Coincidence?
Perhaps.
A coincidence the size of Lake Titicaca.
Time to call the Israeli authorities.
* * *
The lab was relatively calm for a Monday. Only four autopsies were in progress downstairs.
Upstairs, LaManche was leaving to lecture at the Canadian Police College in Ottawa. I stopped him in the corridor and shared my concerns over Morissonneau’s death. LaManche said he’d look into it.
I then explained the carbon-14 results on the skeleton.
“Given an estimated age of roughly two thousand years, you are free to release the bones to the proper authorities.”
“I’ll get on it,” I said.
“Without delay. We have such limited storage space.”
LaManche paused, remembering, perhaps, the Ferris autopsy and its overseers.
“And it is best to avoid offending any of our religious communities.” Another pause. “And, remote as the possibility may be, international incidents can arise from the most harmless of circumstances. We would not want that to happen. Please, do this as soon as possible.”
Remembering my promise, I phoned Jake. He was still not answering. I left a message informing him that I was about to contact the Israeli authorities concerning turnover of Morissonneau’s skeleton.
I sat a moment, wondering which agency to phone. I hadn’t asked Jake because I’d promised to speak with him again before I made the call. Now he was unavailable, and LaManche wanted the case resolved.
My thoughts took a detour. Why was Jake so uneasy about my speaking to Israel? What was he afraid of? Was there someone in particular he wanted out of the loop?
Back to the question at hand. I was certain the Israel National Police would have no interest in a death two millennia back. Though Israeli archaeology was not my bailiwick, I knew most countries have agencies to oversee the preservation of cultural heritage, including antiquities.
I logged on to the Internet, and Googled the words “Israel” and “antiquities.” Almost every listing included a reference to the Israel Antiquities Authority. Five minutes of surfing got me a number.
I checked the time. Eleven-twenty A.M. Six-twenty P.M. in Israel. I doubted anyone would be working this late.
I punched the digits.
A woman answered on the second ring.
“Shalom.”
“Shalom. This is Dr. Temperance Brennan. I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Hebrew.”
“You’ve reached the offices of the Israel Antiquities Authority.” Heavily accented English.
“I’m calling from the Laboratoire de sciences judiciaires et de médecine légale in Montreal, Canada.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m forensic anthropologist for the medical-legal lab in Montreal.”
“Yes.” Boredom tinged with impatience.
“Remains have come to light here under somewhat unusual circumstances.”
“Remains?”
“A human skeleton.”
“Yes?” Slightly less bored.
“There is evidence to suggest this skeleton may have been unearthed at Masada during Yigael Yadin’s excavation in the sixties.”
“Your name, please?”
“Temperance Brennan.”
“Hold please.”
I did. For a full five minutes. Then the woman came back on. She did not sound bored.
“May I ask how this skeleton came into your possession?”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll explain the situation to the proper authority.”
“The IAA is the proper authority.”
“Who is the director, please?”
“Tovya Blotnik.”
“Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Blotnik.”
“He’s gone for the day.”
“Is it possible to reach—”
“Dr. Blotnik dislikes interruptions at home.”
For some reason, I felt reluctant to divulge the full story. Jake’s admonition not to call before contacting him? LaManche’s reference to international relations? Irrational gut reaction? I didn’t know, but there it was.
“I mean no disrespect. But I would prefer to speak with the director.”
“I am physical anthropologist for the IAA. If the bones are to come here, Dr. Blotnik will direct me to handle the transaction.”
“And you are?”
“Ruth Anne Bloom.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Bloom, but I’ll need verification from the director.”
“That’s a highly unusual request.”
“I’m still making it. This is a highly unusual skeleton.”
Silence.
“May I have your contact information?” Glacial.
I gave Bloom my cell and lab phone numbers.
“I’ll pass on the message.”
I thanked her and hung up.
Logging back on to the Internet, I Googled Tovya Blotnik. The name came up in conjunction with several articles addressing a controversy over an ancient stone coffin called the James ossuary. In each, Blotnik was cited as director-general of the IAA.
Okay. Blotnik was kosher. So why the hindbrain heads-up to be cautious with Bloom?
The fact that Lerner and Ferris thought the skeleton in my lab was Jesus Christ? The fact that Jake asked me not to do what I was doing?
I wasn’t sure. But again, there it was.
* * *
I was shooting the last few pictures of Morissonneau’s skeleton when Ryan reappeared, looking like the cat that swallowed Big Bird. I waved him into the lab.
“They’ve got him,” he said.
“I’ll bite,” I said.
“Hershel Kaplan.”
“How’d they catch him?”
“Genius failed to pay for a bauble.”
“He stole something?”
“Slipped a necklace into his pocket. All a terrible mistake. He intended to pay.”
“Of course. What now?”
“I’d like to haul his ass back to Canada.”
“Can you do that?”
“Not unless we charge him. Then we can formally request extradition through external affairs.”
“Have you got enough to charge him?”
“No.”
“He’d fight it anyway.”
“Yes.”
Ryan chin-gestured the skeleton. “What’s happening with Masada Max?”
“Carbon fourteen puts his birthday somewhere around the time of the Bethlehem star.”
“No shit.”
“I’m trying to send him back to Israel.”
I told Ryan about my conversation with the IAA.
“What got your sonar pinging?”
I thought about that.
“Jake told me not to talk to anyone in Israel until I’d spoken with him.”
“So why call?”
“LaManche wants the skeleton gone.”
“Why not level with Bloom?”
“Jake’s caution, I suppose. I’m not sure. A little voice just told me to wait and talk to Blotnik.”
“Probably a good bet.”
“There’s something else.”
I told him about Morissonneau.
Ryan’s brows dipped. He was about to speak when both my cell and his beeper erupted.
Ryan took the gizmo from his belt, checked the number, and pointed at my desk phone. I nodded and stepped into the adjoining lab.
“Temperance Brennan.”
“Tovya Blotnik calling from Jerusalem.” Santa voice. Rich and jolly as hell.
“I’m delighted to hear from you, sir. I wasn’t expecting your call before morning.”
“Ruth Anne Bloom phoned me at home.”
So much for the ban on interruptions.
“Thank you for taking the time,” I said.
“Not at all. Not at all. It’s a pleasure to accommodate foreign colleagues.” Blotnik chuckled. “You work for a coroner in Canada?”
&n
bsp; I explained my position.
“Right, then. What’s this about a skeleton from Masada?”
I described the photo that had started it all. Then, using no names, I told Blotnik how the skeleton had been stolen from the Musée de l’Homme by Yossi Lerner, then hidden by Avram Ferris and Sylvain Morissonneau.
I outlined the radiocarbon results.
I did not mention Hershel Kaplan. I did not mention the Joyce book, or the reason behind the theft and concealment of the bones. I did not mention the samples I’d sent off for DNA testing.
I did not mention the fact that Ferris and Morissonneau were dead.
“You obtained this photo how?” Blotnik asked.
“From a member of the local Jewish community.” True enough.
“Probably all nonsense.” The jovial chuckle now sounded forced. “But we can’t ignore this, now can we?”
“I think not.”
“And I’m sure you’re quite anxious to be rid of this mess.”
“I’ve been authorized to release the bones. If you’ll provide a shipping address, I’ll arrange with FedEx—”
“No!”
No chuckle there.
I waited.
“No, no. I can’t put you to all that trouble. I’ll send someone.”
“From Israel to Quebec?”
“It’s no problem.”
No problem?
“Dr. Blotnik, archaeological materials are transported internationally all the time. I’m perfectly happy to package the materials and use any shipping service you select—”
“I must insist.”
I said nothing.
“There have been some unfortunate outcomes recently. Perhaps you’ve heard of the James ossuary?”
The James ossuary was the ancient stone coffin mentioned in the Internet links. I vaguely recalled something in the news a few years back about damage to an ossuary on loan to the Royal Ontario Museum.
“The James ossuary was the piece broken in transport to Toronto?”
“Smashed would be a better word. En route from Israel to Canada.”
“It’s your call, sir.”
“Please. This is best. I’ll be back in touch shortly with the name of the envoy.”
Before I could reply Blotnik cut me off.
“The skeleton is in a secure location?”
“Of course.”
“Security is of the utmost importance. Make sure no one has access to those bones.”
I returned to my lab as Ryan was cradling the receiver.
“Kaplan’s not talking,” he said.
“And?”
“Guy in major crimes over there says he’ll turn up the heat.”
Ryan noticed that I was disconnected from the conversation.
“What’s up, sunshine?”
“I don’t know.”
Ryan’s expression reshaped subtly.
“Too much cloak and dagger over this skeleton,” I said. “Even if it is the missing Masada skeleton. If there is a missing Masada skeleton.”
I recounted my conversation with Blotnik.
“A five-thousand-mile trip seems a bit drastic,” Ryan agreed.
“A bit. Antiquities are routinely shipped around the globe. There are companies that specialize in doing just that.”
“How about this.” Ryan placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “We have a nice dinner, go back to your place, maybe slip into something derived from the art of dance.”
“I didn’t order the tap pants.”
My gaze drifted to the window. I felt anxious and restless, and didn’t know why.
Ryan stroked my cheek. “Nothing’s going to change overnight, Tempe.”
Ryan was dead wrong.
17
THAT NIGHT I DREAMED OF THE MAN NAMED Tovya Blotnik. He was wearing dark glasses and a black hat, like Belushi and Aykroyd in their Blues Brothers act. Blotnik was on his haunches, scraping with a trowel. It was dark, and each time his head moved moonlight glinted off his lenses.
In my dream Blotnik plucked something from the ground, rose, and offered the object to a second figure whose back was to me. The second figure turned. It was Sylvain Morissonneau. He was holding a small black canvas.
Light seeped from Morissonneau’s fingertips as he scratched dirt from the canvas. Slowly, a painting emerged. Four figures in a tomb: two angels, a woman, the risen Jesus.
Jesus’ features dissolved leaving only a skull, gleaming and brilliant white. A new face took shape above the orbits and orifices, like fog congealing in mountain terrain. It was the face of Jesus that had hung over my grandmother’s bed. The Jesus with gimmicky I’m-following-you-everywhere eyes. The Jesus that had frightened me throughout my childhood.
I tried to run. I was fixed in place.
The Jesus mouth opened. A tooth floated out. The tooth grew and spiraled toward me.
I tried to bat it down.
My lids flew up.
The room was dark save for the digits on my clock radio. Ryan snored softly beside me.
My dreams are normally not Freudian puzzlers. My subconscious takes events and weaves them into psychedelic tapestries. Morissonneau’s comment about the dreamlike quality of Burne-Jones’s paintings? Whatever the trigger, this one had been a beaut.
I looked at the clock. Five forty-two.
I tried sleeping.
At six-fifteen I gave up.
Birdie trailed me to the kitchen. I made coffee. Charlie wolf-whistled, broke off, and rummaged in his seed dish.
I took my mug to the sofa. Birdie settled in my lap.
Outside, two sparrows poked fruitlessly at the courtyard snow. I knew how they felt.
More questions than answers on the skeleton. No explanation of how Sylvain Morissonneau died. No progress on Ferris.
No idea why Jake hadn’t returned my calls.
Or had he?
Tiptoeing into the bedroom, I retrieved my purse, returned to the sofa, and dug out my cell phone.
Jake had called. Twice.
Damn! Why hadn’t I heard?
I’d been engaged in festivities with Ryan.
Jake had left a simple message. Twice. Call me.
I punched in Jake’s number. He answered right away.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got international coverage,” I said. “All this speed-dialing to Jerusalem would force me to mortgage the place on St. Bart’s.”
“You’ve got a place on St. Bart’s?”
“No. But I’d like one.” Birdie reoccupied my lap. “The carbon-fourteen results came back. The skeleton’s two thousand years old.”
“Have you contacted anyone?” Jake asked.
“The IAA. I had to, Jake.”
“Who did you speak with?” Tight.
“Tovya Blotnik. He wants to send an envoy to Montreal to collect the bones.”
“Does Blotnik know you took samples for DNA testing?”
“No. You do know those results will take longer?”
Jake ignored my question.
“Does he know about the odd tooth?”
“No. I thought you might want to talk about that first. Jake, there’s something else.” I told him about Morissonneau.
“Holy crap. Do you think the guy’s ticker really clocked out?”
“I don’t know.”
Empty air. Then, “Did Blotnik say anything about a tomb or an ossuary?”
“He mentioned a James ossuary.”
More empty air. Charlie filled it on my end with a line from “Strokin’.” I wondered briefly what the cockatiel had witnessed the night before. Jake’s voice brought me back.
“You’re sure he said James ossuary?”
“Yes. What’s the big deal with this James ossuary?”
“Never mind that for now. Tempe, listen to me. Listen carefully. This is important. Don’t mention the DNA samples. All right? Can you hold back on that for a bit?”
“Why?”
“Can you please trust me and promise y
ou won’t mention the DNA testing for now?”
“At this point there’s nothing to mention.”
“And I don’t want you to give that skeleton to Blotnik.”
“Jake, I—”
“Please. Can you do this for me?”
“Not if you won’t tell me what’s going on. Why shouldn’t I cooperate with the IAA?”
“I can’t discuss this by phone.”
“If Masada is the place of origin, legally I must return the skeleton to Israel. I have no choice.”
“Bring it yourself. I’ll pay your expenses.”
“I can’t dance off to Israel right now.”
“Why not? I’ll deal with Blotnik.”
“Bring it myself?”
What would I tell LaManche? Ryan? Who would take care of Birdie? Charlie?
Jesus, I was thinking like my mother.
“I’ll have to think about this, Jake.”
“Screw thinking. Just come to Israel and bring the skeleton.”
“You don’t seriously believe I’ve got the bones of Jesus?”
Long pause. When Jake spoke again his voice was different, lower and more guarded.
“All I can say is that I’m onto something big.”
“Big.”
“If I’m right, it’s mammoth. Please, Tempe. Book a flight. Or I can do it for you. I’ll meet you at Ben-Gurion. Don’t tell anyone you’re coming.”
“I don’t want to spoil your George Smiley moment, but—”
“Say you’ll make the trip.”
“I’ll think about it.”
I was doing that when Ryan appeared. He’d pulled on jeans. Just jeans. The jeans hung low.
My libido sat up.
Ryan noticed it do so.
“I could lose the Levi’s so you can ogle the naughty bits.”
Eye roll.
“I made coffee.”
Ryan kissed my head, yawned, and disappeared. Birdie jumped down and padded after him.
I heard rattling, then the refrigerator. Ryan reappeared with my AAFS mug, dropped into an armchair, and thrust both legs full length.
Charlie whistled a line from “Dixie,” then screeched, “Strokin’!”
“Did I hear conversation?” Ryan asked.
I waggled the cell phone. “Jake wants me to deliver Morissonneau’s skeleton to Israel. He’s pretty insistent.”
“Land of sun and fun.”
“And suicide bombers.”
“And that.” Ryan blew across his coffee. “Do you want to go to Israel?”