“Special Agent Fox?” McGrady said.
“I arrived within minutes of Ms. Frasier. I was told she’d just headed for the temple. I wanted to speak to her about the death of Henry Tomlinson. I went straight there. We were speaking when her colleague Jensen Morrow appeared. Exactly as she indicated,” Micah Fox said.
McGrady stood up. “Fine. Ms. Frasier, you’re free to go.”
Harley stood up and glared at him. “I’m delighted to leave. But perhaps first you’d be kind enough to let me know how Vivian’s doing. We might not be close, but we were serious associates.”
McGrady sighed. “She’s holding her own. The doctors are combatting the effects of the poisoning.”
“What was the poison?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation. That’s information we can’t give out right now, even if we had it.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Craig opened the door; she marched out. He and Micah followed. She thought she heard McGrady mutter, “And take your Feds with you.”
“Not the usual helpful attitude, at least not in my association with the NYPD,” Craig said. “Usually, we have an excellent working rapport.”
“Maybe he’s resentful because he’s not sure what this is yet. It’s impossible at this time to say what happened,” Micah said.
Harley spun around to stare at him. “What are you, a fool?” she snapped. “We both know—not suspect, but know—that Henry Tomlinson was murdered. Then Vivian Richter comes out wrapped in mummy linens, screaming and poisoned with some kind of skin toxin, and we don’t know what happened? Obviously, someone tried to kill her!”
Craig grabbed her by the shoulders. “Harley! Stop. Micah’s on your side. What are you?” he asked. “A fool?”
She flushed uneasily. They were just outside the door. The nicer cop, the quiet one with the baby face, Rydell, came out and approached Jensen Morrow. He was next on the block, Harley thought. And how stupid of the cops. Jensen had been with her, away from the camp, when Henry Tomlinson was killed. They just didn’t seem bright enough to realize that there was a far bigger picture here. They needed to see it—before someone else died.
But Craig was right. She shouldn’t be taking it out on Micah Fox.
Why was she being so hostile, so defensive?
Pushing him away on purpose.
He was trying to help her. He was...
He was a promise she was afraid to accept. He claimed he wanted the truth, and he seemed to have all the assets needed to get at that truth. He was too damned good to be true, and she didn’t dare depend on someone like that when the very concept of an ally, someone to depend on, was still so...
Foreign to her! He was law enforcement—and on her side. It was good. After all this time, it felt rather amazing.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
She’d barely spoken when Kieran Finnegan came hurrying up next to her. “I have a car outside. Come on, I’ll get you home.”
“But—”
“There’s nothing else you can do here tonight, Harley,” Micah said.
“Remember, you came to me.”
“Yes. And there’s nothing else you can do here tonight,” he repeated.
Harley stiffened.
“Let’s go,” Kieran said gently.
So she nodded. “Thank you,” she said to Craig and Micah, and then she allowed Kieran to lead her out the door, to the front of the museum.
A light-colored sedan was waiting, just as Kieran had promised. Kieran wasn’t driving; Harley assumed the driver was FBI and that Micah or Craig had made the arrangements.
Once in the car beside Kieran, Harley regretted the fact that she’d already left. “I should still be there. I should be back with the exhibits. I should see the prep rooms. I was with them on that expedition and I know what we discovered. I saw the tomb when it was opened. And I... Lord, yes, I’m the one who found Henry.”
“Logically, there isn’t a damned thing you could’ve done tonight. They won’t let anyone back by the exhibits, the prep rooms, the offices—anywhere!—until the crime scene people have gone through it all. Naturally, everyone’s hoping that Vivian Richter pulls through. If she does, maybe she’ll be able to remember something that will help. For now, well...”
“McGrady is NYPD. He isn’t letting Craig and that Agent Fox in on anything.”
“They’ll get in on it. Trust me. Craig will talk to his director. His director will call the chief of police or the mayor or someone, but they’ll get in on it,” Kieran said with assurance.
Harley leaned back for a moment, suddenly very tired. She closed her eyes and then opened them again, looking over at Kieran. She liked her cousin’s girlfriend. Really liked her. She wasn’t sure why they weren’t engaged or married yet, but...
Kieran, of course, knew all about what had gone on during and after the expedition out to the Sahara in the search for Amenmose’s tomb. Considering what she did for a living—a psychologist who worked with law enforcement—nothing much surprised her or rattled her. Besides, she’d met Craig during a period when the city was under siege with a spate of diamond heists.
“So tell me—what’s your take on this?” Harley asked Kieran. “Who would kill Henry Tomlinson? Or rather, who’d dress up as a mummy to kill him, and then dress Vivian Richter like a mummy to try and kill her?”
“The incidents might not be related,” Kieran said.
“Oh, please! Don’t tell me Henry wasn’t murdered! Don’t tell me I want that to be the case because I don’t want to believe he went crazy and committed suicide.”
“I’m not saying that at all. Here’s the thing. You were in the desert, so it had to be someone there. Henry’s dead and maybe this would-be killer is playing on that. Or maybe the two are related. The problem is, I don’t know anyone involved. It’s hard enough to make judgment calls when you’ve had a chance to speak with people and question them.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry.”
“That said...”
“Yes?”
Kieran smiled and shrugged. “You’ve had as much education as me, if not more.”
“Ah, but in different courses! I need more in psychology.”
“Specifically in human emotions. Like jealousy.”
“Jealousy? As in...someone who wanted to be a famed Egyptologist?”
“Possibly. Some people kill because they’re deranged. They’re psychotic, or they’re sociopaths. Then, of course, you have the usual motives. Love, greed, hatred...jealousy. Think about everyone involved if you’re convinced that the two situations are related. The rest of us weren’t there. Only you know the dynamics among all the people who were on that expedition.”
“I can’t imagine anyone who would’ve wanted Henry dead. I just can’t.”
“It’s not that you can’t. It’s that you don’t want to,” Kieran told her.
They’d reached Rector Street and the old warehouse apartment that legally belonged to Harley’s uncle, who was mostly out of state now and had generously given the large, rent-controlled space to Harley while she finished her degree and decided on her permanent vocation.
The driver hopped out of the car, opening the door for Harley. Kieran leaned out to say goodbye and thank the man.
“Get on home, get into bed, go to sleep,” Kieran said. “Much better to start fresh in the morning.”
Harley gave her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Thanks. Thanks for getting me here. But... I’ll be back on it in the morning.”
Kieran grinned. “We’d expect no less.” She leaned back in the car and the driver shut the door. He offered Harley a grave nod, and waited until she was safely at the door to her building.
Harley keyed open the lock and waved to the night clerk on duty at the refurbished twenty-
floor building. Then she took the ancient elevator to the tenth floor. It wheezed and moaned, and she wondered if Mr. Otis himself had seen it installed in the building. However, it worked smoothly, and she was soon on her floor and in the spacious area she knew she was incredibly lucky to have in New York City. The building had once housed textile machinery and storage. She had over a thousand square feet with massive wall-length windows that looked out on the city with a special view of Grace Church. Harley knew she was blessed to have this space, and reminded herself to send Uncle Theo another thank-you. A counter separated the kitchen from the dining area and living room, while wrought iron winding stairs led up to the open loft space that was her bedroom. Her mom had told her that the apartment had once been Uncle Theo’s bachelor pad, but at the ripe old age of sixty-five, he’d met Helen, the love of his life, and they were happily enjoying the pleasures of Naples, Florida, year round. Helen, a spring chicken of fifty-five, was delighted that Harley was watching over the place, just so they’d have a place to crash when they came up to see friends.
Harley found herself staring out at her view of Grace Church.
Home, bed, sleep.
Impossible.
Henry Tomlinson, an Egyptologist by trade, had loved Grace Church. The church itself dated back over two hundred years, although the current building went back to the 1840s, with new sections added along with the decades. Gothic and beautiful, it was the kind of living history that Henry loved.
She wondered if Vivian Richter was still hanging on. She thought about calling the hospital, but they probably wouldn’t give her any information.
Home, bed, sleep.
She could try.
Climbing up the stairs to her bedroom, she quickly changed into a cotton nightshirt and crawled beneath the covers. She realized she hadn’t closed the drapes.
She stared out at the facade of Grace Church.
Yes, Henry would have loved a view like this.
What was Henry’s niece, Simone, thinking tonight?
And Micah Fox? How had he arranged time off? How had he managed to be there? Would he figure something out?
She prayed for sleep, but her mind kept returning to that time in the Sahara. Being part of the expedition had been such a privilege. She remembered the way they’d all felt when they’d broken through to the tomb. Satima Mahmoud—the pretty Egyptian interpreter who had so enchanted Joe Rosello—had been the first to scream when the workers found the entry.
Of course, Henry Tomlinson was called then. He’d been there to break the seal. They’d all laughed and joked about the curses that came with such finds, about the stupid movies that had been made.
Yes, people had died during other expeditions—as if they had been cursed. The Tut story was one example—and yet, by all accounts, there had been scientific explanations for everything that’d happened.
Almost everything, anyway.
And their find...
There hadn’t been any curses. Not written curses, at any rate.
But Henry had died. And Henry had broken the seal...
No mummy curse had gotten to them; someone had killed Henry. And that someone had gotten away with it because neither the American Department of State nor the Egyptian government had wanted the expedition caught in the crosshairs of an insurgency. Reasonably enough!
But now...
For some reason, the uneasy dreams that came with her restless sleep weren’t filled with mummies, tombs, sarcophagi or canopic jars. No funerary objects whatsoever, no golden scepters, no jewelry, no treasures.
Instead, she saw the sand. The endless sand of the Sahara. And the sand was teeming, rising up from the ground, swirling in the air.
Someone was coming...
She braced, because there were rumors swirling, along with the sand. Their group could fall under attack—there was unrest in the area. Good Lord, they were in the Middle East!
But she found herself walking through the sand, toward whomever or whatever was coming.
She saw someone.
The killer?
She kept walking toward him. There was more upheaval behind the man, sand billowing dark and heavy like a twister of deadly granules.
Then she saw him.
And it was Micah Fox.
She woke with a start.
And she wondered if he was going to be her salvation...
Or a greater danger to her heart, a danger she hadn’t yet seen.
Chapter Three
Micah did his best to remain calm and completely in control. That was definitely a hard-won skill from the academy.
It was the crack of dawn, the morning after the event, and he’d been called in to see Director Richard Egan. Alone.
Egan was Craig’s immediate boss. The man was Hard-ass, Craig had told him, but in a good way. He had the ability to choose the right agent for the right case in the criminal division.
He’d also fight tooth and nail when he thought the agency should be involved. He’d take a giant step back, too, when he thought he’d be interfering with the local authorities.
They were often part of a task force, but it didn’t seem there was going to be one in this situation. Hell, there might not even be any official FBI involvement. At the moment, they were looking at what might have been a murder thousands of miles away, and what might have been an attempted murder at a museum opening. It might also have been some kind of bizarre ritual or prank.
Several morning newspapers—among the few still available in print—were on Egan’s desk. The front pages all held stories with headlines similar to the first one he read: Mummies Walk in New York City!
Egan glanced at the papers and shook his head, dismayed, Micah thought, more by people’s readiness to believe such nonsense than he was by the disturbing headlines.
“You see? Everyone will be going crazy. Thank God that woman didn’t die—thank God she didn’t die, no matter what—but with this mummy craze...there’ll be pressure. The press will not give it up. So. Let me get this straight,” Egan said. “You have lots of leave time?”
“Yes, sir. I’m on leave now.”
“But you started off taking some of that leave and traveling to Egypt.”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated. “That was a year ago. I took several weeks then, and I’m taking several more now. I’m never sick. I’ve accrued other time as well and work with a great group. So, last year...”
Egan was waiting.
“I came back. I’d heard that Henry Tomlinson, an old friend, had died under unusual circumstances. I tried to reach the site, but when I got there, it had been cleared out. I tried to track down his body, but I was behind by several steps. But you know all this.” He hesitated. “I’m a bit of a workaholic, sir. Like I said. I put in a lot of time, and wind up owed a fair amount of time off.”
“And you use your leave working, I see.”
“I flew all over last year, being given the runaround. Our people in Cairo helped, but they were stonewalled, too. And a lot of the time, certain Egyptian officials acted as if I was an idiot and an annoyance. According to them, they were trying to keep people alive and I was making waves about a dead man. It was too late for them to do anything, of course. I pursued it as far as I could, but Henry’s niece had been told that her beloved uncle had died in a horrible accident and, abiding by his wishes, had him cremated. Can’t autopsy a pile of ashes.”
“Our people in the Middle East would’ve done exactly what you did,” Egan assured him.
“Yes, sir.”
“But?”
“But I knew Henry Tomlinson,” he said. “He was a friend. He was also a good man. His death deserved a decent investigation, which—due to the circumstances, I know—he did not get.”
Egan was quiet for a minute.
&nbs
p; Then he said, “And you just happened to be at the museum tonight when a woman, wrapped in would-be old linen tainted with nicotine poison, came crashing into the ceremony.”
“So that was it, nicotine poisoning. Hmm. But I didn’t just happen to be at the event, sir. I was there purposely. As I said, I knew Henry Tomlinson. I loved the guy. I was there to honor him.”
“But Craig Frasier has an involvement because his cousin Harley was on the expedition.”
Micah shrugged, but kept his eyes steady on Egan’s.
“You’re a good agent, Micah,” Egan said after a moment. “I’ve seen your service record. I know your supervisor.”
Micah lifted his hands. “Sir—”
“Yeah, whatever, forget about it,” Egan said flatly.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but—”
“I heard the cop on the case is a dick.” He grinned. “In more ways than one.”
Startled, Micah raised his brows.
Egan laughed. “The guy’s partner, Rydell, actually called me. He wanted to apologize for McGrady’s behavior. I guess the guy was hoping it would turn into a murder case and that it would be his—and he wanted the FBI out of it.”
“I see.”
“Don’t worry. The FBI is in. Taking lead.”
“Really?” He’d decided to stay calm, so made a point of not betraying his surprise and delight.
Egan leaned back, studying him. “The case began in the Middle East. It entails far more than the City of New York.”
Micah felt his pulse soar, but he still maintained his composure.
“That’s excellent, sir. And...”
“Yes, I’ve spoken with your office. You and Craig can take lead on the case. Mike—you know, Craig’s partner, Mike?—he needs some vacation time, and if you’re here and we’re taking this on, I’m going to go ahead and give it to him. So it’ll be the two of you. Work with the cops, though, and any other agencies that may become entangled in this. We’ll have State Department and embassies involved, too, I imagine. Anyway, our victim from last night regained consciousness thirty minutes ago. I’ve asked that they let you and Craig do the talking. You are no longer on leave. I suggest you get moving.”