Before Sunrise (14 page)

“How interesting.” She hesitated. “My school would like to add a few inexpensive pieces to our collection, in our display case. Do you have the man's name?”

Stranger and stranger, Phoebe was thinking. She blinked. “He gave me a business card, but I lost it, apparently.” She let out a short laugh. “But I'd know the man anywhere. I could pick him out of a crowd. Perhaps I could call his gallery and inquire for you. I do have that number written on the purchase file itself…”

The woman had gone pale. “On second thought, I don't think we could afford him. Perhaps if you hear of a dig nearby you could contact me and I could beg some potsherds from the archaeologist.”

“That's a possibility,” Phoebe said.

“Forgive what I said about the effigy figure,” Miss Mason said primly. “I'm sure that your exhibits don't come from suspect sources.”

“I never thought you were making accusations,” Phoebe said, smiling.

Miss Mason smiled back, but it didn't reach her dark
blue eyes. “I'll go, then. Congratulations on your engagement, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe replied.

“You're…very sure that your art dealer was legitimate?” the blonde asked suddenly, flushing as she met Phoebe's suspicious gaze.

“Of course I am,” Phoebe lied.

“Well, then.” The blond woman smiled wanly and walked out of the museum, climbing quickly into the cab that had been waiting for her out front. Phoebe watched her go, but didn't feel the relief she'd expected to have the episode put behind her before it threatened her job. Miss Mason had made a disturbing comment about that effigy figure. Phoebe was going to tell Cortez. But first, she was going to check her records and trace its history. She gave the effigy figure in the case another quiet scrutiny.

P
HOEBE MADE A CAREFUL SEARCH
of her files to look for the man who'd brought them the effigy figure. The business card he'd given her wasn't actually lost. She'd told the woman it was because there was something suspicious about her.

But the business card wasn't what she expected. It had the man's name—Fred Norton—and his business address along with the name of his gallery in New York City. It didn't have a telephone number.

Impulsively Phoebe dialed information and gave the name of the gallery. The operator told her there was no such listing. There was one that was close, so Phoebe called it and asked for Norton. She was told that no one by that name worked for them.

She hung up and stared at the telephone curiously. What if the man who sold her the effigy figure was the same man who'd stolen it in the first place?

Impulsively she phoned the school the teacher had said she worked for. She asked for Miss Mason and waited while the woman was called to the phone.

“Miss Mason?” Phoebe asked carefully.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” someone replied in an unfamiliar voice.

“I'm Phoebe Keller at the Chenocetah Museum,” she introduced herself. “I wanted to ask you a question in regard to our conversation in my office this morning.”

There was a long pause. “Excuse me, but you must have the wrong number. I have never been to your museum.”

“But your class was here yesterday,” Phoebe argued.

“Another teacher's class did come there,” came the soft reply. “But it wasn't mine. I've had the stomach virus. This is my first day back.”

Phoebe stared at her desk blindly. “But the woman said her name was Marsha Mason,” she protested.

“But that's impossible,” the voice said worriedly.

Apparently it was. Phoebe was ready to grasp at straws. “Then can you tell me the name of the teacher who was here yesterday?”

“Just a moment, please.” There was muffled conversa
tion. Miss Mason came back on the line. “Are you still there, Miss Keller?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said.

“Constance Riley brought her first-graders to your museum, and I was certainly not with her,” came the reply. “I believe I should report this matter to the police. I don't like the idea of someone using my identity,” Miss Mason said urgently. “It's rather upsetting.”

“I'm sure I'd feel the same way. I think it's a good idea to report it to the authorities. They can contact me if they need verification. Thank you, Miss Mason.”

“No, thank you, my dear,” came the quiet reply. “I'd never have known if you hadn't phoned.”

“You're very welcome.”

Phoebe hung up, feeling unsettled. She'd told her mysterious visitor that she'd know the man who sold her the effigy figure if she saw him again. What if the woman was in league with him, and had only come to the museum to check out what Phoebe knew? She sat down, hard, feeling threatened.

 

C
ORTEZ TRACKED
Paul Corland out to his building site, where he was overseeing the placement of rebar. The site wasn't too far from Bennett's.

He was a tall, rough-looking man with dark eyes and
blond hair. Cortez flashed his FBI badge. “My name is Cortez,” he said. “If you can spare a few minutes, I'd be grateful.”

“I've already explained to the authorities that someone sabotaged my shipment of steel,” Corland said angrily. He took off his hard hat for a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He slammed it back in place, looking furious. “I don't cheat on support beams!” he growled. “My record probably does look bad, but I can assure you that what happened in Charleston was not my fault!”

“I'm not here about the construction,” Cortez replied calmly. “I want to know if you've had anything suspicious going on around here in the past week or so.”

“May I know what you're looking for?” the man asked bluntly.

“I'm investigating a homicide,” Cortez replied with equal bluntness.

The other man cocked his head. “The archaeologist, right?” he asked.

Cortez's eyebrows jerked. “Yes.”

“He came to see me,” he told Cortez. “Spouting some sort of nonsense about finding ancient remains that were moved. He thought we'd done it. He wanted to look through some cave on the site here. I wouldn't let him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can't afford a work stoppage, especially on such a flimsy damned excuse,” he replied coldly. “We're in hock up to our noses after the lawsuits we faced down in South Carolina. I've got my men on overtime as it is, trying to catch up. We were shorted our last shipment of steel. I'm still waiting for it to get here and calling every day to find out where it is in transit.”

“Where is the cave?” Cortez wanted to know.

“I'm not saying,” the man said belligerently.

Cortez gave him a measuring look. “I don't make threats,” he said coldly. “But if you want a work stoppage, you're going the right way to get one. I'm looking for a murderer. I'll go through you if I have to. All it's going to take is a search warrant and a couple of reporters.”

The man cursed roundly.

“That won't help matters,” Cortez replied. There was cold determination in his face. “You don't want me for an enemy.”

“One FBI agent isn't much of one.”

“I spent several years as a government prosecutor,” Cortez told him.

It was a veiled threat, and it worked. The other man set his thin lips in a line. “What do you think you'll find?”

“I don't know. I may not find anything. If I don't, you won't see me again.”

“Nice incentive,” Corland said sarcastically. “I'll take you to it.”

 

C
ORTEZ FOLLOWED HIM
into the woods beside the building complex and up a ledge to two caves.

“Wait here,” Cortez told the other man, waving him back. He bent down, looking for a sign.

“You tracking?” Corland asked abruptly.

“Yes.”

Corland moved to one side, toward the other cave. “I'm a hunter,” he said, bending. “I can track a deer over rock.”

Cortez glanced at him. “If you see anything, sing out.”

He nodded.

They spent half an hour getting to the entrance of the caves. But there were no footprints, not even in the sandy soil under the overhanging rock ledges.

“Nothing,” Cortez said finally. “I'd stake my life on it.”

“Same here.”

Cortez turned. “Thanks for the help.”

Corland nodded curtly and Cortez turned to go back to his car.

“Hold up a sec,” Corland said suddenly. “There's one other site with caves, just south of town,” he told the taller man. “Ben Yardley's putting up a hotel there. I only know about it because the site boss approached me at lunch a few days ago about a mutual employee. He said he'd seen activity on his building site late at night and ran off an SUV on the property. He wanted to know if it was one of my guys up to some bad business. It seems a reputation follows people for life,” he added bitterly.

Cortez moved back toward him, scowling. “One of your guys?”

“I fired a man for laying out of work a few days ago,” he said. “He went to Yardley for a job. Yardley's site boss asked me why I fired him, and I told him.”

“He drives an SUV?” Cortez murmured, pulling out a pad and pen. “I need the man's name.”

“Fred Norton,” he said. “He drives a late model black Ford SUV.”

Cortez wrote it down. “Did Yardley hire him, do you know?”

“Nobody's desperate enough to hire a layabout in these hard times,” Corland said indifferently. “I'm not convinced that Norton wanted a job. He wasn't much of a hand, according to my foreman. He lazed about and went home.”

“Thanks,” Cortez told him. “You're off the hook. I won't be back. But if you think of anything else, call the sheriff's department and ask for Deputy Stewart. He can get in touch with me.”

“I will,” Corland replied.

Cortez nodded and left him there. He liked Corland, despite what he'd heard about him from Bennett. Now he was going to see the man Yardley, and do some more checking about those caves.

 

B
OB
Y
ARDLEY WAS SIXTYISH
, short and balding and a live wire. He shook Cortez's hand firmly and grinned.

“I'll bet you're here about that murder investigation,” he told Cortez. “Right?”

The corner of Cortez's disciplined mouth curved up. “Nice deduction.”

“I started life as a cop,” he replied. “Construction pays better. Sit down.”

Cortez dropped into a comfortable chair across the desk from the other man. “I understand that there's a cave on your building site,” he began.

“The mountain's got plenty of them, but there's only one here. It's seen some midnight visitors just lately,” Yardley told him. “I was going to call the police, but I never got a look at the person who was roaming
around out there. After all, they weren't touching anything on my site.”

“You told Corland the intruder was driving an SUV?” Cortez pursued.

“That's right. It was dark-colored but I couldn't see it all that well.”

“How many times have you seen it out there?”

“Only once, myself, when I came to the office to get some paperwork. But one of my men saw activity out there a few days ago.” He grimaced. “From what I gather now, it might have been the night that man was killed.”

“If you figured out the possible connection, why didn't you alert the authorities?” Cortez asked.

“I didn't want to send them on a wild-goose chase in case I was wrong,” he explained with a shrug.

Cortez's pulse leaped. “I'd like to look around the cave.”

“Sure. I'll drive you up there.”

“Thanks.”

 

T
HE ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE
was through another section of woods. There weren't many flat building sites in this part of North Carolina, which was mountainous and rocky. The track went over a small wooden bridge and then down a rutted path.

“Stop here, if you don't mind,” Cortez told the man.

Yardley stopped his pickup truck and cut off the engine.

Cortez got out, bent, and started looking for signs. There were plenty, including a track with a vertical tread missing. His heart jumped up into his throat. Pay dirt!

He flipped open his cell phone and called his unit. “Make it fast,” he told the lead technician. “I'll wait right here.”

“We're on the way,” she replied and hung up.

“Found something, did you?” Yardley asked.

Cortez smiled. “Yes, I think I did.”

The technicians bagged evidence, made plaster casts of the tire tracks, and even attempted to lift prints from the smooth granite outcroppings outside the cave. Inside, there was evidence of traffic, but otherwise the search was a disappointment. They found nothing like human remains.

On the other hand, there was a blood splatter on rocks inside the cave. The technicians were very careful to get as much of the sample as they could by employing a diamond saw to lift the section of rock on which the splatter rested.

“That's a lot of work for a little piece of evidence,” Yardley murmured, having been far too interested in modern forensics to leave the site.

“That's Alice Jones,” Cortez mused, indicating the lead technician who was supervising the saw. “I've seen
her have walls cut out, not to mention floors, to obtain evidence. She's something of a legend back in Texas.”

Yardley shook his head. “Well, she's thorough. I had some good people in my department, years ago.” He looked up. “Looks to me like the perp killed him here. What do you think?”

Cortez smiled at him. “You know I can't respond to that. We'll see what the evidence shows us.” But inwardly, Cortez agreed with the former cop.

 

I
T WAS DARK
before Cortez got back to town. The museum was dark, and he had a momentary fear that Phoebe might have gone out to her cabin alone. But when he got to the motel, she was sitting on his bed with Joseph, reading him a book.

Cortez moved into the room, sliding the motel key back into his pocket. “What are you two doing in my room, and where's Tina?”

“Drake had a night off and he wanted to see that hot new sci-fi flick that's out, so he took Tina with him. I'm baby-sitting,” she added with a smile. “How'd it go?”

“We found a cave and we think it's where the victim was murdered. We got trace evidence,” he added wearily. He fell onto the bed beside them and laid back. “God, I'm tired!”