Читать книгу Shadows In The Night - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 8

Chapter One

One Year Later

The New Museum of Antiquity

New York City, New York

The moon that shone down through the skylights in the temple region of the museum created a stunning vision. Opalescent light shimmered on the marble and made it appear that the ribbon of “Nile” river by the temple was created of crystal and glass. The lights in the area were dim, designed to look as if they were burning torches set along the walls.

The exhibit in the New Museum of Antiquity was impressive—even to Harley, despite all the time she’d spent in the real Sahara. In designing this space, the organizers had also borrowed heavily from another famous NYC museum, all to the benefit of the Egyptian displays. Harley felt a sudden breeze from an air-conditioning vent, and she shivered.

“Mummy thing getting to you, huh?”

“Pardon?” Harley turned quickly to see the speaker. The words had been teasing; they’d also been spoken in a pleasantly deep, masculine voice.

The voice aroused a strange memory she couldn’t quite reach—and seemed to whisper to something inside her, far beneath her skin.

She hadn’t seen the speaker before, despite the fact that his voice seemed oddly familiar. Here, on opening night, she should’ve known most of the invited crowd. But she didn’t know him, and—as her chosen field of criminology had taught her—she studied anyone she didn’t recognize in a situation such as this evening’s event.

A soiree to celebrate the exhibition. This was opening night for the traveling exhibit that would, in the end, return to Egypt, where the precious artifacts of that country would then remain. But tonight they celebrated the very first time the exhibit had been seen! It would open to the public in the morning. It had, quite properly, been named in honor of Henry—the Henry Tomlinson Collection of Egyptian Culture and Art.

There would be toasts in his honor, of course.

This phenomenal display would not have been possible without him.

But Henry was gone, as much a part of history as his treasures.

She sensed that this man—with his deep, somehow familiar voice—was connected to Henry.

She definitely hadn’t seen him before.

He wasn’t the kind of man you forgot.

He was tall—well over six feet, she thought. Because she’d recently taken identification classes that taught criminologists to look for details to include in descriptions, she also noted that not only was he about six foot three, but he had excellent posture. Nicely muscled, too. She had no doubt that he was the kind of man who spent time in a gym, not to create impressive abs, but to train the complex human machine that was his most important tool.

How could she be so sure of this? she asked herself. And yet she was.

He wore a casual suit, no jewelry. He was freshly shaven, and kept his dark hair cropped close to his head.

Someone’s bodyguard?

Beneath the glimmer of the moon that showed through the skylights, she couldn’t quite ascertain the color of his eyes. She had a feeling they were light, despite the darkness of his hair.

Thirty-three to thirty-six years old, she estimated. Carefully nondescript clothing—dark blue suit, dark blue shirt, pin-striped tie in shades of blue and black. Sunglasses resting on head.

He moved closer to her; she was certain he’d been doing the same kind of study on her that she’d nearly completed on him.

No, she’d never seen him before, but she had heard his voice.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You’re not afraid of mummies, right?” he asked again, his expression quizzical.

“No, not at all,” she assured him. “Ah, well, that’s a bit of a lie. I might be afraid of some of the bacteria that can be found in old tombs, but as for the mummies themselves...no. My dad was a cop, a very good one. He taught me to fear the living, not the dead.”

“Sounds like a bright man,” he said. He stepped toward her, offering his hand. “Micah. Micah Fox.”

She shook his hand. “Harley Frasier. How do you do? And pardon me, but who are you? Do I know you?”

He smiled. “Yes, and no. I’m an old student of Dr. Tomlinson’s,” he said. “I was at Brown when he was teaching there. About twelve years ago, I was lucky enough to join him on one of his expeditions. Back then, he was looking for the tomb of a princess from the Old Kingdom, Fifth Dynasty.” He paused, still smiling, and shrugged. “He found her, too—right now she’s in one of the display cases in a room not far from here, near the temple.” He stopped, studying her again, and asked, “Are you surprised by that?”

“No, no, I’m not. You don’t look like an Egyptologist,” Harley said. “Sorry! It’s not that Egyptologists look a certain way. I just—”

“It’s okay. I’m not an Egyptologist,” he told her. “I meant is it surprising that he found his princess? No, of course not. Henry was the best. But even though I began in archeology, I changed my major. I’m with the government now.”

“FBI?” Harley guessed.

He nodded.

“Something seems to be coming back. I’m not sure what,” she said. “I know your voice, but I don’t know you. I mean—”

“Yes, you know my voice. I guess I should start over. I called you soon after the incident when you were staying in Rome. Your group was shipped from place to place, and we were trying to get a handle on what happened. I’m the Fox from those phone calls. Special Agent Micah Fox—though I admit, I was working on my own, and not as assigned by the bureau. And I apologize, because I do know a lot about you, although it wasn’t appropriate to bring that up at the time. You’re Craig Frasier’s first cousin, and Craig and I have actually worked together. Of course, we’re in different offices now. Naturally, you’ve met a number of the men and women with the New York office. Craig told me you finished grad school, and you’re deciding what to do with all your education—join up with NYPD’s finest, remain with the private agency employing you now, or go into a federal agency. But tonight, you’re here for the same reason I am, honoring our old professor. For one summer, you were an unofficial Egyptologist. And, as I just explained, you recognize my voice because we spoke on the phone. I’m Criminal Division, FBI. Right now, I’m assigned down in DC. I’ve taken some leave to be here.”

“I...see,” she said.

Did she?

No, not really.

Wait. Fox—yes, that was the name of the man she’d spoken with about Henry Tomlinson, just once, what now seemed like a lifetime ago.

These days, that time was mostly a blur. Maybe because she didn’t want to think of it. But she couldn’t stop her mind from rushing back to the night they’d returned to the camp, laughing and loaded down with food and drink for their professor, only to find him on the floor, along with the broken coffin and the “screaming” mummy. He’d been garroted by his own belt, eyes open and bulging, throat blackened and bruised, a swatch of ancient linen wrapped around it.

There’d been an immediate outcry. Security was convinced that no one from outside had been anywhere near the expedition tents; they kept a tight perimeter around the work area, which included the tents that had been set up for the staff. Egyptian police had come out, ready to help with the investigation.

Then, all hell had broken loose. The computer had picked up more chatter. And word had come that the fledgling, unaffiliated militant group calling themselves The Ancient Guard was bearing down on the expedition. Perhaps they intended to steal the artifacts to finance their cause. Not an uncommon scenario... It meant that everyone and everything needed to go as quickly as possible. Government forces were being sent out, but no one wanted scientists from around the world caught up in an exchange of gunfire.

Security forces from Alchemy, along with the Egyptian police, did their best to preserve what they could from the expedition, as well as the body of Henry Tomlinson so they could discover the circumstances of his death.

Much was lost. But at least no one else was killed. The final inquiry, conducted by the Egyptian police and the Alchemy security force, concluded that the brilliant archeologist Dr. Henry Tomlinson had driven himself mad and committed suicide. According to their conclusions, he believed a mummy had come to life with the intention of murdering him... It was suspected that some unknown bacteria had caused the temporary fit of insanity, and everything from the expedition would be scrutinized using proper precautions.

Harley had fought the verdict—vociferously. She was a criminology student; she knew what should have been done and a lot of it wasn’t. Pretty much nothing had been done, really, not as far as a crime scene examination went.

Not in her opinion, anyway.

How many men committed suicide with their own belts in such a manner? She sure as hell hadn’t seen or read about any. And she was studying criminology.

Nope, never heard of it!

Her friends backed her up, at first. And then, one by one, it seemed, they all decided that the poor professor—so caught up in his love and enthusiasm for his work—had gone mad, even if only temporarily. No one could find a motive for murdering him. Henry Tomlinson had been respected and dearly loved by everyone. No one could find a clue.

The police assigned to them had been incompetent, to Harley’s mind. Authorities in Egypt and in the United States hadn’t done enough.

And the Alchemy people...

They wanted it to be a suicide. They didn’t want to deal with a murder. They accepted the verdict without a whimper.

They were so sorry and sad, they’d claimed, and in hindsight, they could see so many mistakes.

They should’ve known to be more careful!

Henry should’ve known to be more careful!

But in fact, they said, the professor’s enthusiasm for the project had caused them all to bypass modern safety regulations that might have kept him alive.

A great company line, Harley thought in disgust.

And what was the matter with her? They might all have been killed by a crazy insurgent group that hadn’t defined exactly what it was fighting for or against. It was a miracle that they’d gotten out, that they were all alive.

Well, most of them. And Henry, poor Henry, he’d done himself in—according to the authorities and to Alchemy, who went on to say that now they’d never completely understand the biology of what had gone on. They weren’t allowed back on the site; the Egyptian government had stamped a foot down hard.

And that night...

First, they were shuffled to Cairo, then, almost immediately—on the orders of the Egyptian authorities and the US State Department—they were put on planes to Rome, and from Rome they were flown to New York City.

But, thinking back, Harley recalled that it was while she’d been staying at the little Italian hotel near the Spanish Steps that she’d spoken with this man. Fox. He’d wanted to know whatever she knew about the situation, and she’d told him everything, adding that she didn’t believe a word of the official explanation.

There was no way Henry had killed himself.

Special Agent Fox had seemed to accept her version, but apparently he’d been just as stonewalled as she had.

Like her, he’d been forced to realize in the end that no one was going to believe him. Or her.

And even if the authorities had believed him, they didn’t care enough to make a killer pay!

Here, tonight, for the first time in a year, everything about that horrible occasion was suddenly coming back.

Tonight was about honoring Henry Tomlinson. This would be an event during which people would shake their heads sadly, missing the professor who’d done so much, declaring it tragic that he’d lost his mind because of what he’d loved so deeply.

“Ms. Frasier?”

She blinked, staring at the man in front of her, wondering how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.

In a way, she did know him. They’d just never met in person. She’d left the Sahara before he reached it. Then she’d been flown out of Cairo, and soon after that she was back in New York.

“I’m sorry!” she said softly.

He shook his head. “Hey, it’s all right. I know you really cared, and that you tried to do something. It must have been hard to maintain your own belief that he’d been murdered when everyone else was telling you otherwise,” Micah Fox said.

It had been and still was. “Oh, don’t you know?” she muttered. “‘Henry went crazy. Bacteria in the wrappings. He just had to dig in before proper precautions were taken. It’s so tragic—don’t make it worse by rehashing every little thing!’”

Her tone, she knew, was heavy with sarcasm.

They were alone in the temple area—or so she believed. Still, she looked around and repeated, “I’m sorry. I tried... I do believe he was murdered. They did find bacteria, but not enough. Henry was murdered. And I couldn’t do a damned thing to prove it.”

Micah nodded at her. She liked his face. Hard-jawed, somewhat sharp-boned. His eyes, she saw now, were actually blue—sky blue—and they seemed to see a great deal.

“Remember, I was a student of his, too. And now I’m an FBI agent. And I couldn’t do anything, either. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He paused. “I should explain. I knew about you through Craig, of course. And also through Henry. We kept in touch when we could—he’d let me know what was up, what was going on. I went into law enforcement, but I still love Egyptology. Henry thought the world of you.” He shook his head. “I can only imagine what it was like that last night. I hope you’re okay now. Time...heals, so they say.”

“So they say.”

“It heals when you’re at peace with the past.”

“And I’m not,” she said grimly, and added, “And neither are you.”

“No. Anyway, I’d like to find out about the last time you saw him. If you don’t mind.”

“There won’t be a chance tonight,” she said.

“I know. At a later date.”

Harley nodded. “I’ll be happy to speak with you. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”

“You found him.”

“Yes.”

“I’d just like you to go over it with me. I realize it’s painful, but...”

“The verdict was ridiculous! You know what the ME said! That he killed himself.”

“An Egyptian ME, who wanted out of there as quickly as possible, with armed insurrectionists about to attack the place.”

True!

But then...

“The company, Alchemy, brought in a medical examiner, too. He agreed with the Egyptian ME’s findings.”

“I’m sure that all happened in about two minutes in Cairo or Rome. And as soon as they made their decision, Henry was shot through with preservatives and packed into a box. So anything that could be construed as evidence was compromised. I could be way off base. We could be way off base. Thing is, I’d feel better if we could talk.”

“Yes, of course,” she said.

Of course?

She didn’t want to remember that night!

And yet, here was someone—someone in law enforcement—who agreed with her, the only person who did. Like her, Fox believed there was a truth out there that everyone else had denied.

They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment.

“Well, a pleasure to meet you in person. I guess I’m going to head over to the party area,” Micah said. His voice softened. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You might want more time here. On your own. By the way, as I said, I really do know your cousin fairly well. We worked together years ago on a case in DC. He’s a great guy.”

“Yes. Craig’s great,” Harley agreed.

She sensed that he wanted to say more.

Like maybe when or where they could meet again?

But he didn’t speak. They weren’t alone anymore.

Jensen Morrow came striding through the temple area. He apparently saw Harley, but not Micah Fox, probably because he stood in the shadow of a carved obelisk.

“I knew I’d find you here!” Jensen told Harley, heading toward her for a huge hug.

He’d written his thesis, gotten his graduate degree and taken a job here as an assistant curator, making use of his doctorate in Egyptology. He’d been her friend through her suspicions, her anger, her demands—and her final defeat, when she’d realized that nothing was going to be done.

No one was ever going to make her believe that Henry Tomlinson had been convinced that a mummy was attacking him—while strangling himself with his own belt.

Jensen, she was certain, had just given up. He’d been told the lie so many times that to him, it had become truth.

Harley accepted Jensen’s hug; she still cared about him. When they’d first met, they’d hit it off as friends. They might have become more at one time; he was fun, energetic and thoughtful, not to mention tall, dark and handsome. But everything had changed the night Henry Tomlinson died.

Even though she didn’t see the friends she’d made in Egypt very often—they were all busy working, getting on with their lives—they had all stayed friends. They were, in fact, oddly close; they had shared the experience of the dig, Henry Tomlinson’s death and the escape from the desert under dire circumstances in the middle of the night. All of that meant they had an emotional bond few people shared.

And yet it was a closeness stained with the loss of the man they’d all adored. Stained, too, by the way they’d fled on the very night he died, swept up in a reign of terror.

She’d gone on to finish her own graduate work, head bent to her studies, and had taken part-time work with a prestigious investigation firm in the city so that she could still take classes when she chose while deciding what path to take for her future. It felt right, for the time being. But she had to make some real decisions soon. And yet, even as she’d worked toward her educational and career goals, she had felt that she was waiting. A temporary post—with flexible hours!—was all she’d been willing to accept at the moment.

“They’re about to start,” Jensen said, pulling away from her to study her face. That was when he rather awkwardly noticed there was someone else in the temple exhibit.

He offered Micah Fox a hand. “I’m sorry. How rude. I didn’t see you. I’m Jensen Morrow.”

“Micah Fox,” the other man returned. “And actually, we’ve spoken. Over the phone.”

“Oh! Hey, that was you?” Jensen said. “Wow. Was I vague when I talked to you? Or worse, rude? If I was, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that...well, you had to be there that night. We found Henry—or, I should say, Harley found Henry—and by the time the medical examiner arrived, they were screaming that the insurgents were a few miles out and we had to break camp ASAP! I know Harley and I were going crazy with concern and disbelief and...well...hey,” he finished lamely.

“There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the situation,” Micah said.

“Well, you’re FBI, right? I guess if you couldn’t prove anything different from what was said or get anything done, Harley and I, who had no law enforcement power, couldn’t have done more than complain and question. Which we did. Who knows? The thing is—thing that got me, anyway—we weren’t in a closed or confined space. I mean if bacteria were going to get him, you might’ve thought someone else would’ve had a reaction or... Anyway, had you been assigned to the case—officially? The FBI works in Egypt? Or does it?”

“The FBI works all over the world, as necessary,” Micah replied. “But...I was there because of Henry.”

“Special Agent Fox was another of Henry’s grad students, but years ago,” Harley quickly explained.

“Ah,” Jensen murmured. That was obviously enough of an explanation. “I guess you were crazy about him, too.”

“I was. Brilliant man. Horrible circumstances.”

Jensen glanced at Harley. “I think we were the last people who saw him. Alive, I mean. Harley was trying to get him to come out with us. But you knew him. There was no way he was going to leave his work that night.”

“No, Henry wouldn’t want to leave his work.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Well, I think they must be about ready to start.”

“Let’s go.” Harley slid her fingers into Jensen’s and they left, nodding to Micah. It was ludicrous, but she was suddenly afraid to be too close to the man. He not only projected strength—he was someone warm when the world had been cold. Too confident, too attractive...

She could easily give in to her feelings of sadness and loss and even anger on a night like this. With a man like this.

She was aware of Micah watching them leave.

And she wondered what he was thinking.

* * *

HARLEY FRASIER, CRAIG’S COUSIN, was certainly a beautiful young woman, Micah thought, watching her leave, hand in hand with Jensen Morrow. He’d been studying her intently for some time before he’d spoken with her. It was evident that she had really cared about Henry. And he knew how Henry had felt about her.

According to Craig, she had wonderful parents and a great older brother, living grandparents, all kinds of family life. Micah’s parents had been lost in a bridge accident when he was a child; his aunt had raised him. Auntie Jane. He loved her and she was a talented and compassionate woman. But she was it as far as family went. He had no siblings, no cousins—no one else anywhere that he knew about. His family went far back in Virginia history; it had simply winnowed down to him and Jane.

His father had been FBI. People had feared the dangers of his job. They’d never imagined that he might die young because of a bridge collapse.

Henry Tomlinson had treated him like a son or grandson. He’d shared his enthusiasm for Egyptology with Micah. Henry had a family he adored. He hadn’t married, but he had a loving niece and nephew-in-law, and he was crazy about their kids.

He’d send Micah pictures of an unusual canopic jar right alongside ones of the kids with their new puppy. That was Henry.

Micah followed the pair who’d just left, wondering if he was indulging himself in an exercise of futility. Was the truth about Henry Tomlinson’s death ever going to be uncovered? Henry had been murdered, which was terrible enough, but it had happened on a night when both the Egyptian government and the US Department of State had been determined to get all the workers away from the site and out of the country. The group who’d planned the attack had called themselves The Ancient Guard.

Apparently, they hadn’t believed that Alchemy intended that the treasures they’d found would merely go on loan to the United States and other countries—and that they’d remain Egyptian property. Maybe they hadn’t cared. And maybe, like most militant groups, what The Ancient Guard wanted, religious and political ideology aside, was a chance to fight and stave off frustration. And probably steal the treasures to finance their fighting.

They’d either been beaten back or dissipated quickly when met with armed resistance.

Micah had gone to Cairo to investigate Henry’s death on an unofficial basis, and then to Rome, where the Alchemy crew had briefly stayed. Their communication had been by phone—he’d been a day behind each time everyone had moved on. And by the time he’d reached the States, it had all been too long.

Henry had been cremated, just as he’d instructed his niece to arrange in the event of his death. Then, of course, it was too late to bring in any experts.

But Henry had never suspected that he might be murdered.

And why would he?

Why the hell kill an academic like Henry? The man had never wanted or kept anything for himself—he’d never tried to slip away with even the smallest, most insignificant artifact. His work had always been about sharing treasures with the world.

Tonight... Well, tonight, Micah could watch. He could see the people who’d been close to Henry in his last days.

The grand foyer of the museum had been chosen for the site of the private gala opening. The center monument here was a massive replica of a temple from Mesopotamia that sat in the center of a skylit rotunda. The museum was beautiful, and just down the street from its larger cousin, the Metropolitan. Many design ideas that worked well in the first had been used in this newer museum. The offices were deep in the basement, for the most part. The museum was dedicated to the ancient world; it was divided into sections that concentrated on the earliest humans to the rich, ancient civilizations of Greece, Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and more.

The exhibition hall that would open to the public in the morning was an admirable addition to the museum. Exhibits didn’t stay forever, but the hall itself would continue to thrive because of the work of Henry and other archeologists and scholars; right now, however, it was all about Henry.

Men and women in pairs and groups stood around the room, chatting, while waiters and waitresses in white-and-black attire moved about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.

Many of those invited were here because they were sponsoring patrons of the museum. There were also a number of politicians, including the mayor.

None of them interested Micah.

He scanned the crowd, taking note of those he did find intriguing.

Arlo Hampton, young, pleasant, eager. Tall and slim, but handsomely boyish-looking in a suit, speaking with an Egyptian dignitary. Ned Richter and his wife, Vivian. He so robust, she so tiny, both smiling, standing close, chatting with the mayor. And there—between an aging Broadway director and his latest ingénue—Belinda Gray, sans her fiancé, who was still serving in the military. He saw Roger Eastman, wiry and lean, wearing thick-lensed glasses, talking with his hands as he loudly discussed a technical innovation for dealing with the security of priceless historic objects. Across the room, in the midst of a few young female museum apprentices, was Joe Rosello. Joe seemed electrically energetic; he was a square-shouldered guy who could’ve been a fullback. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a very white smile.

Micah had done research on everyone involved with the last stages of the dig. Every one of the workers who’d had access to the tent. It hadn’t been easy finding out about the Egyptian workers. Since they weren’t archeologists or preservation experts, they hadn’t been allowed into the inner sanctum of the camp, where the preparation tent was located. Still, he’d done his best. But everything in him screamed that the guilty party was not Egyptian, but someone among those who should have loved and honored Henry.

Why? he asked himself again. Why the hell would anyone kill Henry? If he could come up with a why...

“Micah?”

He turned. He hadn’t expected to know many people here tonight. His name had been softly voiced by one of the few people he did know, and he knew her fairly well.

Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece.

Simone was in her midthirties, a sandy-haired woman who looked eternally like a girl. She was small and slim and wide-eyed. She was accompanied by her husband, Jerry, a banker, who was equally slim and wide-eyed.

Micah greeted them both.

“Thank you for coming. And thank you for caring so much,” Simone said. “It’s still so hard to accept what they say.”

“Yes, it is,” Micah agreed.

“But tonight,” Jerry said brightly, “tonight we honor his body of work.”

“Yes. An incredible body of work,” Micah said. “How are the girls?”

“Getting big!” Simone answered. “Ten, eight and five now.”

He nodded. “I’ve seen pictures. They’re beautiful.”

“They are. Thank you. They loved their uncle Henry, too,” Simone said.

“We all miss him.”

“Oh, look—there’s Arlo Hampton,” Jerry said. “Micah, we’ll talk later? Simone, we need to find out what he wants us to do when he speaks.”

“Excuse us,” Simone said.

“Of course!” Micah told them. They moved on.

He continued to survey the room.

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Grad students. Administration staff. Egyptologists. City officials. Museum people. And there...

An exotic woman with dark skin and almost inky black hair was speaking with Simone and her family. Arlo stood beside them.

Yolanda Akeem. They’d met briefly—very briefly—in Cairo. She was the Egyptian liaison with the Department of Antiquities. Naturally, she’d be here tonight.

She saw him looking at her. She elegantly lifted her glass a few inches in acknowledgment.

She’d given him whatever information she’d had in Cairo; it hadn’t been much. A two-second autopsy report and a lecture on the dangers of the Middle East. He didn’t listen to much of it. Henry’s body was gone by then and the members of the expedition had been shuttled off. He’d been ready to follow them as quickly as possible when they’d been in Egypt—and through their escape from the trouble that had befallen the expedition that night.

Tonight, they were all here.

And there was Harley Frasier. She had a smile on her face as she spoke with Gordon Vincent, director at large for the museum. Her smile was forced. Jensen was with her, smiling and chatting, as well. He seemed to be putting a little too much effort into being charming.

Which didn’t seem necessary, since he was already employed by the museum.

Harley didn’t; she worked for Fillmore Investigations, a large security and investigation company that served the civilian market, but was known for its close affiliation with the New York City PD and other law enforcement agencies. The founder of the company, Edward Fillmore, had barely survived a kidnap-for-ransom scheme as a child. He had founded his company on the premise that all agencies, public or private, should work together for the benefit of victims. Since Micah’s job with the FBI had come about because of similar circumstances, he liked the man without even knowing him. Micah was pleased that Harley Frasier had chosen such a reputable company. None of his business, of course. But...

He’d felt something for her, just from hearing her voice over the phone a year ago.

And now...he’d seen her.

Anyone awake and breathing would find her attractive and charming.

He was certainly charmed by her and impressed by her—and so much more.

Even though he hardly knew her...

He forced himself to look away from Harley and objectively observe the other people in the room.

He was standing back, watching, when he became aware that a friend had arrived.

“I have to admit I was definitely expecting you to be here,” Craig Frasier told him.

Micah smiled without glancing over. “And I guess I’m not surprised that you’re here,” he said.

“I can’t let you get into too much trouble,” Craig murmured.

“I’m just here to honor an old friend,” Micah said.

“Like hell.” Craig smiled grimly, studying the crowd milling in the foyer. “But I don’t know what you think you can discover at this late date.”

Micah turned to face Craig at last, a rueful half smile on his face. “Right. Well, it would help if someone suddenly had a guilt attack and admitted going crazy—from the bacteria in the wrappings, of course—and murdering Henry.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to harass your cousin,” Micah said.

“I’m not worried. I think you two can actually do each other some good it you get a chance to really talk. Maybe you can figure something out, late as it might be. There was so much done so quickly and so politically. State Department, international bull. A cover-up. Yeah, it’ll be good for the two of you to talk.”

“You say that as if you doubt the official line, too,” Micah said quietly.

“Because I do. I believe it was a cover-up.”

“Not by the government,” Micah said.

“By?”

Micah looked at him and said, “By Alchemy.”

Craig didn’t get a chance to respond.

Arlo Hampton took the microphone on a small portable dais set in the center of the foyer. He cleared his throat, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the museum, friends of science and exploration, and friends of the City of New York!”

It took a moment for everyone to stop talking and start listening. Someone tapped a champagne flute with a fork or spoon. Then the room fell silent.

“We welcome you to our amazing new exhibit, brought to us through the genius of the man—the brilliant, kind, ever-giving man—whose name will now grace our museum walls, Dr. Henry Tomlinson. Those who knew Henry loved him. He was a scholar, but he was also a very human man who loved his family and friends. No one knew Egyptology the way Henry did...”

A sudden gasp from the crowd silenced him. Everyone turned.

Someone had come up from the basement steps, and was now staggering through the crowd.

Someone grotesquely dressed up in a mummy’s linen bindings, staggering out as if acting in a very bad mummy movie.

A performance for the evening?

No.

Because Arlo grunted an angry “Excuse me!” and exited the dais, walking toward the “mummy” now careening toward him.

“What the hell?” Micah and Craig were close enough to hear Arlo’s words. “Richter, is that you? You idiot! Is that you?”

It wasn’t Richter; Micah knew that right away. Richter was far too big a man to be the slight, lean person now dressed up.

Or at least Ned Richter was!

Micah burst forward, phone out and in his hand. As he neared the mummy, he was already dialing 9-1-1.

“Get those bindings off her! Get them off her fast!” he commanded.

The mummy collapsed.

Micah barely managed to catch the wrapped body sagging to the floor.

As quickly as he could, he began to remove the wrappings.

He heard the sound of a siren.

Then Vivian Richter looked up at him, shuddered and closed her eyes.

The wrappings, Micah knew, had been doused in some kind of poison.