Tales of Chills and Thrills: The Mystery Thriller Horror Box Set (7 Mystery Thriller Horror Novels) (69 page)

“The seals?” What the hell? Robbins had a flash of Sea World
and performing animals jumping out of the water.

“My associate at first thought perhaps they’d confused the
center with the Greenville park, which contains a zoo, but he meant cylinder
seals.”

Cylinder seals? Engine components? Why would Beason ask
about car parts at the Nippon Center? Had he been confused and thought the
place was connected with Nissan? “Why would he look for them at your cultural
center?”

“My reaction was the same. I tried to explain that we do not
maintain a collection of ancient artifacts and that even if we did, seals such
as they described are not part of Japanese cultural history.”

What were they talking about here? “But they’re important to
others…”

“Yes, the seals are important to other cultures. They’ve
been used for approximately five thousand years to authenticate records—similar
to a modern notary seal—or in the earliest, pre-written language days, for
bestowing authority. I was not aware they were an element in African cultural
history.”

“I wasn’t either.” Robbins shifted the phone and freed his
writing hand. “In the most typical version, what would these seals look like?”

A faint sigh sounded through the speaker.

Okay, so he didn’t have a fuckin’ clue what these seal things
were.

“If I were seeking the most typical version, I would look
for a seal from Mesopotamia. Those cylinders were intricately carved, more so
as the seals became ornaments as well as a notary system. Sometimes they were
carved from semi-precious stones, but their function and place in history is
what makes them valuable. When rolled across soft clay, leather or wax, they
produce a scene or series of images.”

“Mr. Beason and a younger man came to the Center and asked
about these cylinder seals,” Robbins restated.

“The younger man was most insistent the seals were present
at the Center. When I finally assured him they were not here, he became angry.
I gathered the older man had told him the seals could be seen here. I started
to intercede, but the young man pulled Mr. Beason, as you called him, toward
the door. A second incident occurred at that point.”

“Oh?” Could this get any weirder?

“As I mentioned, we do not maintain a permanent collection.
Visiting artists, however, occasionally display their work here. A prominent
artist is currently exhibiting as part of a cultural exchange program. Mr.
Beason picked up one of the smaller paintings and attempted to leave with it.
Our security intercepted him, of course. The younger man did not say anything,
but his body language indicated he was very angry. I do not know if it was
because of the incident itself—if he was humiliated by Mr. Beason’s actions—or
because the grandfather acted confused. Some people do not tolerate the
infirmities of the declining years. Whatever the reason, Mr. Beason insisted he
wanted the ‘pretty picture’ for his wife.”

Robbins’ internal radar pinged. “Beason said that? That he
wanted the picture for his wife?”

His dead wife?

“Yes. In advanced senility, the old often become like
children, losing societal distinctions of right and wrong. He did not seem to
understand he was stealing.”

Miz Rose insisted the guy was sharp as a tack.

“If I had realized his family was concerned and unable to
locate him, we would have detained them. It occurred to me later—when I saw the
news coverage—that the young man might not have been his grandson.” A touch of
chagrin tainted the director’s voice now.

“Do you have security monitoring?” Robbins asked.

“Of course. I anticipated you might ask. I made a CD, a copy
of the relevant sections.”

“Thank you.” Robbins wanted to watch that security tape.
Body language might tell him as much as the spoken words about what was going
on with the two men.

He glanced at his watch. If the Greenville guys would meet
them at the county line, the round trip would only take an hour.

Robbins ran through the director’s story again, then
obtained details about the Center’s location and hung up. He dialed another
number and arranged for a Greenville deputy to collect the CD, while Jordan
nearly crapped his pants with impatience.

Questions piled on top of each other as Robbins relayed the
information to Jordan. “Wonder why Beason didn’t ask for help if the young guy
threatened him.”

“Maybe they’re in on it together, whatever ‘it’ is,” Jordan
said.

“If they planned to steal these cylinder things, they’d have
made sure the seals were at the Center first.”

“This trip could’ve been about casing the joint. If that was
it, Beason screwed up by snagging the picture. It called attention to them.”

Robbins’ fingers drifted toward his shirt pocket in search
of a phantom cigarette. He settled for a pencil and idly twirled it across his
fingers. “Maybe getting attention was the point—at least from Beason’s
perspective. If for some reason he felt he couldn’t ask for help directly, by
taking the picture, he made sure the director noticed him.”

“Why would they think the seals were at the Center in the
first place?”

“Good question. The other good questions are, where are they
now and what are they planning?”

Jordan moved a few papers around on his desk, then asked,
“Is the old man losing it? Didn’t you say his wife was dead?”

“I think mentioning his wife was a message. But I don’t have
a clue what he’s trying to tell us.”

The Greenville deputy assigned to the southern part of the
county agreed to retrieve the security CD from the Nippon Center. Since he’d
only have to travel to the county line, the Newberry County deputy meeting him
should make it back to the station before lunch. Robbins fiddled around online
while he waited. What did they do before the Internet and Google? he wondered.

He smirked as the screen refreshed. He knew exactly what
they did back in what Jordan called the Dark Ages. Research then was time
consuming or involved next to impossible to get information. He clicked on a
link to the British Museum and tapped into their research files. Yeah, he could
see that happening fifteen, twenty years ago.
‘Scuse me boss, I’d like to
run over to England and check out this display of cylinder seals.

He scanned the document that opened in response to his
query. The earliest versions of the seals—from around 3500 BC; the real Dark
Ages—came from Mesopotamia, currently known as western Iran and Iraq. From what
Robbins found, if you didn’t know how to read or write—which was pretty much
everybody in BC-time—an ordinary person hired a scribe to draw up contracts.
Every seal was different—a highly individual signature seal—and “proved” which
administrator prepared and notarized the clay document.

Damn. They even had bureaucrats back in BC times. Those guys
will survive global warming, a nuclear holocaust or any other disaster. Them
and the cockroaches.

Then again, the seals were found with gold, silver and
precious gems in graves, so the early Iranians apparently rated them pretty
highly.

He studied pictures of the seals and the impressions they
created. At first, the cylinders held only geometric or vaguely animal-shaped
images, but the cylinder carvings and impressions grew more complex over time.
After about a thousand years, some artist figured out how to create an action
sequence. Early Hollywood, he thought with a smile. A battle scene in a
four-inch film.

The impressions at the end of the article were the most
interesting. The themes reflected the society’s ideals in pictograph form.
Gods, magic, social structure. No wonder the archeologists found them
intriguing, Robbins thought. But why were Beason and the mystery man looking
for them? He couldn’t see the two guys going for the historical significance.
Their intrinsic value, maybe?

A phone call interrupted his research. The Newberry deputy
was back.

More people—sworn and civilian—greeted Robbins when he
walked into the sheriff’s department. Enough information had drifted out that
the department was curious. If you wanted to see the definition of
family-friendly living, check out Newberry, South Carolina. If you were a cop
looking for a fast-paced career, go somewhere else. It had been a while since
the deputies had a ‘who-dun-it.’

“Let me know what you find.” The deputy handed over the CD.
“We’ll call it even.”

There was only one file on the CD, the download of the
security system feed. Robbins popped the disc into his computer and watched the
two figures move through the rock garden—or as the director called it, the Zen
garden.

What the hell was a Zen garden for, anyway?

The men strode straight through without looking at any of
the rocks or sand designs. They walked through empty rooms in the Center.
Robbins could almost see the frustration rolling off the younger man’s
shoulders. It showed in the occasional fierce whisper. The arm clench that
stopped just short of shaking Beason.

Robbins watched the entire footage with Jordan breathing
down his neck.

“That’s definitely Beason,” Jordan said at the end of the
sequence, when the pair of men disappeared out the front door. The final image
showed the Cadillac leaving the parking lot, the mystery guy behind the wheel.
Disappointment colored the younger detective’s voice. “I guess we’re done.
Beason isn’t missing.”

Robbins reluctantly nodded. Technically, his case was now
closed. Beason was alive and as of yesterday evening, in Greenville, apparently
operating under his own power. If the Greenville people wanted to do anything
about the attempted robbery, that was their problem.

But the dynamic between the two men—this episode at the
Center—said more was happening than a missing man or a joy ride.

“Can you pull a single image off this video?” Robbins asked.

“Sure. Which one do you want?”

He restarted the file and pointed out places where the
second man was full face to the camera, as well as a couple of profile shots.

“Give me five minutes.” Jordan popped the CD out of Robbins’
computer and wandered away.

“I put the stills on the CD,” Jordan said when he handed
Robbins the neatly labeled CD. “They’re saved as jpegs.”

Robbins logged into the face recognition software. “This
program is law enforcement’s new best friend. Like the director at the Nippon
Center said, these days, it’s always, ‘of course we have a camera.’ Cameras are
everywhere.”

Jordan dragged his chair around beside Robbins. “I’ve heard
about the software. Anybody who uses Facebook knows about tagging their
friends. The newer versions of the programs are more sophisticated. They work
off the length of the nose, the angle and width of the eye socket.”

“I don’t care how they work,” Robbins said. “My problem is
finding the right pool of people to compare the faces to. There isn’t a
database of faces like there is with fingerprints.”

Yet.

The feds probably had one, he thought as the program loaded,
but they weren’t sharing. “Best source we have is the past ‘guests’ of our fine
state,” Robbins continued.

“How do you access the prison records?” Jordan leaned over,
watching the screen. “Do you know somebody at CCI that’ll help you out?”

“We aren’t going into their records.” Robbins opened the
pictures Jordan had extracted. “I’m using booking photos.”

With the criminal population’s pictures, there was no
expectation of privacy. Robbins set the filters to eliminate anyone still in
prison and 4.1 seconds later had thirty-seven possibilities to follow up.

He turned next to the Department of Motor Vehicles license
pictures.

“Driver’s license photos?” Jordan sounded uncertain, maybe a
little uncomfortable.

The kid had some reality checks to learn. “The state’s
residents might not appreciate us using their pictures, but the FBI broke that
barrier a couple of years ago. They used North Carolina’s records to locate a
wanted felon.”

3.2 seconds later, Robbins added about a dozen men to his
list. Surrounding states gave him twenty more.

He sorted the list by date of birth and grimaced at the
downside to online driver’s license renewal. Out of date photos.

All but five of the targeted men could be immediately
eliminated due to their age.

Robbins opened files for the five ex-cons. He’d figured all
along that the mystery man would be part of the prison population. He called
the first parole officer. “It’s Robbins. I’m looking for one of your guys.
Armstrong. Can you tell me where he is these days?”

Another little known fact of law-enforcement life. An ex-con
could tell a law enforcement officer to pound sand if he showed up asking
questions. Robbins had found if he tagged along with a parole officer to visit
the same punk, nine times out of ten, the ex-con would invite the cop inside,
too. A PO had the court’s authority to invade every aspect of the parolee’s
life, and could send the guy back inside if he didn’t like what he found during
the inspection. Although the visits involved an element of danger for the
PO—which made them happy to have a detective or patrol officer along—most of
the time the ex-cons cooperated, hoping to get things finished quickly.

“Hang on a sec,” Armstrong’s parole officer said.

Robbins heard a file drawer screech open.

“Armstrong’s still on parole, living over in Whitmire with
his girlfriend.”

Whitmire wasn’t that far away. Across the interstate, a
straight shot up Highway 121. “He staying out of trouble?”

“Seems to be.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Last week. Why? What’s up?”

“We got a situation over here. Maybe a kidnapping, maybe a
duo planning something. Armstrong matched up to the guy on the surveillance
camera.”