Last Breath Part 5

John took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and pa.s.sed it to Connor.

"I'll just give her a call, take a drive up there in the morning, see what's what. We can always hand off the case if necessary."

"Connor, you don't play well with others. If there's something there, you're not going to want to turn it over to someone else and walk away. I know you." John rested his arms behind his head and leaned back. "What I don't know is why you'd be so interested in a quiet little antiquities theft case. I admit I'm surprised."

Connor shrugged. "Change of pace. Maybe I'm tired of running all over the globe, chasing down informants."

"Nice try." John closed his eyes. "Next."

"Maybe I like art. Antiquities. Archaeology. Indiana Jones. All that stuff."

"Who is Daria McGowan, Connor?"

"She's an archaeologist."

"That much I know. I've got her background. Education, publications. Important digs. She's very well known on an international level. The Iranians invited her in as a consultant on a big dig. American and female. A very big deal. Not their SOP."

"Like you said, she's very well known internationally."

"How do you know her?"

"I met her in Morocco. Last fall."

"You're involved with her?"

Connor smiled. "I only met her once."

"You met her one time, in Morocco, and you told her you were an FBI agent?" John sat up, frowning. "A bit risky, don't you think? In that part of the world?"

"Nah. She's an old friend of Magda's." Connor smiled again. "Magda's been trying to fix me up with her for about two years. We finally met in November."

"And?"

"And what? We met the one time, and we clicked. It'd be nice to see her again."

The two men sat in silence for a minute. Finally, John said, "Okay. You drive up there, you check it out. Help her look around for these artifacts; maybe they're misplaced. Mislabeled. Maybe there's been no theft."

"That's what I just said." Connor nodded. "That's exactly what I want to do."

"And if you determine this is really an art-theft case, we'll turn it over to NSAF." The FBI's National Stolen Art Files unit. "They know the best way to track stolen antiquities, they're the experts."

"Sounds good." Connor stood. "You feel like taking a dip, John? I have some extra trunks."

"No, thanks. I need to be getting back. Genna's been out of town on a job and should be in soon. I'd like to be there when she gets home." He got off the lounge and stretched. "Next time, maybe."

"Sure."

John followed Connor up the steps and into the house. "I'll take a bottle of water for the road, though, if you have one."

"In the fridge," Connor told him and began to pull on a pair of khaki shorts he'd left on a chair in the sun porch. "Help yourself."

"Thanks. You want one?"

"Sure."

Connor joined John in the kitchen a few minutes later.

"I'll call you as soon as I have a handle on this case," Connor told him as he twisted the cap off the bottle John had left for him on the counter. "I don't expect we're talking about anything the art guys can't handle, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't interested in seeing Daria again."

"Fine. Take a drive, check it out, give me a call. With any luck, you'll be able to turn the case over to NSAF within forty-eight hours and you'll still have time to take the lady to dinner."

"That's what I'm thinking." Connor grinned. "I mean, how complicated can it be to figure out if a few old statues or pieces of pottery or whatever have been stolen?"

Connor finished his meal just as the sun drifted behind the trees. He sat alone on the patio that surrounded his pool, at a table with four chairs. He tried to remember whether there'd ever been four people sitting at this table at the same time, and couldn't remember that there had been. The most people who'd visited had been a whopping three: his cousins Mia, Andrew, and Belinda. Which would have made four at the table, if they'd been sitting outside. Which in December, they had not been.

He settled back to finish off the beer he'd had with dinner and watch the sun set. When it was almost dark, he took the chairs into the garage where he stored them, and since sudden thunderstorms darkened many an afternoon this time of the year, he folded the table's umbrella. He watched the fireflies dance across the pool, and thought about seeing Daria again.

He'd been truthful with John when he'd said he'd only met Daria McGowan one time. What he hadn't told John was that after that one meeting, he'd dreamed about this woman over and over. This, he smiled to himself, after months of dodging the efforts of their mutual friend, Magda, to introduce them. It wasn't that he'd been avoiding her. It was simply that life was such these days that he'd rarely had the time to say more than h.e.l.lo to any woman who might have caught his eye. Which was just fine with him. Connor had an agenda, and he hadn't penciled in find woman. Maybe someday, but not now. Then again, maybe never. Life was too complicated.

He'd seen Daria from his balcony once before the night they'd actually met. She'd looked pretty and fragile and he'd been intrigued. He'd been on his way to the courtyard to meet her when he was called from the Villa to attend a meeting, and had returned after midnight. By the next morning, she had gone. His loss, Magda reminded him at every subsequent visit.

Then, last November, he'd arrived in Essaouira on a Wednesday morning, tired and dusty and craving a hot shower, a soft bed, and a meal such as Magda's chef delighted in preparing for the guests. He thought that Magda had smirked when he arrived at the front desk, but there was a group of French tourists behind him waiting to check in, and he let it go. He'd gone to his room and stripped off his clothes and went directly to the shower. A phone call brought a meal fit for a king, and he ate at the table on the balcony and watched the windsurfers out in the harbor. He fell asleep in his chair, and when he awoke, the tray was gone, his back was stiff, and his head hurt. He'd crashed on the bed, fully clothed, and slept straight through until the next morning.

He'd ordered an American breakfast-eggs, toast, potatoes-and a pot of coffee, and once again sat on the balcony to eat. After weeks traveling from desert to mountain and to desert once again, the view of the Atlantic had been as welcome as an oasis. He thought about borrowing a boat from Cyrus. He'd drop anchor in one of the coves and dive in and swim until his arms and legs wore out, then he'd climb onto the boat and return to the marina.

His eyes had strayed to the courtyard, and to the flash of white that moved to the corner table. He'd recognized the hat, white and flowing like the dress she'd worn the day they'd almost met. Smiling, he'd put down his coffee cup and leaned over the railing.

"Please be you," he'd said aloud. "Take off that silly hat so I can see if it's you."

The hat remained on her head, so he grabbed his sungla.s.ses and headed for the door. On his way across the lobby, he ran into a Jordanian he'd once worked with, one of his old field contacts. Trapped, he'd chatted politely, even while he watched a swoop of white move from the courtyard to the gate and disappear beyond the Villa's outer wall.

He'd caught Magda's eye, and from the gleam he saw there, he knew that the woman in white was the woman he'd sought, and he knew, too, that she would be back.

"You win, Magda," he'd said as she pa.s.sed by on her way to the kitchen. "What time is dinner?"

"The corner table in the courtyard at seven-thirty. Perhaps you will have company." She poked him in the ribs. "Then again, perhaps not."

She was already there at the table when he arrived, sipping water with a slice of lemon, looking as fresh as a flower after a gentle rain. She'd looked up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers when he approached the table, and all he could think of to say was a most unoriginal "Hi."

She'd extended a hand to him, and he'd smiled as he took it. Her appearance was very feminine and soft, despite her casual attire-khakis and a cotton shirt-and total lack of makeup. Her hands were hands that worked in the field, tough and calloused, the nails short and devoid of polish and she was deeply tanned from months in the desert. Images of every other woman he'd ever known flashed through his brain, but none were like her. She appeared to face the world without thought of fashion or embellishment, or even-he couldn't help but notice-a professional haircut. Hers looked as if she'd cut it herself.

Later, he'd been hard-pressed to recall much of the conversation, except that they'd talked about their families. He'd been surprised to learn that she, too, had lost a brother, but other than that, for the most part, he only remembered her eyes and the sound of her laughter.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, he'd been trying to think of a way to make the evening last beyond the meal when they'd been interrupted. A message had been left for him at the front desk: a meeting he'd expected to attend the following day had been moved forward and would take place in one hour. He'd have to leave the Villa immediately in order to make it on time. There was no question that he'd keep the appointment; it was the reason he was in North Africa. He'd had to make his apologies to Daria and cut their evening short.

He'd given her his card before he left, and asked her to call him when she was back in the States, or when she was planning on coming back to the Villa.

"Call that number and leave a message, it will get to me," he'd told her. "Anytime. Day or night. I'll get the message."

It had been with great reluctance that he'd left her there at the table, alone, on a beautiful Moroccan night.

He'd really expected that in order to see her again, he'd have to travel back to the Villa. But wonder of wonders, here she was, almost in his own backyard, just a little over an hour away. That she'd kept the card all these months, that she'd called him when she needed help, satisfied him deeply.

She remembered me, and she called.

He couldn't remember the last time anything had pleased him more.

FIVE.

D aria stood by the window in Louise's office and watched the sleek sports car park in the first visitor's spot. Even before the door opened, she knew who was behind the wheel. The car looked like the man-sleek and dark, s.e.xy and dangerous.

He stepped out and looked around the campus as if to get his bearings, one arm leaning on the top of the car. He wore dark gla.s.ses and a shirt open at the neck, well-fitting jeans, and had a light-colored sport jacket slung over one shoulder.

He looks like a government agent, she thought as she stared shamelessly. Or a spy.

"...wondering if you'd had a chance to look through those journals of your great-grandfather's," Louise was saying.

"Oh. Yes." Daria reluctantly turned from the window. "I did. Almost all of them, actually. It was quite fascinating, almost like being there."

"That's what I thought, too, when I read them. I was thinking if once we get the exhibit open, perhaps your family might give approval to have them published. In the hands of the right publisher, we might have a bestselling series."

"Well, the reading is certainly interesting enough, I agree. I don't know who you would have to get permission from, though." Daria frowned. "I don't know who actually owns them. It may be the university. If they were part of his estate, and the estate was left to the school..."

"We can have that looked into. I'd still want the blessing of the McGowan family even if Howe does legally own them. Maybe we could include a forward from you," she said thoughtfully. "The bridge between one generation and another. Perhaps your father would want to contribute, as well."

Louise was about to say something else when there was a knock on the half-opened door.

"Dr. Burnette?" The tall man filled the doorway. "I'm Connor Shields."

Louise walked to the door to greet him.

"Yes, I'm Louise Burnette. Please, come in, Agent Shields. We've been waiting for you."

"Good to meet you." Connor shook her hand and smiled, then looked beyond her.

"And you know Dr. McGowan," Louise stepped aside as Daria made her way across the office.

"Daria, it's good to see you again." Connor took her hand and held it warmly between both of his.

"Thank you for coming right away, Connor." Daria cleared her throat. "Especially since it's Sunday."

"When I said anytime," he lowered his voice, "I meant anytime."

"I...we appreciate it." A flush crept up from beneath Daria's collar to her cheeks.

"Let's have a seat, shall we?" Louise gestured toward the chairs near the window.

Connor let go of Daria's hand, and waited until both women sat before seating himself.

He is very well-mannered, for an American, Daria recalled Magda saying, and the hint of a smile crossed her lips.

"Daria explained your situation on the phone," Connor told Louise. "Frankly, I have to admit I'm having a hard time understanding how such valuable objects could have been kept here all these years, yet no one bothered to check on them."

"It isn't so unusual, Connor." Daria touched his arm. "There are many, many museums that have locked rooms with locked crates that haven't seen the light of day in fifty or a hundred years. New objects are acquired and the older acquisitions are moved farther back into the storage area-often a bas.e.m.e.nt or warehouse. Curators are hired and fired, and sometimes their records are misplaced. Acquisitions are often forgotten over time."

"And here at Howe," Louise added, "in the last fifty years, dinosaurs became more popular than ancient cultures. As I mentioned to Daria, the last curator's interests lay in the area of American natural history. Professor McGowan's finds, along with those of another archaeologist who led an expedition about the same time, were locked away and pretty much forgotten as other items were acquired and put on display."

"What reminded you?" Connor asked.

"For the past few years, the financial picture here at the university has become increasingly grim. We have been considering different means of raising cash, and recently someone suggested selling off what few liquid a.s.sets we have." She smiled wryly. "It didn't take long to make a list of those. We have some land we could sell, but there isn't enough to make a dent in the budget. And this isn't really a high-rent district out here, as you may have noticed."

"The town looks all right," Connor noted.

"The town is all right, and that's about it. We're surrounded by farms, many of them Amish, and the price per acre is pretty low."

"So what you're saying is that selling off land wasn't the solution," he said.

"Right." Louise nodded. "And then someone started talking about selling off artwork-the university does have quite a nice collection of American primitive paintings-so we went around to the various buildings to take stock of what we had. On my way back home that night, I came past the museum, and it jogged my memory."

"I'd have thought it would have occurred to someone sooner than that."

"Agent Shields, no one has seen that collection in almost one hundred years. There was no official catalog we could refer to, because Professor McGowan died before his find was ever put on display."

"But if there was no catalog, why are you so sure something is missing?" he asked.

"He made an inventory when he first returned to the States," Daria told him. "He described everything in every crate in great detail. Some items he'd even sketched. Every crate was numbered, so we know exactly what should be in each one. He was in the process of designing his exhibits when he died, and his inventory reflects that. Louise-Dr. Burnette-and I have gone through the crates several times, double-checking and searching for the missing items. They are not in the vault."

"Where else have you looked?" Connor asked.

"We've searched the bas.e.m.e.nt," Daria told him, "and last night, I started going through the house where I'm staying here on campus, where my great-grandparents lived. I thought perhaps there might be something there."

"I'm guessing you didn't find anything," Connor said.

"Only some letters he wrote to my great-grandmother from the dig. Unfortunately, romantic as they are, there's nothing that's going to help us figure out what happened to the missing artifacts."

"What about other buildings throughout the university?" Connor said, thinking aloud. "I'm a.s.suming you've scoured the other houses, the science building, offices, storerooms?"

"Actually, I'm working on that this afternoon, along with the lone member of our archaeology staff who is on campus for the summer. Daria and I believe that the only items that might still be on campus and might have gone unnoticed would be pottery. Jars, vases, that sort of thing. Certainly any of the gold or jeweled items wouldn't be sitting out unnoticed on a shelf."

"Good point. Has anyone searched the museum?" he asked.

"Only Dr. Burnette and I."