Shadows In The Night. Heather Graham
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.