Part 11 (1/2)
”Of the Bolling?” She was pleased by her own calm voice. ”No, not really, other than that it's supposed to be cursed. As director of the exhibit, my responsibilities are all administrative. I know, of course, all the facts about the pieces-carat weight and the grades of each stone, for instance-but I don't believe in curses, and gems were never my favorite subject.”
”You don't believe in curses?”
”Of course not. Myth and legend.”
”It's all just myth and legend,” Quinn said. ”Until it isn't.” With barely a pause, he went on. ”So, as an archaeologist you prefer relics? Bits of pottery and fossils?”
”Something like that.”
He turned his head suddenly and smiled at her. ”I thought diamonds were a girl's best friend.”
”Not this girl. To be honest, I don't even like diamonds. Rubies, yes; sapphires and emeralds, definitely-but not diamonds, even the colored ones.”
”Too hard? Too cold?” He seemed honestly curious.
”I don't know why; I've never thought about it.” She shrugged off the subject, wondering irritably if he even remembered that she had rather publicly rejected him hardly forty-eight hours before.
He looked at the room around them, his expression critically a.s.sessing. ”The design of the exhibit is excellent; my compliments.”
”Being a connoisseur of such things?”
”I have closely studied a number of gem exhibits over the years,” he reminded her modestly.
He had skillfully plundered a few as well. Morgan sighed. ”Yeah. Well, I can't take all the credit for this one. Max and I designed the layout, but Wolfe and Storm had input because of security considerations and we had additional professional help with the lighting and display angles.”
”A very efficient team. What's going on in the bas.e.m.e.nt?”
Morgan blinked. ”The bas.e.m.e.nt?”
”There were two police inspectors here earlier talking to Max, and all three headed toward the bas.e.m.e.nt with rather grim looks on their faces. I believe there are several guards down there as well. And Wolfe.”
”How long have you been here?”
”An hour or so. What's going on in the bas.e.m.e.nt, Morgana?”
”I have no idea,” she replied frankly. ”Shall we go and find out?”
Before he could answer, a serene and polite recording announced over the public-address system that the museum would be closing in fifteen minutes. Quinn waited for the end of the announcement, then said, ”I'd rather not make myself memorable to the police, if it's all the same to you.”
”But you have this blameless daytime persona,” she said innocently. ”Why would Alexander Brandon hide his face from the police?”
”Not his face. But the police are hardly idiots, and excessive interest from me in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a museum might strike even the casual observer as odd.” He sighed. ”Why don't I wait for you in the lobby, Morgana? I'm sure you can think of some way of updating me as to what's happening without giving the guards the mistaken impression that you have any personal interest in me whatsoever.”
”I think I can manage that,” she said coolly.
”Then I'll wait for you in the lobby.”
It wasn't until they parted company in one of the corridors, Quinn headed for the lobby, and Morgan toward the bas.e.m.e.nt, that she allowed herself to smile, if a bit wryly. Her annoying thief didn't seem all that dismayed by her public rejection and cool att.i.tude.
Dammit.
Once in the cavernous bas.e.m.e.nt of the huge museum, Morgan had to ask one of the guards she saw to tell her where the others were. Even with directions it took her several minutes to reach the central storage room and another few to wind her way through the maze of crates and shelves before she located Max, Wolfe, and the two police inspectors.
”What's up?” she asked Max.
It was Wolfe who answered, his tone grim. ”We found a little token, apparently from the killer of that unidentified woman.”
”We don't know that,” Keane Tyler objected. ”The forensics team isn't here yet, Wolfe.”
”And I'll bet my reputation they'll find that the blood is hers and the knife is the murder weapon.”
”Blood? Knife?” Morgan looked again to Max.
He pointed to a rather roughly carved marble statue a few feet away, and Morgan studied it warily. It was in a line of several life-size statues, all down here in storage because they were damaged or had been rotated out of exhibit to make way for other displays. The indicated figure dated from the Middle Ages and depicted a warrior.
Morgan took a couple of steps toward the statue and looked more closely. The figure's raised fist, she realized, had once held a marble knife or dagger that had at some point been broken off or removed. Now it held a dully gleaming hammered-bra.s.s hunting knife with a carved wooden handle.
The knife was stained a rusty brown for more than half its length.
”Jesus,” Morgan said. She turned back to the others. ”What's the point? I mean, you don't think she was killed down here, do you?”
”No signs so far,” Keane said, adding disgustedly, ”but now, of course, we'll have to search the entire G.o.dd.a.m.ned building, at least on this level, for forensic evidence. No more wandering around with flashlights; this time we get serious.” He stared around at the confusion of crates and shelves. ”Everything dusty as h.e.l.l, packed away G.o.d only knows how long. And this is just the central storage room; Wolfe tells me there are dozens of rooms nearly as large as this one, all of them crammed with more s.h.i.+t like this.”
”Thirty-two rooms, according to the plans.” Morgan was frowning. ”And that doesn't count what's probably miles of corridor. So either he killed her down here, or else he's trying to make you waste time looking to find out if he killed her down here?”
Wolfe said, ”If he killed her down here-whenever he got down here-it had to be before the new security system went on-line.” He was staring at Keane.
The inspector hesitated, then said, ”She could have been killed weeks ago. The M.E. believes the body was refrigerated almost to the point of being frozen.”
”So he could have planted the knife weeks ago,” Max said. ”Got down here long before there was decent electronic security protecting this area.”
”At least we can hope it was that long ago,” Wolfe muttered.
”But why?” Morgan shook her head. ”Just so you'd have to search the place now? That doesn't make sense. Pointing the investigation in this direction, so specifically-why?”
”Trying to divert our attention,” Wolfe said. ”Keep us and the police from looking wherever it is we need to be looking.”
”Or make us look so hard we don't see the forest for the trees,” Gillian suggested.
Keane looked once more at the forest of storage surrounding them and sighed. ”Both viable theories.”
Morgan said, ”Well, all I can contribute to the investigation is the fact that he had to have time down here, and he had to have at least some equipment.”
”Why?” Keane asked.
”Because drilling a round hole through marble takes time and a drill,” Morgan replied. ”And cutting marble takes a saw or chisel. Guys, I know that piece, and the knife it originally held was part of the fist, carved from the same slab of marble. I can check to make sure, but I think the knife was undamaged when the figure was brought down here for storage. So that means somebody cut away the original marble knife and then drilled a round hole through the fist so the handle of that hunting knife would slide right in but be held tightly enough not to drop out again.”
”How much time are we talking?” Keane asked.