Mesozoic Murder (20 page)

Chapter 26

Ansel turned her head. There was no mistaking the black hat, leather jacket, and despoiled skin as belonging to anyone but the cowboy. The right side of his face was red, swollen, and badly scabbed by the muriatic acid she'd thrown at him.

The man pushed her forward with a firm, one-armed grip around the waist. Her gun was in the purse hanging from her right shoulder, but she couldn't reach it. She had little choice but to get hustled along like a rag doll. Her stomach cramped painfully. She felt like vomiting.

“Hurry it up, bitch.”

Ansel prayed that Becker would see what was happening and let Dopplebock out the front door. As she was propelled further from the house her fleeting hopes of heroic canine rescue dissolved. The cowboy shoved her toward the street. Her truck and Becker's Bronco were on the drive behind her. There were no other vehicles in sight.

“Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

A black, vinyl-roofed Cadillac limousine sped down the street toward them. Twenty feet of clear-coated metal with ebony-tinted windows halted by the curb with a shuddering bounce. A double-door in the middle popped open.

“You're kidnapping me in a limousine?”

“Too bad it's not a coffin,” the cowboy complained.

Anger displaced Ansel's fear. She dug her heels into the flagstones and sagged her body, becoming dead weight. “I'm not getting in that car.”

The man shoved her into a white-leather bench seat so fast that Ansel's head spun. She landed face down. The cowboy yanked her purse away and slammed the door. An automatic door lock snapped down as the vehicle sped off.

“Good afternoon, Ansel.” Another man sat on a leather bench facing her at a ninety-degree angle.

Ansel bolted upright. She made a lunge for the door handle and frantically tried to open it. She glanced toward the opposite side. There was no handle. The limo was covered by a full-length hardwood console with a stocked bar containing assorted stainless steel ice chests, glass service, Champagne chateau, and a small TV/VCP combo. Above the console, a picture window gave her a great view of the Helena city streets flashing by.

Ansel looked toward the windshield. A full-length glass divider separated them from a uniformed chauffeur. Beneath the impenetrable barrier, a customized panel displayed a huge
utchat
. The Eye of Apollo.

Ansel crossed her arms. “Let me out of here, Doctor Stouraitis. Now.”

“You know who I am?” Stouraitis asked, grinning with extraordinarily large teeth. “Wonderful. That will speed things up.”

“You've kidnapped me. I'll press charges.”

Stouraitis brushed the sleeve of his double-breasted, gray silk suit, fussed with his gold silk tie, and situated his black leather loafers more comfortably on the white and gray carpeting before acknowledging her.

“You have nothing to fear. I just want to have a conversation.”

“Nothing to fear? What do you call almost getting raped and shot by your goon with the acid wash on his face?”

Stouraitis ran a hand over his perfectly coiffed, thick silver hair. “I apologize. Milos is impetuous. I didn't send him to hurt you. I sent him to ask you some questions. It seems you handled him very well under the circumstances. You've scarred him for life. As for the events of the last few minutes, if I'd asked you to take a ride with me, would you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Exactly. Perhaps you want some refreshments. I have wine, beer, soda, or mineral water.”

“I want out of this car,” Ansel insisted.

“Some ouzo? It's a Greek drink considered an aperitif.”

“No.”

Stouraitis shrugged. He withdrew a short, crystal-cut glass from a console shelf, opened the bottle, and poured a bit of flavored liqueur into it. “I have appetizers as well. There is feta cheese, psomi bread, and fruit.” He slid back a hidden panel and removed a gold-leafed dish with tastefully displayed munchies. He held it out.

“No thanks. I'm on a strychnine-free diet.”

Stouraitis set the plate down beside him and selected some cheese. “You do me a great disservice. I didn't kill Nicholas or that woman.”

“Her name was Evelyn Benchley, and I don't believe you, Doctor.”

“Please, call me Athanasios. My master, Apollo, has told me so much about you that I feel I've known you for a long time.”

Ansel shook her head. “You're crazy. You talk about a mythical Greek god as if he were a fishing buddy. Did Apollo mention that my father is Chase Phoenix and that when he finds out you're responsible for terrorizing me, he's going to make a tobacco pouch out of your scrotum?”

Stouraitis cringed. “Such disrespect. It's one of the things I find so vulgar about Americans.” He dropped a cube of feta with distaste, wiped his face and hands with a lace-edged napkin, then set the dish on the console. “All right. We'll get to business.” He gave her a piercing, brown-eyed gaze. “I want to know where the griffin is. And my money.”

Ansel glanced out the picture window for a second, thinking about what to say. The limousine had left Helena, and dusk had fallen. They traveled south on Highway 15 toward Butte, passing dark, vast expanses of ranch land and prairie.

Ansel looked at the ornithologist. “I don't even know what the griffin is.”

“I'm not in the mood for games,” Stouraitis said with irritation. “You mentioned the griffin to Milos inside your home.”

“Someone told me Nick used the word during a phone conversation. I threw it out in the heat of the moment.”

Stouraitis pursed his full lips, then gulped down his ouzo. He reached for a refill, taking time to mix the liqueur with water. After the first sip, he grabbed a phone receiver on the wall behind him and punched a button. The chauffeur picked up a dash phone.

“Samos.
Stamahteesteh
,” Stouraitis ordered.

In seconds the limousine slowed and veered toward the shoulder. Ansel tensed. “What are you doing?”

“Letting you out. Our conversation is finished.”

“You're dumping me out here in the dark?”

“Your truck is behind us. Milos has been following.”

Ansel turned. Through a tinted rear window, she could see the headlights of her truck a car length behind. That meant Milos had gone through her purse to get her truck keys. He had her gun. The limousine glided to a stop on an asphalt strip beside a sheep pasture. Milos pulled over with the Ford.

“What is the griffin, Dr. Stouraitis?”

“You must go now. You can't help me, and I can't have you going to the police about my private affairs.” The door lock jumped up.

Ansel bit her lip. She should leave and never look back, but she was close to cracking the mystery of Nick's murder. She could feel it. Stouraitis wasn't afraid of the police. He'd baited her, dangling his knowledge about the griffin to convince her to stay and help him in some way. Dorbandt would be furious if she consorted with a delusional millionaire and his criminal lackey, but he'd never taken her seriously. Proving him wrong was incentive enough.

Ansel exhaled. “I won't go to the police, but I want to know what Nick and you were involved in. I'll guess it involved an
Archaeopteryx
and Baltic amber.”

Stouraitis' face remained calm and thoughtful, his gaze steady. He picked up the phone. “
Pahrahkahlo
, Samos.”

The chauffeur nodded, and the limousine pulled onto the highway. In seconds they accelerated back to a smooth-as-glass, sixty-five-mile-per-hour cruising speed. Milos, behind them, did the same.

“You see that vase?” Stouraitis pointed toward the console. A six-inch black ceramic flower vase filled with yellow tulips perched near the roof. “It is an artifact made in 550 B.C. and a splendid example of red-figure technique developed by Athenian craftsmen at the end of the sixth century. The design is very similar to the famous Vulci vase in the Metropolitan Museum. It illustrates Hercules using a sling to drive away swan-like birds which, according to Greek mythology, infested Lake Stymphalis. My hobby is collecting nice things relating to bird lore.”

“Like fossil artifacts?”

A quirky smile appeared on Stouraitis' face. “I knew Nicholas from the day he was born. His father Isidoro and I were acquaintances long before the second world war. When Isidoro left to come to America, I stayed and fought. After the war, I went to college. I became interested in the true personal fulfillment and harmony associated with the Heroic Path, and I realized I have an intuitive gift for watching bird behavior. Sometimes I can actually understand the language of the birds. Since the time of Calchas, Melampus, and Tiresias, a chosen few have been able to develop abilities of augury. I am one of them. Nicholas knew of my powers, and he respected them. He was even a member of my group, the Avis Arcana. So you see, Ansel, Nicholas' death is a great personal loss for me.”

“Okay. You're wealthy, artistic, and sensitive. Tell me about the griffin.”

“Nicholas came to me in February and said he had found a piece of Baltic amber with something inside it. A broken egg with a fossil reptile-bird. He wanted me to see it and help verify its authenticity. He could not afford the many expensive scientific tests required. I agreed.”

A shiver skittered up Ansel's spine. Could it be possible that Nick had stumbled onto the inclusion of all time inside Becker's crusty amber?

“Where did Nick get it?”

“From the man you just visited. Peter Becker.” Stouraitis fixed her with a curious stare. “Nicholas had been looking for a large piece of Baltic amber for his collection. Finding the griffin inside the resin was an accident.”

Stouraitis turned to stare at the Eye of Apollo. “The griffin was meant to come to me,” he said in a trance-like voice. “It is my destiny to own it. You cannot imagine its beauty, Ansel. It is a creature from myth, half bird, half beast, captured within the hardened, golden tears of the Heliades.”

Ansel leaned forward, excitement coursing through her. “What does the griffin look like?”

Stouraitis faced her. “Small. The egg is white, elongated and reptilian-like. Leathery. The griffin's head and one wing partially out of an opening in one end. It has a few gray downy feathers and featherless wings with little clawed hands. Reptilian eyes. The mouth is beak-like but has tiny teeth.”

“What dinosaur species is it?”

“It has no name. It is similar to
Archaeopteryx
, but Nicholas said it was a new subspecies that lived about sixty million years ago.”

“Have you had the amber tested?” Ansel asked.

Stouraitis chuckled. “For fakery? Of course. Do you think I would want it back so badly if I didn't know it was authentic? I paid handsomely for a world-class amber expert to evaluate it and keep its existence a secret. All the tests were done.” He ticked off test parameters on his fingers. “Hardness, toughness, specific gravity, optical properties, polarized light, turbidity, structure, color, fluorescence, diaphaneity, heat, and electrical characteristics. I have the documentation to prove it, and I have a history of its provenance through Becker. The Baltic amber is real. The griffin is real. And it's mine.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“It will remain in my private collection. I paid Nicholas for it. I own it.”

Ansel had no patience with such selfish greed, but she wouldn't argue now. She needed him just as much as he needed her. “How much did you pay Nick for the griffin?”

“Two million dollars.”

Ansel blinked. No wonder Stouraitis had sent Milos looking for his money. Still, two million was a cheap price to pay for the world's only preserved dinosaur. “And you still don't have the griffin in your possession. What happened?”

“I don't know,” Stouraitis said, throwing up his hands in anger. “I paid Nicholas June second. We agreed he'd bring the griffin to me the next day. He never showed up. He disappeared until you found his body. Since he'd spent time with you,” Stouraitis said suggestively, “I assumed you knew about the griffin and the money.”

“And that I'd killed Nick,” Ansel finished.

“The thought crossed my mind,” he admitted.

“Well, I didn't. Did you know that Evelyn Benchley had a six-month affair with Nick?”

“When did this happen?”

“From June to December of last year. After he bought Becker's amber and before he came to you. Evelyn never knew about the amber or the reptile inclusion.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I know.”

“Maybe somebody thought she knew and killed her.”

“Maybe,” Ansel agreed. She eyed the man across from her. “Who else hated Nick enough to poison him with strychnine?”

“I have no idea, but the name strychnine comes from the Greek word
Strychnos
. It means ‘nightshade.' At one time death by strychnine was an ancient method of execution in my country. I was struck by this coincidence when I first heard that Nicholas had been poisoned with such a concoction. Someone else had to know about the griffin,” Stouraitis said emphatically.

He glanced out the window. “Ah, we are nearing Butte. You will be leaving here.” He gestured toward the glass divider, and the ever vigilant Samos nodded.

Ansel was more than ready to leave. She had to think about what Stouraitis had said and figure out what was the truth and what wasn't. She waited patiently as the limo pulled into a grocery parking lot, then reached for the door handle.

“I have recorded our conversation on video,” said Stouraitis with a predatory smile. Just in case your father or the police would like to see it. Have a nice evening.”

Ansel resisted the urge to tell Stouraitis where he could rewind his tape and exited the vehicle. Milos had parked her truck behind the limo. He swaggered toward her, and she made a point of giving him a wide berth. Milos sneered, then disappeared through the limo door. The car took off, leaving her alone.