Harley had fought the verdict—vociferously. She was a criminology student; she knew what should have been done and a lot of it wasn’t. Pretty much nothing had been done, really, not as far as a crime scene examination went.
Not in her opinion, anyway.
How many men committed suicide with their own belts in such a manner? She sure as hell hadn’t seen or read about any. And she was studying criminology.
Nope, never heard of it!
Her friends backed her up, at first. And then, one by one, it seemed, they all decided that the poor professor—so caught up in his love and enthusiasm for his work—had gone mad, even if only temporarily. No one could find a motive for murdering him. Henry Tomlinson had been respected and dearly loved by everyone. No one could find a clue.
The police assigned to them had been incompetent, to Harley’s mind. Authorities in Egypt and in the United States hadn’t done enough.
And the Alchemy people...
They wanted it to be a suicide. They didn’t want to deal with a murder. They accepted the verdict without a whimper.
They were so sorry and sad, they’d claimed, and in hindsight, they could see so many mistakes.
They should’ve known to be more careful!
Henry should’ve known to be more careful!
But in fact, they said, the professor’s enthusiasm for the project had caused them all to bypass modern safety regulations that might have kept him alive.
A great company line, Harley thought in disgust.
And what was the matter with her? They might all have been killed by a crazy insurgent group that hadn’t defined exactly what it was fighting for or against. It was a miracle that they’d gotten out, that they were all alive.
Well, most of them. And Henry, poor Henry, he’d done himself in—according to the authorities and to Alchemy, who went on to say that now they’d never completely understand the biology of what had gone on. They weren’t allowed back on the site; the Egyptian government had stamped a foot down hard.
And that night...
First, they were shuffled to Cairo, then, almost immediately—on the orders of the Egyptian authorities and the US State Department—they were put on planes to Rome, and from Rome they were flown to New York City.
But, thinking back, Harley recalled that it was while she’d been staying at the little Italian hotel near the Spanish Steps that she’d spoken with this man. Fox. He’d wanted to know whatever she knew about the situation, and she’d told him everything, adding that she didn’t believe a word of the official explanation.
There was no way Henry had killed himself.
Special Agent Fox had seemed to accept her version, but apparently he’d been just as stonewalled as she had.
Like her, he’d been forced to realize in the end that no one was going to believe him. Or her.
And even if the authorities had believed him, they didn’t care enough to make a killer pay!
Here, tonight, for the first time in a year, everything about that horrible occasion was suddenly coming back.
Tonight was about honoring Henry Tomlinson. This would be an event during which people would shake their heads sadly, missing the professor who’d done so much, declaring it tragic that he’d lost his mind because of what he’d loved so deeply.
“Ms. Frasier?”
She blinked, staring at the man in front of her, wondering how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.
In a way, she did know him. They’d just never met in person. She’d left the Sahara before he reached it. Then she’d been flown out of Cairo, and soon after that she was back in New York.
“I’m sorry!” she said softly.
He shook his head. “Hey, it’s all right. I know you really cared, and that you tried to do something. It must have been hard to maintain your own belief that he’d been murdered when everyone else was telling you otherwise,” Micah Fox said.
It had been and still was. “Oh, don’t you know?” she muttered. “‘Henry went crazy. Bacteria in the wrappings. He just had to dig in before proper precautions were taken. It’s so tragic—don’t make it worse by rehashing every little thing!’”
Her tone, she knew, was heavy with sarcasm.
They were alone in the temple area—or so she believed. Still, she looked around and repeated, “I’m sorry. I tried... I do believe he was murdered. They did find bacteria, but not enough. Henry was murdered. And I couldn’t do a damned thing to prove it.”
Micah nodded at her. She liked his face. Hard-jawed, somewhat sharp-boned. His eyes, she saw now, were actually blue—sky blue—and they seemed to see a great deal.
“Remember, I was a student of his, too. And now I’m an FBI agent. And I couldn’t do anything, either. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He paused. “I should explain. I knew about you through Craig, of course. And also through Henry. We kept in touch when we could—he’d let me know what was up, what was going on. I went into law enforcement, but I still love Egyptology. Henry thought the world of you.” He shook his head. “I can only imagine what it was like that last night. I hope you’re okay now. Time...heals, so they say.”
“So they say.”
“It heals when you’re at peace with the past.”
“And I’m not,” she said grimly, and added, “And neither are you.”
“No. Anyway, I’d like to find out about the last time you saw him. If you don’t mind.”
“There won’t be a chance tonight,” she said.
“I know. At a later date.”
Harley nodded. “I’ll be happy to speak with you. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”
“You found him.”
“Yes.”
“I’d just like you to go over it with me. I realize it’s painful, but...”
“The verdict was ridiculous! You know what the ME said! That he killed himself.”
“An Egyptian ME, who wanted out of there as quickly as possible, with armed insurrectionists about to attack the place.”
True!
But then...
“The company, Alchemy, brought in a medical examiner, too. He agreed with the Egyptian ME’s findings.”
“I’m sure that all happened in about two minutes in Cairo or Rome. And as soon as they made their decision, Henry was shot through with preservatives and packed into a box. So anything that could be construed as evidence was compromised. I could be way off base. We could be way off base. Thing is, I’d feel better if we could talk.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
Of course?
She didn’t want to remember that night!
And yet, here was someone—someone in law enforcement—who agreed with her, the only person who did. Like her, Fox believed there was a truth out there that everyone else had denied.
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment.
“Well, a pleasure to meet you in person. I guess I’m going to head over to the party area,” Micah said. His voice softened. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You might want more time here. On your own. By the way, as I said, I really do know your cousin fairly well. We worked together years ago on a case in DC. He’s a great guy.”
“Yes. Craig’s great,” Harley agreed.
She sensed that he wanted to say more.
Like maybe when or where they could meet again?
But he didn’t speak. They weren’t alone anymore.
Jensen Morrow came striding through the temple area. He apparently saw Harley, but not Micah Fox, probably because he stood in the shadow of a carved obelisk.
“I knew I’d find you here!” Jensen told Harley, heading toward her for a huge hug.
He’d written his thesis, gotten his graduate degree and taken a job here as an assistant
curator, making use of his doctorate in Egyptology. He’d been her friend through her suspicions, her anger, her demands—and her final defeat, when she’d realized that nothing was going to be done.
No one was ever going to make her believe that Henry Tomlinson had been convinced that a mummy was attacking him—while strangling himself with his own belt.
Jensen, she was certain, had just given up. He’d been told the lie so many times that to him, it had become truth.
Harley accepted Jensen’s hug; she still cared about him. When they’d first met, they’d hit it off as friends. They might have become more at one time; he was fun, energetic and thoughtful, not to mention tall, dark and handsome. But everything had changed the night Henry Tomlinson died.
Even though she didn’t see the friends she’d made in Egypt very often—they were all busy working, getting on with their lives—they had all stayed friends. They were, in fact, oddly close; they had shared the experience of the dig, Henry Tomlinson’s death and the escape from the desert under dire circumstances in the middle of the night. All of that meant they had an emotional bond few people shared.
And yet it was a closeness stained with the loss of the man they’d all adored. Stained, too, by the way they’d fled on the very night he died, swept up in a reign of terror.
She’d gone on to finish her own graduate work, head bent to her studies, and had taken part-time work with a prestigious investigation firm in the city so that she could still take classes when she chose while deciding what path to take for her future. It felt right, for the time being. But she had to make some real decisions soon. And yet, even as she’d worked toward her educational and career goals, she had felt that she was waiting. A temporary post—with flexible hours!—was all she’d been willing to accept at the moment.
“They’re about to start,” Jensen said, pulling away from her to study her face. That was when he rather awkwardly noticed there was someone else in the temple exhibit.
He offered Micah Fox a hand. “I’m sorry. How rude. I didn’t see you. I’m Jensen Morrow.”
“Micah Fox,” the other man returned. “And actually, we’ve spoken. Over the phone.”
“Oh! Hey, that was you?” Jensen said. “Wow. Was I vague when I talked to you? Or worse, rude? If I was, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that...well, you had to be there that night. We found Henry—or, I should say, Harley found Henry—and by the time the medical examiner arrived, they were screaming that the insurgents were a few miles out and we had to break camp ASAP! I know Harley and I were going crazy with concern and disbelief and...well...hey,” he finished lamely.
“There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the situation,” Micah said.
“Well, you’re FBI, right? I guess if you couldn’t prove anything different from what was said or get anything done, Harley and I, who had no law enforcement power, couldn’t have done more than complain and question. Which we did. Who knows? The thing is—thing that got me, anyway—we weren’t in a closed or confined space. I mean if bacteria were going to get him, you might’ve thought someone else would’ve had a reaction or... Anyway, had you been assigned to the case—officially? The FBI works in Egypt? Or does it?”
“The FBI works all over the world, as necessary,” Micah replied. “But...I was there because of Henry.”
“Special Agent Fox was another of Henry’s grad students, but years ago,” Harley quickly explained.
“Ah,” Jensen murmured. That was obviously enough of an explanation. “I guess you were crazy about him, too.”
“I was. Brilliant man. Horrible circumstances.”
Jensen glanced at Harley. “I think we were the last people who saw him. Alive, I mean. Harley was trying to get him to come out with us. But you knew him. There was no way he was going to leave his work that night.”
“No, Henry wouldn’t want to leave his work.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Well, I think they must be about ready to start.”
“Let’s go.” Harley slid her fingers into Jensen’s and they left, nodding to Micah. It was ludicrous, but she was suddenly afraid to be too close to the man. He not only projected strength—he was someone warm when the world had been cold. Too confident, too attractive...
She could easily give in to her feelings of sadness and loss and even anger on a night like this. With a man like this.
She was aware of Micah watching them leave.
And she wondered what he was thinking.
* * *
HARLEY FRASIER, CRAIG’S COUSIN, was certainly a beautiful young woman, Micah thought, watching her leave, hand in hand with Jensen Morrow. He’d been studying her intently for some time before he’d spoken with her. It was evident that she had really cared about Henry. And he knew how Henry had felt about her.
According to Craig, she had wonderful parents and a great older brother, living grandparents, all kinds of family life. Micah’s parents had been lost in a bridge accident when he was a child; his aunt had raised him. Auntie Jane. He loved her and she was a talented and compassionate woman. But she was it as far as family went. He had no siblings, no cousins—no one else anywhere that he knew about. His family went far back in Virginia history; it had simply winnowed down to him and Jane.
His father had been FBI. People had feared the dangers of his job. They’d never imagined that he might die young because of a bridge collapse.
Henry Tomlinson had treated him like a son or grandson. He’d shared his enthusiasm for Egyptology with Micah. Henry had a family he adored. He hadn’t married, but he had a loving niece and nephew-in-law, and he was crazy about their kids.
He’d send Micah pictures of an unusual canopic jar right alongside ones of the kids with their new puppy. That was Henry.
Micah followed the pair who’d just left, wondering if he was indulging himself in an exercise of futility. Was the truth about Henry Tomlinson’s death ever going to be uncovered? Henry had been murdered, which was terrible enough, but it had happened on a night when both the Egyptian government and the US Department of State had been determined to get all the workers away from the site and out of the country. The group who’d planned the attack had called themselves The Ancient Guard.
Apparently, they hadn’t believed that Alchemy intended that the treasures they’d found would merely go on loan to the United States and other countries—and that they’d remain Egyptian property. Maybe they hadn’t cared. And maybe, like most militant groups, what The Ancient Guard wanted, religious and political ideology aside, was a chance to fight and stave off frustration. And probably steal the treasures to finance their fighting.
They’d either been beaten back or dissipated quickly when met with armed resistance.
Micah had gone to Cairo to investigate Henry’s death on an unofficial basis, and then to Rome, where the Alchemy crew had briefly stayed. Their communication had been by phone—he’d been a day behind each time everyone had moved on. And by the time he’d reached the States, it had all been too long.
Henry had been cremated, just as he’d instructed his niece to arrange in the event of his death. Then, of course, it was too late to bring in any experts.
But Henry had never suspected that he might be murdered.
And why would he?
Why the hell kill an academic like Henry? The man had never wanted or kept anything for himself—he’d never tried to slip away with even the smallest, most insignificant artifact. His work had always been about sharing treasures with the world.
Tonight... Well, tonight, Micah could watch. He could see the people who’d been close to Henry in his last days.
The grand foyer of the museum had been chosen for the site of the private gala opening. The center monument here was a massive replica of a temple from Mesopotamia that sat in the center of a skylit rotunda. The museum was beautiful, and just down the
street from its larger cousin, the Metropolitan. Many design ideas that worked well in the first had been used in this newer museum. The offices were deep in the basement, for the most part. The museum was dedicated to the ancient world; it was divided into sections that concentrated on the earliest humans to the rich, ancient civilizations of Greece, Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and more.
The exhibition hall that would open to the public in the morning was an admirable addition to the museum. Exhibits didn’t stay forever, but the hall itself would continue to thrive because of the work of Henry and other archeologists and scholars; right now, however, it was all about Henry.
Men and women in pairs and groups stood around the room, chatting, while waiters and waitresses in white-and-black attire moved about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.
Many of those invited were here because they were sponsoring patrons of the museum. There were also a number of politicians, including the mayor.
None of them interested Micah.
He scanned the crowd, taking note of those he did find intriguing.
Arlo Hampton, young, pleasant, eager. Tall and slim, but handsomely boyish-looking in a suit, speaking with an Egyptian dignitary. Ned Richter and his wife, Vivian. He so robust, she so tiny, both smiling, standing close, chatting with the mayor. And there—between an aging Broadway director and his latest ingénue—Belinda Gray, sans her fiancé, who was still serving in the military. He saw Roger Eastman, wiry and lean, wearing thick-lensed glasses, talking with his hands as he loudly discussed a technical innovation for dealing with the security of priceless historic objects. Across the room, in the midst of a few young female museum apprentices, was Joe Rosello. Joe seemed electrically energetic; he was a square-shouldered guy who could’ve been a fullback. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a very white smile.