Micah had done research on everyone involved with the last stages of the dig. Every one of the workers who’d had access to the tent. It hadn’t been easy finding out about the Egyptian workers. Since they weren’t archeologists or preservation experts, they hadn’t been allowed into the inner sanctum of the camp, where the preparation tent was located. Still, he’d done his best. But everything in him screamed that the guilty party was not Egyptian, but someone among those who should have loved and honored Henry.
Why? he asked himself again. Why the hell would anyone kill Henry? If he could come up with a why...
“Micah?”
He turned. He hadn’t expected to know many people here tonight. His name had been softly voiced by one of the few people he did know, and he knew her fairly well.
Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece.
Simone was in her midthirties, a sandy-haired woman who looked eternally like a girl. She was small and slim and wide-eyed. She was accompanied by her husband, Jerry, a banker, who was equally slim and wide-eyed.
Micah greeted them both.
“Thank you for coming. And thank you for caring so much,” Simone said. “It’s still so hard to accept what they say.”
“Yes, it is,” Micah agreed.
“But tonight,” Jerry said brightly, “tonight we honor his body of work.”
“Yes. An incredible body of work,” Micah said. “How are the girls?”
“Getting big!” Simone answered. “Ten, eight and five now.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen pictures. They’re beautiful.”
“They are. Thank you. They loved their uncle Henry, too,” Simone said.
“We all miss him.”
“Oh, look—there’s Arlo Hampton,” Jerry said. “Micah, we’ll talk later? Simone, we need to find out what he wants us to do when he speaks.”
“Excuse us,” Simone said.
“Of course!” Micah told them. They moved on.
He continued to survey the room.
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Grad students. Administration staff. Egyptologists. City officials. Museum people. And there...
An exotic woman with dark skin and almost inky black hair was speaking with Simone and her family. Arlo stood beside them.
Yolanda Akeem. They’d met briefly—very briefly—in Cairo. She was the Egyptian liaison with the Department of Antiquities. Naturally, she’d be here tonight.
She saw him looking at her. She elegantly lifted her glass a few inches in acknowledgment.
She’d given him whatever information she’d had in Cairo; it hadn’t been much. A two-second autopsy report and a lecture on the dangers of the Middle East. He didn’t listen to much of it. Henry’s body was gone by then and the members of the expedition had been shuttled off. He’d been ready to follow them as quickly as possible when they’d been in Egypt—and through their escape from the trouble that had befallen the expedition that night.
Tonight, they were all here.
And there was Harley Frasier. She had a smile on her face as she spoke with Gordon Vincent, director at large for the museum. Her smile was forced. Jensen was with her, smiling and chatting, as well. He seemed to be putting a little too much effort into being charming.
Which didn’t seem necessary, since he was already employed by the museum.
Harley didn’t; she worked for Fillmore Investigations, a large security and investigation company that served the civilian market, but was known for its close affiliation with the New York City PD and other law enforcement agencies. The founder of the company, Edward Fillmore, had barely survived a kidnap-for-ransom scheme as a child. He had founded his company on the premise that all agencies, public or private, should work together for the benefit of victims. Since Micah’s job with the FBI had come about because of similar circumstances, he liked the man without even knowing him. Micah was pleased that Harley Frasier had chosen such a reputable company. None of his business, of course. But...
He’d felt something for her, just from hearing her voice over the phone a year ago.
And now...he’d seen her.
Anyone awake and breathing would find her attractive and charming.
He was certainly charmed by her and impressed by her—and so much more.
Even though he hardly knew her...
He forced himself to look away from Harley and objectively observe the other people in the room.
He was standing back, watching, when he became aware that a friend had arrived.
“I have to admit I was definitely expecting you to be here,” Craig Frasier told him.
Micah smiled without glancing over. “And I guess I’m not surprised that you’re here,” he said.
“I can’t let you get into too much trouble,” Craig murmured.
“I’m just here to honor an old friend,” Micah said.
“Like hell.” Craig smiled grimly, studying the crowd milling in the foyer. “But I don’t know what you think you can discover at this late date.”
Micah turned to face Craig at last, a rueful half smile on his face. “Right. Well, it would help if someone suddenly had a guilt attack and admitted going crazy—from the bacteria in the wrappings, of course—and murdering Henry.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to harass your cousin,” Micah said.
“I’m not worried. I think you two can actually do each other some good it you get a chance to really talk. Maybe you can figure something out, late as it might be. There was so much done so quickly and so politically. State Department, international bull. A cover-up. Yeah, it’ll be good for the two of you to talk.”
“You say that as if you doubt the official line, too,” Micah said quietly.
“Because I do. I believe it was a cover-up.”
“Not by the government,” Micah said.
“By?”
Micah looked at him and said, “By Alchemy.”
Craig didn’t get a chance to respond.
Arlo Hampton took the microphone on a small portable dais set in the center of the foyer. He cleared his throat, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the museum, friends of science and exploration, and friends of the City of New York!”
It took a moment for everyone to stop talking and start listening. Someone tapped a champagne flute with a fork or spoon. Then the room fell silent.
“We welcome you to our amazing new exhibit, brought to us through the genius of the man—the brilliant, kind, ever-giving man—whose name will now grace our museum walls, Dr. Henry Tomlinson. Those who knew Henry loved him. He was a scholar, but he was also a very human man who loved his family and friends. No one knew Egyptology the way Henry did...”
A sudden gasp from the crowd silenced him. Everyone turned.
Someone had come up from the basement steps, and was now staggering through the crowd.
Someone grotesquely dressed up in a mummy’s linen bindings, staggering out as if acting in a very bad mummy movie.
A performance for the evening?
No.
Because Arlo grunted an angry “Excuse me!” and exited the dais, walking toward the “mummy” now careening toward him.
“What the hell?” Micah and Craig were close enough to hear Arlo’s words. “Richter, is that you? You idiot! Is that you?”
It wasn’t Richter; Micah knew that right away. Richter was far too big a man to be the slight, lean person now dressed up.
Or at least Ned Richter was!
Micah burst forward, phone out and in his hand. As he neared the mummy, he was already dialing 9-1-1.
“Get those bindings off her! Get them off her fast!” he commanded.
&nbs
p; The mummy collapsed.
Micah barely managed to catch the wrapped body sagging to the floor.
As quickly as he could, he began to remove the wrappings.
He heard the sound of a siren.
Then Vivian Richter looked up at him, shuddered and closed her eyes.
The wrappings, Micah knew, had been doused in some kind of poison.
Chapter Two
Chaos reigned.
Harley was stunned and horrified that Vivian Richter was so badly hurt—so close to death.
She was wrapped tightly. The outer wrappings were decayed and falling apart; they’d come from a historic mummy. The inner wrappings were contemporary linen, the kind the museum used in its demonstrations, made to look like the real deal.
Vivian was gasping and crying, completely incoherent. One woman in the room was a doctor—a podiatrist, but hey, she’d been to medical school. She was kneeling by Vivian, calling the shots, talking on the phone to the med techs who were on their way.
Special Agent Fox had already taken control of the room. No one was to leave; they were all in a lockdown.
She was incredibly glad that Craig was there. And, of course, he was with his girlfriend or fiancée—Harley wasn’t sure what Craig and Kieran called each other, but she was sure they were together for life. Kieran was standing near Harley, ready to comfort her, as the slightly older and very protective almost cousin-in-law. Harley appreciated that, even though she didn’t really need it. She worked with criminals all the time, as well as people who weren’t so bad but still wound up in the criminal justice system. She was calm and stoic; Micah and Craig were questioning people, grouping them, speaking to them, both digging for answers and assuring them all that they were safe.
“She’s going to die! She’s going to die!” Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece, cried out. Harley saw that Micah Fox hurried over to her, placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and led her to a chair.
By then, of course, museum security had arrived. So had the police—New York City and state police.
People were talking everywhere. Micah and Craig had herded everyone into groups, depending on their relationship to the museum. Some were employees of the museum; some were special guests. The people who’d been on the expedition were in a corner. Harley was with Belinda Gray, Joe Rosello, Roger Eastman and Jensen Morrow, as well as the Alchemy Egyptologist, Arlo Hampton.
Ned Richter was crouched on the floor, at his wife’s side.
All of this seemed to go on for a long time, yet it was a matter of minutes before more sirens screamed in the night and the EMTs were rushing in. Ned Richter was allowed to go with his wife; Arlo Hampton and others more closely associated with the exhibit were now gathered together in a new group. Guests who’d only recently made it through the doors were questioned and cleared.
Anyone who had anything to do with prep for the evening was in another group; every single person would be questioned before being permitted to leave for the night.
Officers and crime scene techs were crowding through the museum, heading to the Amenmose section—and to the staff office and prep chambers beyond.
“Too bad we couldn’t continue the celebration,” Joe said, hands locked behind his back, a look of disappointment on his face. “What a waste of great food and wine.”
“Joe! What’s the matter with you?” Belinda chastised.
“Come on! Vivian Richter’s a drama queen,” Joe said.
“She might die,” Roger said very softly.
“You mark my words. She will not die,” Joe insisted.
“They’re saying it’s poison,” Roger pointed out. “Some kind of poison on the wrappings.”
“She’s going to be very, very sick,” Jensen said. “Those wrappings decaying and falling all around her... Who the hell knows where they came from—or what might be on them?”
“Or if something was put on them,” Roger said. “That’s how she would have been poisoned.”
They were all silent for a minute.
“And then dead—like Henry Tomlinson,” Belinda said.
Again, they were silent.
“Great. But at least now, maybe someone besides me will start fighting to figure out what happened to Henry,” Harley said quietly.
She’d actually discovered that night that someone was on her side. The agent with the great voice. Craig’s friend. Micah Fox.
“Okay, okay,” Belinda said. “I didn’t push it a lot at the time. I mean, it didn’t make any difference, did it? The cause of death—two medical examiners said—was the fact that bacteria made him crazy and he killed himself.”
The reaction to her comment was yet another bout of silence.
“What were we going to do?” Belinda wailed. “We had no power. Insurgents were bearing down on the camp, and everyone wanted us out! So, what could we do? Henry was dead,” Belinda said.
“And back then, none of us believed he killed himself,” Jensen said at last.
“But we all let it go.” Roger sounded sorrowful as he spoke. “Except Harley, and we all kind of shut her down,” he added apologetically. “But, seriously, what were we going to do? There were some whacked-out insurrectionists coming our way. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to admit I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t care if anyone was collecting evidence properly—all I wanted was out of there! And in the end, I guess we bought into the official—” he made air quotes with his fingers “—version. It was just easier and—”
“Ms. Frasier!”
Harley was being summoned. She saw that it was the plainclothes detective who had apparently been assigned to the case. He was lean and hard-looking; his partner was broader and had almost a baby face and a great smile. They were McGrady and Rydell, Rydell being the guy with the smile.
She wasn’t going anywhere alone. She was never sure how Craig could home in on her problems so quickly, and tonight he was with Micah Fox, the agent who had called her before—and approached her at the beginning of the evening. What if she had talked to him when he’d wanted to?
Could tonight’s disaster have been avoided?
Did it have anything to do with what had happened before?
She was led into one of the museum offices that had been taken over by the police. She felt, rather than saw, her cousin Craig and the enigmatic Micah Fox come in.
They didn’t sit; they took up stances behind her.
McGrady took the seat behind the desk and asked her sternly, “Ms. Frasier, what exactly is your association with the museum, the expedition—and the injured woman?”
“I was on the expedition. I don’t really have an association with Vivian. It’s not like we have coffee or hang around together and do girls’ night,” Harley said. “Vivian is married to Ned Richter, the CEO of Alchemy. Alchemy financed the expedition. Alchemy is the largest sponsor for this exhibition. We were all pretty close in the Sahara—not that we had much choice.”
“So you did know her well!”
“I didn’t say I knew her well. We were...colleagues.”
“But you like mummies, right? All things ancient Egyptian?” McGrady asked.
“Yes, of course. I find the culture fascinating.”
“And it would be a great prank to attack someone and lace her up in poisoned linen. Like a mummy?”
“What?” Harley exploded.
McGrady leaned forward, wagging a pencil at her. “You were the one who discovered Henry Tomlinson—dead. Correct?”
Harley had never thought of herself as particularly strong, but his words, coming out like an accusation, were too much.
She heard a guttural exclamation from behind her. Craig or Micah Fox, she wasn’t sure which.
But it didn’t matter. She could—and would—fend for herself. Sh
e leaned forward, too.
“Yes. I found Henry. A beloved friend and mentor. I found him, and I raised an outcry you wouldn’t believe. And no one in a position of power or authority gave a damn. First, it was oh, the insurgents were coming! Saving our lives was more important—and yes, of course, that was true—than learning the truth about the death of a good man. I could buy that! It’s an obvious decision. But then, no decent autopsy, and his niece, bereft, had him cremated. And now you’re asking me about Henry—and about Vivian Richter. You have nerve. I was here tonight in honor of Henry. I didn’t see the exhibit before tonight. I haven’t been associated with Alchemy since we returned. I suggest you speak with the people who were involved there and worked on the exhibit.”
McGrady actually sat back.
Everyone in the room was silent.
Then Harley thought she heard a softly spoken “Bravo.”
McGrady cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Frasier, but you do realize that Vivian Richter is dangerously close to... Well, we might have a murder on our hands.”
“You do have a murder on your hands. Dr. Henry Tomlinson was murdered. Now we have to pray that Vivian comes out of this, but still, you’ve got a killer here. Do you have anything more to ask me?” Harley demanded. They did need to hope and pray for Vivian, but by now, surely they had to recognize the truth of what had happened to Henry!
“Did you see Vivian this evening?”
“No.”
“But you arrived early, didn’t you?”
“Only by a few minutes. I walked out to the temple area.”
“Which is off-limits until after the exhibit officially opens tomorrow.”
“I was allowed to go back there because I’d been on the expedition.”
“And you were close to the backstage area where exhibits are prepared?”
“Yes.”
“Where Vivian would have been?”
“Possibly.”
“But you didn’t see her. Who did you see?”
“Just Jensen. Jensen Morrow. He’s working here, with the exhibit. This is actually his field of work. I saw Jensen—oh, and Special Agent Fox.” She glanced back at him. He and Craig were flanked behind her like a pair of ancient Egyptian god-sentinels. They almost made her smile. Not quite. She couldn’t believe that this detective was quizzing her—when she couldn’t get any help before, no matter how she’d begged and pleaded!