nice guy. Young. But either the Spanish sun or—her strongest suspicion—extracurricular drugs had made Simon a little loopy and gregarious. He’d had a habit of singing random lines from gospel songs.
“Who did kill him? And why are you still alive, Jonathan? Has this to do with the stolen artifacts?”
Crockett wiped the sweat from his eyes and studied her. “You know about the theft?”
“I saw the very same bronze bull statue I unearthed yesterday in a dead man’s room this morning.”
His jaw dropped. “Dead?”
“Do you know Diego Montera, Jonathan?”
His unwounded hand shook badly, but from the bits and pieces Annja was cobbling together, maybe he had been defending himself against robbers. Maybe. If there had been robbers.
“I haven’t heard the name,” Crockett offered. “He had the bull? I didn’t have a chance to research it, but was beginning to think it was newer than we’d suspected. Maybe medieval or even seventeenth century. Whoever stole our artifacts certainly circulated them quickly. But you took pictures, right?”
“Yes.” Which had all been erased from her camera, except for the ones she had transferred to her laptop. “So you were robbed?”
“Of course! Why else do you think I’d come after you with a bloody machine gun? I thought you were them.”
“Why are you alive?” Garin asked carefully. Pacing the small tent, he still held the Kalashnikov ready to fire. “Makes no sense. Surely the top man in charge of the dig would be considered a target. Criminals don’t generally leave a man behind to tell tales of their notorious escapades.”
Crockett gaped, apparently aghast to have his fate detailed for him so coldly. “I—I hid when they first came to the camp. I was back in the gorse just now, like I said...hiding. Simon was the only other person here. They shot him, then took off with all the artifacts in the tent.”
“Why didn’t you report this to the police, Professor Crockett?”
He caught his forehead in a palm and rubbed roughly along his cheek. “There’s a body outside my tent, rotting, and I just...don’t know. I haven’t been the most upstanding citizen over the past few years. Since leaving the university, my life has taken a decidedly negative turn. I can’t get legit jobs. I suspect someone has it in for me. I want to be on a flight out of the country before the authorities arrive. I’ve already begun to pack up the site, but every time I walk past the body I get physically sick. I know it’s wrong. Simon has a family. I will report this, but not directly to the police. I can’t do that.”
He must have done something pretty awful to be so afraid of contact with the police. Annja couldn’t imagine what. She didn’t want to know.
“They’ll find you for questioning,” she said. “And they’ll be very curious to learn why you felt it necessary to bury a body that you had no hand in killing.”
“Will you vouch for my innocence?”
She couldn’t do that because she hadn’t witnessed the crime.
“Exactly,” Crockett said in response to her silence. “I wouldn’t ask you to, either, Annja. Why are you here?” he posited. Regaining his usually cool exterior, his eyes searched hers, then Garin’s.
“By having worked with you, and being the one who found the stolen statue in a dead man’s possession, I am indirectly involved. If someone is trafficking in antiquities I want it to stop. I wasn’t sure the police would follow this lead so...”
“So, I’m not telling you, or your henchman, anything else. You’ve got no authority. I’ll ask you to leave.”
“Fine. We’ll call in the dead body,” the henchman remarked.
Annja met Garin’s steely gaze. Who was he kidding? The man kept his distance from any form of authority. He’d sooner dig the grave outside this tent than have his name typed in permanent ink on a police report.
“Very well,” Crockett conceded angrily. “But you won’t need to. The authorities already know.”
“How’s that?” Annja asked.
Crockett sighed and gestured out to where the body lay. “Simon was killed by the Cádiz police.”
5
Garin whistled and stepped outside the tent. “I’m out of here,” he called. His boots tracked the dusty earth toward the Jeep. “Come on, Annja!”
She held Crockett’s gaze, but there was no need for him to repeat what he’d said. According to him, the Cádiz police had murdered Simon Klosky and stolen the artifacts. The cops were dirty? Always a possibility.
On the other hand, it could be a lie from a man who’d never had to face the kind of guilt murder could induce.
“You didn’t hand the bull statue over to one individual? Sell it on the antiquities market?”
He shook his head miserably, but didn’t meet her eyes.
“So it was stolen from here, along with the rest of the worthless potsherds we found.”
“There was the platter and I did unearth a few drachms after you left.”
“Was there anything you’d packed into a wood crate, about this size?” She held her hands out.
The professor shook his head again. “It wasn’t packaged up yet, as you know. I had no intention of sorting through anything until this weekend. You see now why I can’t report this?”
She nodded. If the police were involved that could make things touchy for Crockett. If.
“It would be wise if you left town,” he said. “That is, if you’d prefer to keep a low profile. You’re not involved, but the police are thorough and they have eyes everywhere.”
“I’m already involved. And I’m not about to stand back and allow this kind of blatant robbery and antiquities trade to continue.”
Crockett nodded, clutching his wounded wrist to his chest. “You’re skilled with the dagger. I didn’t even see you move before I felt the pain. I’d heard you were talented before you arrived for the dig. But I thought your talent lay in archaeology, not the martial arts. I have to ask. Why this particular dig? It was nothing remarkable. Nothing newsworthy. And yet, the theft occurred only after you arrived.”
“You’re not seriously accusing me, Crockett.”
He bowed his head and shook his head slowly. “No, that was unkind of me. Sorry. Just...out of sorts, you understand.”
The Jeep’s horn honked. Garin was showing a surprisingly impatient side of himself.
“You should head directly to the airport,” Crockett warned her.
She nodded. “How long do you think it’ll take you to pack up the site?”
“Another few hours.”
Annja nodded a third time, then stood up from the cot. “I’ll hold off calling the authorities until after Garin and I to return to Cádiz. They’re going to love hearing from me again.”
* * *
GARIN DROVE BACK to the city proper, offering little in the way of conversation. He’d wiped the AK-47 clean of his prints before leaving it with Crockett at the camp. It wasn’t a gun he needed, and it was never wise to claim an unidentified weapon from a man he knew next to nothing about. Besides that, he didn’t want to draw police attention to him, especially in Cádiz. He liked it here and didn’t want to give the local authorities any reason to force him to leave.
Leave it to Annja Creed to involve him in a questionable situation.
He chuckled at that thought, and she looked over at him from the passenger seat.
“Just thinking how you always get me in trouble,” he offered.
“Me? You’ve done your share of being a bad influence in my life.”
“That I have done, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Extra sunglasses in the glove compartment.”
“Thanks.” She put on the Armani shades and, sighing heavily, flipped her ponytail around to fall over her shoulder. “I can’t believe he let that body sit out there all day.”
“Puts him on top of the suspicious-persons list, if you ask me.”
“I’m not sure.”
He couldn’t help but frown. “I’ll never figure you out, Annja. That’s probably a good thing.”
“You don’t believe Crockett about the police being involved?”
“It’s possible. In any town, in any country, there are always bad seeds who hold a position of authority. But like I said, I’m taking myself off this list. I like the city too much to lose the privilege of visiting.”
“I understand, and I wouldn’t ask you to participate in anything that challenges your tender moral position.”
“Annja.”
“Couldn’t resist.”
He’d show her what a tender moral position looked like. Just keep it up with the digs at his character.
Annja Creed was a breed of woman like no other, and that made her so appealing he sometimes felt humbled near her. But that feeling only lasted as long as it took to remember she could best him in a fistfight if he let his guard down.
“I appreciate the ride and the backup,” she said.
“So, you up for a little afternoon entertainment?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Bullfight’s in a few hours.”
“Seriously? I...don’t know.”
Her mind was back at the dig site, working all the angles and plotting her next move. But for him this visit was strictly vacation.
“Come, Annja, I can’t be seen at the corrida without a woman by my side.”
“You fresh out of the pretty ones so you’re slumming with me?”
“After a shower and something nicer to wear, you’ll look fine. I’ll drop you at your hotel to change and be back in an hour for you, okay?”
She disguised her humph by turning away from him. Garin pulled the Jeep to a stop before the Hotel Blanca. She gave him the look. The look that said she wasn’t stunned he knew where she was staying. He had his ways, and he’d never divulge his methods to her. Made it more intriguing that way.
“One hour!” he called after her retreating back.
* * *
CLOSING THE HOTEL room door behind her, Annja shucked off her boots and patted off her dusty cargo pants before starting up the coffee machine on the bathroom counter. A bullfight? There were less interesting ways to spend an afternoon. But she couldn’t enjoy anything until she got a little research done and made the call about the body at the dig site.
She dialed the police station, asked for Officer Soto and was put through to a machine. Fine with her. Made telling him about the body, but forgetting to mention whether or not she had seen Crockett, easier. She left her cell number because she predicted Soto would have real smoke coming out of his ears once he got her message. Unless he already knew about Simon Klosky’s death...because he’d been there when the guy was killed.
If the police had stolen artifacts and were reselling them on the black market, they were likely involved in looting other digs in the area. Annja immediately got online and searched for digs in progress. The closest was in Granada. Two hundred and fifty kilometers away. Depending on the illicit operation’s size, it could be local or international.
The museums, along with dealers and collectors, often inadvertently supported the illegal antiquities trade, and sometimes made the unconvincing argument that looters put history into the hands of the people. History yanked from its origins and placed without provenance or context before the unaware but appreciative public. Right. She was glad James Harlow was one museum employee not on that list. Much as he’d wanted to get his hands on the bull statue, he was as concerned about the illegal buying and selling of antiquities as was she.
Archaeologists and the source nations would continue to fight the underground trade, but it was getting more difficult every day as war, and pillaging of the spoils, saw major museums looted and priceless artifacts damaged or lost.
Sipping the passable coffee, she paced before the open seaside window, breathing in the ocean breeze.
Professor Crockett’s suggestion the Cádiz police were accomplices in the looting still didn’t place a name to Diego’s murderer. If the police were involved they would cover it up. Had likely already marked the file Unsolved.
She hated knowing Diego’s death would be swept under the carpet like so much trash. She didn’t know the guitarist, but everyone deserved justice.
Flipping open her cell phone, she dialed James Harlow, who answered on the first ring.
“I’ve just returned from Crockett’s dig site.”
“So what have you learned?”
“I spoke to Jonathan Crockett while he held an AK-47 on me.”
