With one small chess piece, the game begins…

For archaeologist and TV host Annja Creed, a late-night phone call from the NYPD means one thing: there’s been a murder and the police need her expertise. The only link between a dead body and the killer is a small elephant of white jade. An artifact that’s gone missing.

Once belonging to Catherine the Great of Russia, the elephant was key in a risky political gambit all those years ago. But there is another story attached to the artifact—a rumor of an ancient hidden treasure. And for a cruelly ambitious media mogul with a penchant for tomb-raiding, the elephant is nothing short of priceless.

Annja must make her move quickly, traveling across several continents with only the assistance of her extraordinary sword—purportedly the same sword wielded by Joan of Arc—and a mysterious temple monk. It’s a deadly battle of wits, and one wrong move could mean game over.

“Reminds you of old days in Russia, nyet?” Serov smiled at Klykov.

“Reminds me more of East Germany when we were thwarting the Stasi.” Klykov grinned, animated and excited. Their English had regressed during the chaos. “Look at you with your grandfather’s gun. Already having to reload. You should have one of these.” He shook his Beretta proudly. “Would be better to have two.”

“Is better to only have six rounds. Counting so many as in your guns, I sometimes forget.” Serov snapped the cylinder closed with a flick of his wrist. “Is not good to forget count and run out of bullets at wrong time.”

“They say math keeps the mind sharp.”

“Until it is blown out of your head.”

Annja started to move, but Klykov restrained her. In the next moment, another wave of gunfire tore through the apartment wall.

“I wish I had grenade.” Serov said in a low voice. “Grenade would make this thing so much simpler.”

“Grenade would mean Annja could not question Onoprienko about the elephant,” Klykov countered.

Serov nodded. “We must not let that happen. Others may get the wrong impression because we look weak.”

Look weak? Annja didn’t even have a response to that. The old Russian gangsters had already killed a handful of men and somehow dodged hundreds of bullets. She stayed low with both hands locked on her pistol.

It was a massacre, and Annja was in the middle of it.

The Pretender’s Gambit

Rogue Angel

Alex Archer

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

The Legend

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Amchitka, Rat Islands

Aleutian Island, Russian Empire 1784

A death scream woke Hidari Kaneko in his cold bed and filled him with fear. It’s begun. They have attacked. Now we will all die.

For a moment he clung desperately to the hope that he had only had a nightmare summoned by the ill luck that had plagued the crew of Shinsho-maru since the ship had sunk in the freezing water of the Bering Sea months ago. He had been the ship’s pilot, charting the course until that had become impossible due to the storm and the damage done to the vessel.

Fifteen Japanese crewmen had survived the storm at Enshu and seven months of drifting helplessly till they reached the Aleutian Islands and the Russian Empire located on Amchitka. The spit of land was part of the Rat Islands that hung like a skeletal finger crooked at the Bering Sea in the freezing north of the land called Alaska.

At least, the five Russians who manned the trading post there claimed to be an empire. The Russians were all big men, noisy and loud and boastful, and the Japanese sailors did not fit in well with them. Still, the ship’s crew weathered the winter at the Russian outpost, and they persevered in the hope that a trade ship would soon drop anchor there and agree to take them away from the barren landscape.

However, the fur trade in the Aleutian Islands had dropped off miserably. Ships seldom made landings at Amchitka these days, which was why there were only five Russians occupying the fort now. That decrease in trade had angered the native people, too. They had agreed to allow the foreigners to stay there in return for trade, for the tobacco, iron and other goods they so enjoyed. In the past few days, that anger had escalated to near violence, and Kaneko doubted the Russians could stand against the Aleuts. Five men against hundreds of Aleut warriors were impossible odds.

Only that morning, Nezimov, the leader of the Russians, had ordered the execution of the Aleut chief’s daughter because he felt she did not try to support his position. Nezimov had earlier taken the young woman as his lover as part of the trade pact. Kaneko had only known the cruelty of sea before witnessing the callous murder, but he had been little more than a boy when he’d shipped out so there was still yet much he had not seen. He had not believed Nezimov would go through with the deed until the young woman lay dead, her life’s blood pouring over the frozen ground.

Daikokuya Kodayu, captain of the Japanese vessel, had not agreed with Nezimov’s course of action, but they were guests of the Russians so he could not argue for the young woman’s fate. Or perhaps he, too, had not thought the Russians would go so far. In any event, all of their lots were now cast with their hosts.

Kaneko sat on his bed and peered through the darkness. He shivered against the frigid temperatures that filled every night since he’d been there. It was now May, and he had begun to believe that winter never stayed its hand in these lands. Kaneko wished only to go back to his warm home, or even the harsh existence aboard a ship. Anything to be off of this dreadful island.

Rifles barked and men screamed in pain and anger. Several objects hit the side of the small log cabin where Kaneko resided with five of his shipmates.

“What is going on?” Churyo asked in his grumbling voice. He was an older sailor, one who had been on many voyages. He had learned to enjoy the Russians’ vodka and often drank far too much of it. In the soft darkness of evening that filled the cabin, he slurred his words.

“I do not know.” Nakagawa pushed himself up from his bed and draped sleeping furs over his thin shoulders as he walked toward the nearest window. He, too, was an older man, a fisherman before he became a sailor. He worked with the Russians on the furs, trading his labors for drink and tobacco.

More objects thumped against the walls of the cabin and Kaneko flinched at every beat. Another volley of rifle shots cracked and echoed outside, sounding nearer this time.

“Light the lantern so that we may see what is going on.” Yamashita stirred in his top bunk, rising up too quickly and banging his head on the low ceiling.

“Fool! Do not turn on the lantern,” Churyo growled. “You will only invite in whatever is going on outside. We do not want those troubles. The darkness is your friend. Light the lantern and you become a target.”

Nervously, Kaneko pulled his knives from under his bunk. Neither of them was long enough to be considered a sword, and he had never truly learned to defend himself, but he did not feel as vulnerable with them in his hands.

The cabin door banged open and Captain Kodayu strode inside. The chill wind followed him and banished some of the heat generated by the small fireplace. In his thirties, the captain was short and broad, rather soft in the middle. During the past months spent with the Russians, he had put weight back on that he’d lost while they’d been adrift.

“The Aleuts have attacked,” Kodayu announced while gripping the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip. “We must prepare to defend ourselves. Quickly.”

“This is not our fight,” Churyo objected in a surly tone. “The Russians killed that woman, not us.”

“Do you believe the Aleuts will think about that when they overtake the fort?” Kodayu glared at Churyo. “Get out of that bed and dress or I will kill you myself.”

Cursing softly, Churyo clambered from the bunk. All knew that Kodayu was an accomplished swordsman.

Kaneko lay his knives aside and dressed hurriedly as another volley of rifle shots pierced the night.

* * *

DRESSED IN HIS COAT, the hood pushed back so it did not interfere with his peripheral vision, Kaneko followed Captain Kodayu out into the late-evening gloom. He held his knives in his hands and hoped that he did not have to use them, and he hoped that he would not be dead before morning. He did not know if he could find his ancestors and the Celestial Heavens from this place if he were killed here.

The ground remained frozen and traces of dirty snow still gleamed white under the moonlight in some places. The breeze coming in from the Bering Sea chafed Kaneko’s exposed face with burning claws. The pain would leave as soon as his face numbed, but that would take time and there could be permanent damage.

The walls of the Russian fort were low, but they were strong enough and high enough to hold back the Aleuts and provide protection for the cabins contained within. Nemizov’s strong voice carried as he shouted orders and curses. Kaneko understood more of the curse words than he did of the orders, but the Russians responded at once, reloading their rifles, taking aim and firing again. None of them seemed overly distraught, obviously confident in their abilities, and Kaneko took heart in that.

Cautiously, the young pilot ducked into a position next to the rough-hewn timber of the wall where the Russian riflemen formed a line. He peered over the top while the Russians reloaded again. Aleut warriors took shelter along the timberline, but Nemizov’s men proved to be capable marksmen. Or maybe it was only that there were too many natives to miss.

When the Russians fired, Aleut warriors fell, and the wounded and dying tripped others who surged behind them. Some of the Aleuts were dead before they hit the ground, but others cried out for mercy and rescue by their fellow warriors. In the darkness, seeing the warriors clearly was difficult, but Kaneko made out the long flowing fur robes and conical hats the men wore, as well as the long thin spears they hurled with incredible accuracy. Several of the spears stuck out from the side of the cabin where Kaneko had been sleeping. More had pierced the wall, and more still littered the yard beyond.

Captain Kodayu called out to his men, ordering them to take up arms. A few of the crew had rifles. Kaneko did not, nor did he care for the loud explosions the weapons made or the rough way they handled. He wished he had a rifle now, though, and that he would never get the opportunity to use his knives.

The rifles cracked again and again. The Aleuts fell and never reached the fort.

* * *

IN THE EARLY minutes of the dawn, after hours of silence, the Aleuts attacked again. With the light, Kaneko could more clearly see the warriors. During the night they had dragged away their dead, but more of them piled up now. The Russians had stayed up the whole night keeping watch, and their aim was even better in the morning light. Despite the cold, the men loaded and shot smoothly, like machines.

Gunsmoke eddied around the wall of the fort and tasted acrid to Kaneko as he stayed at his post. Finally, though, the second attack ended in retreat, as well.

Zeminov, bold and large, his weathered face almost lost in a tangle of long wild hair and his bushy beard, came to Kodayu. The brass buttons on his coat gleamed.

“We will not stay here, Captain Kodayu. I do not believe those savages will relent, and we will eventually run low on powder and shot, no matter how many graves we fill.”

“I agree.” Kodayu understood Russian enough to know what the fur traders talked about, but Kaneko suspected that his captain was not so confident in his speaking abilities in that language. Kodayu always kept his answers short and to the point.

“Grab what you can and we will make for the beach when the time comes.”

“To do what?”

“To sail away from this place.”

“There is no ship.”

“Then we will make one. We can no longer stay here.”

* * *

ESCAPING THE FORT was not easy, and the Russian leader proved more brutal than Kaneko had suspected. They charged into the Aleut village and took women and children as prisoners. Shortly thereafter, the Russians executed four of the Aleut leaders and there was no more talk of attacking the Russians because the indigenous people fled by boat to neighboring islands.

Sails on the horizon drew the group to the beach. Kaneko’s heart leaped when he saw the Russian ship because it would, no matter where he ended up at first, take him away from this godforsaken island. He stood on the beach and gave thanks to the luck that had brought the ship to the island.

Then he noticed how low it sailed in the water, and how sluggishly it glided. Kaneko’s heart stilled when the ship suddenly listed over to its starboard side.

“What is wrong?” Nakagawa asked.

“The ship is stricken,” Churyo answered. “It is sinking.”

As Kaneko watched with failing spirits, the ship dipped lower into the water and finally fell over onto her side. Her sails flapped in the waves instead of catching the wind.

Sailors aboard the vessel threw themselves over the side. Those that could swim struck out for the shoreline, and those that couldn’t swim drowned or grabbed on to pieces of buoyant debris and kicked themselves forward.

Only twenty sailors made it ashore. The ship floated out in the water like a dead whale turned belly up to the sun.

* * *

DAYS PASSED AND the supplies rescued from the ship ran short. The threat of the Aleuts returning to continue their attacks remained. In time, Kodayu came to his men, gathering them in one of the cabins they had shared. When they had arrived on Amchitka, they had numbered fifteen. Six of them had perished of sickness over the winter and lay in lonely graves far from home.

At least their bones were at rest even if their spirits wandered, Kaneko sometimes thought.

“The Russian has a plan,” Kodayu said as he looked around at the ring of faces in the room. “He does not think another ship will come soon, and we grow short on supplies since we are no longer trading with the Aleuts. We are also lacking in powder and shot. If we lose the rifles, we have no defenses.”

Churyo growled a curse.

Kodayu ignored that and continued smoothly, as was his way. “The plan is to build a ship.”

“From what?” Churyo demanded. “We cannot raise the one that has sunk in the harbor, and there are no trees worthy of such an endeavor.”

“We make a ship from whatever we have available. It is better than dying here with a spear through our guts or of hunger.”

No one argued with the captain.

* * *

THE “VESSEL,” AND everyone grudgingly called it that, was constructed from driftwood and had otter skins hanging from makeshift halyards as sails. Practice voyages out in the harbor proved that the thing floated and steered easily enough, but everyone had doubts about it withstanding the sea during the journey to Russia.

Still, there was no other way. Zeminov spoke of a Russian land, a place he called Kamchatka, that was closest to their present location. They would make for that place, he said, and the Japanese sailors would be cared for there.

“We will join the Russians,” Captain Kodayu said.

“We will drown in the sea,” challenged Churyo.

“You may stay here if you wish,” the captain replied. “Any of you that do not wish to try his luck upon the sea may stay here.”

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, they put all the supplies and water aboard the craft that they could manage and set sail for Kamchatka. No one stayed behind.

Chapter 1

Now

Annja Creed walked toward the small apartment building on the other side of the police line. Yellow tape strung between police sawhorses held back the early morning neighborhood crowd that had gathered. Curious onlookers dressed in everyday clothes as well as pajamas and robes pushed through the crowd.

Two news anchors, neither of whom Annja recognized and both of whom looked young, stood in bright pools of camcorder lights and tried to be professional. One of the anchors spoke in English and the other spoke in Russian. Brighton Beach, south of Brooklyn, was nicknamed Little Odessa because so many Russian immigrants lived there.

Annja liked visiting the neighborhood to practice her Russian, and to see some of the artifacts many of the residents had brought from the “old country.” Several small restaurants served meals she enjoyed.

“Excuse me.” Annja made her way through the crowd, nudging gently and pushing only occasionally. She was five feet ten inches tall barefooted, and tonight she wore boots. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She also wore a professional intensity that encouraged the gawkers to step aside. She’d also deliberately chosen a black duster that gave her a “cop” look. Attitude meant everything.

The crowd parted and she stopped in front of a grizzled uniformed cop who held up a hand. He was thick and broad, and seemed bored. His eyes constantly roved just like a cop’s always did when in a difficult situation.

“You’ll have to stop right there, miss.” His Brooklyn accent was thick enough to cut.

“Would you let Detective McGilley know that Annja Creed is here? He asked me to come. I’m a consultant.” Annja pulled her NYPD ID from her pocket. Bart McGilley, the police detective she was here to see, had arranged for the ID after she’d helped on a few cases involving stolen artifacts. She didn’t often use it.

The cop suddenly smiled as he looked at her. “Hey, I know you.” He pointed a thick forefinger at Annja. “You’re on that TV show. The monster thing.”

Annja smiled politely and nodded. Chasing History’s Monsters, the cable television show she cohosted, had a big fan base. A few of the gawkers gathered around her began to talk and whisper her name, and suddenly the focus shifted from the crime scene to Annja, which made her uncomfortable.

Bart wouldn’t be happy about it either. Now that Annja had been recognized, chances were good that whatever story was unfolding here would get more airplay. Of course, Doug Morrell, the show’s producer, would love the free advertising.

The cop lifted the tape. “You come right ahead, Ms. Creed. Detective McGilley is waiting for you upstairs.”

Annja ducked under the tape and stood waiting on the other side. An officer there took her name for the first-responder’s report. One of the camcorders swung in her direction and bathed her in light. She ignored it and stared at the building ahead of her.

Seven stories tall, the apartment building looked like most of the other buildings in the area. New York was known for its towering skyline along Manhattan, but most of the buildings were seven floors or less because no elevators had to be installed. Many of the windows on the fourth floor glowed with golden light now and Annja was willing to wager that was going to be her destination.

The cold wind raced around Annja and made her put her hands in the duster pockets.

The cop squeezed the handitalker clipped to his left shoulder. “This is Sergeant Vasari outside. I got Annja Creed here for Detective McGilley.” He listened for a moment, then turned his attention to Annja. “You can go on in, Ms. Creed. They’re waiting for you.”

Annja nodded.

“You might want to watch yourself up there.” Vasari grimaced. “Heard this one was messy.”

Great, Annja thought. Then she headed toward the building.

* * *

A FORENSICS GUY was waiting for Annja when she reached the fourth-floor landing. He was young and dark complexioned, hair messy in a current style and wore a lab coverall. “Annja Creed?”

“I am.” Annja started to pull out the ID again.

The crime-scene tech held up a hand and grinned. “No need. I know you.”

Annja put the ID away. “You’ve seen the show?”

“Not yet, but I’ve seen the ads out on Times Square. You ask me, the video doesn’t do you justice.”

Annja smiled. “Thank you.”

“Are you flirting with my consultant, Kai?” Down the hallway, Detective Bart McGilley stood outside an apartment door. Six feet two and broad-shouldered, Bart was an imposing figure. He wore a dark blue suit coat and matching turtleneck under a charcoal gray duster. His kept his black hair cut short and his chin chiseled, but he had a five-o’clock shadow now.

“No, Detective McGilley, I am not.” Kai winked at Annja. He held up a pair of pull-on pale blue disposable footies. “I’m diligently working to keep our crime scene secure while trying to maintain the public trust and present a polite demeanor.”

Taking the booties, Annja quickly pulled them on, then added the disposable gloves. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Kai’s face turned serious and all humor left his eyes. “All kidding aside, what you’re gonna see is pretty bad.”

“I’ll be all right. Thank you.” Annja couldn’t remember all the violence she’d seen since she’d inherited Joan of Arc’s sword and changed her life. She didn’t regret taking up the sword, though. She’d gotten to help a lot of people, but more than that she’d gotten to see a lot of things that had been lost to history forever. The deaths were going to happen, and she’d stopped more from taking place. The trade-off was worth it.

Skirting the bloody footprints and the evidence markers beside them, she walked down the hallway to join Bart. They’d been friends for years and she’d enjoyed his company. He was one of the few people who wasn’t an archaeologist or a television fanboy who could listen to her for hours. She returned the favor when he needed a sounding board about a case.

“Did I get you out of bed?” Bart asked.

The smell of death lingered in the apartment behind Bart, an odor that Annja had grown far too familiar with. She breathed more shallowly.

“I was up working.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Authenticating a couple of Mayan pieces for a collector.”

“Sounds boring. Everybody’s got a Mayan piece tucked away somewhere.”

“I was also binge watching Dr. Who on Netflix.”

A small smile twisted Bart’s lips and Annja was glad to lighten his mood. He took his work seriously, and he didn’t take too much time off from it. That was one of the things they had in common.

“Where are you in the Whoinverse?”

“Still missing David Tennant.”

“Aren’t we all.” Bart’s eyes narrowed as they neared the door. “I wish you didn’t have to see this. The ME’s office is backlogged tonight, so they couldn’t make it out here to get the body, otherwise I’d have the deceased moved before I called you in. But I want to proceed with this as soon as I can because I don’t want whoever did this to get away.”

“It’ll be okay.”

Bart hesitated just a second, then turned and ushered her into apartment 4F. The door around the lock had been broken. Pieces of the locking mechanism hung shattered. Other pieces had fallen onto the floor.

* * *

THE ROOM HELD crime-scene techs and Detective Joe Broadhurst, Bart’s current partner, and there was precious little room left over. Broadhurst was in his midforties, thin and fit. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a neatly trimmed goatee that—just for a moment—made Annja think of Garin Braden.

“Professor Creed.” Broadhurst smiled politely and nodded at Annja.

“Detective Broadhurst.”

“I would say it’s good to see you. Instead, I’m just going to apologize I’m seeing you again under these circumstances.”

Annja nodded and turned her attention to the room. The living area was small and neatly kept for the most part. “An older man lives here by himself?”

“Yes.” Broadhurst seemed a little surprised. “Somebody told you?”

Annja pointed to the foil remains of the TV dinner sitting on the coffee table. “Single guy.” She pointed to the small television in the corner. It was an older set, not a flatscreen. “Older guy who listens to the television more than he watches it.” She pointed at the wall where a single black-and-white photograph of a young man and woman hung. “I’m presuming that’s the guy at a much younger age. He lives alone or there would be more photographs.” She touched the green easy chair that had seen better days and an equally battered, nonmatching couch. “And better furniture that wouldn’t be so dusty.”

Broadhurst smiled a little more. “You could be a cop.”

“She’s better than a cop,” Bart said. “She’s going to be able to help us with the elephant.”

“Elephant?” Annja asked. “You’ve got an elephant in here somewhere? Now that would be a surprise. But if you’ve got an elephant in here, I’m sure that would have broken the lease. Maybe the floor.”

Bart gestured to the back of the apartment. “This is where it gets bad.”

* * *

“HIS NAME WAS Maurice Benyovszky,” Broadhurst said. “According to a couple of the neighbors, he ran a small mail-order business out of his home. He sounds like a little old guy trying to get by. From the looks of the apartment, unless he’s got a safe deposit box stuffed full of money somewhere, Benyovszky wasn’t getting rich.”

The dead man was in his seventies at least, and he might still have looked like the black-and-white picture in the living room if someone hadn’t beaten his face into pulp. Dressed in a faded red house robe and pajamas, the old man lay crumpled on the floor in front of a large desk covered with knick-knacks, a computer and a digital camera. Paper bags covered his hands, put there by the crime-scene techs to preserve evidence. He might have been five feet tall and weighed a hundred and ten pounds.

Blood stained the back wall and curtains over the room’s window and the ceiling in a surprisingly straight line.

“His killer beat him to death with what was probably a hammer of some kind.” Bart’s voice was calm and hollow, his professional tone when he was talking about a case. “We haven’t found the murder weapon yet, but that’s what we’re looking for. The cast-off blood tells us where the killer and his accomplice were standing.”

“There were two of them?” After the initial shock of seeing the body, Annja’s mind slipped into problem-solving mode.

“Yeah. The killer—” Bart pointed to large, bloody footprints that were far larger than the dead man would have made “—and the accomplice.” He indicated a second set of footprints that were smaller, yet still larger than the victim’s.

“Nobody saw anything?” Even though this was the metro area and early in the morning, Annja still struggled to believe no one had come to the old man’s aid. He’d had time to yell for help.

“Not till one of the neighbors came through and found the lock on the apartment door shattered. Then there was the blood in the hallway. He decided not to come in or announce himself, got back to his own apartment and called us. This is what we found.”

“When?”

“About twelve forty-five. When we found out about the elephant, I wanted to call you.”

“Where’s the elephant?” Annja asked.

Bart crossed the room over to the computer. “Here.”

Walking around the dead man, Annja joined Bart at the computer. He moved the mouse and the monitor came out of hibernation, clearing to reveal a photograph of a white jade elephant. The image gave no indication of how large the piece was, but it was exquisitely rendered with a lot of careful detail.

Taken from a side view, the elephant had its trunk curled in and sharp sheaths that covered its tusks. A thick rectangle lay across its back from its neck to its tail and hung down to almost the rounded stomach. Atop its back, a pair of warriors rode in a covered basket. One of the warriors held a spear. The other held a bow with an arrow nocked. A skullcap covered the elephant’s head. On the skullcap, a flowering plant stood out in worn relief.

Annja’s interest flared up at once and she leaned closer to the screen. “The elephant looks Persian or Indian.”

“How do you know that?” Broadhurst asked.

Bart said nothing, just took out his field notebook and started taking down information.

“The ears,” Annja replied. “Indian elephants have smaller ears than African elephants.”

“Maybe the guy who made this just liked small-eared elephants.” Broadhurst shrugged. “Maybe large ears were harder to make.”

Still amazed by the detail, certain that the piece she was looking at was really old and wishing she could examine it for real, Annja shook her head. “Whoever carved this went to a lot of trouble to get things right. Those ears are proportioned just right.”

“Okay, I’ve heard of Indian elephants and the small-ears thing, but I haven’t heard of Persian elephants.”

“That’s because the Persians used Indian elephants. Do you know much about war elephants?”

“No. We don’t see much of them in New York.”

“The Persians were the first to use elephants in wars. The first time historians know they were used was in the Battle of Gaugamela in 331 BC. King Darius II of Persia fielded fifteen elephants carrying mounted archers and spearmen at the center of his line. Seeing the elephants freaked Alexander the Great out, but it didn’t stop him from defeating the Persians and claiming Darius’s lands after he killed him. The Indians used war elephants a lot, too, but the possibility that this is a Persian elephant exists.”

Broadhurst grimaced and looked a little frustrated. “The history lesson doesn’t help us with our murder. Don’t put us no closer to the creep that done this.”

“Can I look through these files?” Annja asked.

“Sure. Our techs have already been through it. We’ll be taking the computer back with us, but you can look through what’s up there.”

Annja flicked through the photographs. There were nine more images of the elephant, all of them from different angles, none of them with any reference that would tell her how big the piece was.

Before and after the images of the elephant were images of other objects—cups, pottery and toys. All of them looked old, but none of them looked as old as the elephant.

“Can I have copies of these images?” Annja asked. “It’ll help me track down anything that might be out there in the archaeological communities concerning this piece.”

Bart glanced at Broadhurst, who hesitated only a second before nodding.

“Keep it on the down low,” Bart advised. “So far only we and the killers know about the elephant angle.” He let out a breath. “And the elephant’s only a clue if it wasn’t deliberately left on the computer as a red herring.”

Annja looked back at the computer monitor. “If this isn’t a lead, I should be able to find it pretty quickly for you.”

Bart’s cell phone rang and he answered it, spoke briefly, then looked over at Broadhurst. “That was Palfrey. They’ve got the nephews downstairs. Turns out they live on the second floor.”

Broadhurst nodded. “I’ll stay here with the body. Why don’t you question the nephews. Take Professor Creed with you. According to the old man’s daughter, the nephews had something to do with our vic’s business. Maybe they know something about this missing elephant she can help with.”

Bart glanced at Annja. “You up for this? You’re still the only antiques expert I have on hand.”

“Sure.” Curious, Annja followed Bart out of the room, but her mind was locked on the image of the war elephant and the mystery it represented.

Chapter 2

Calmly despite the tension that ratcheted through him and the knowledge that the NYPD was across the street, Francisco Calapez knocked on the door to apartment 5E and checked the hallway again. At this late hour, no one was there, but in this city it seemed no one slept. People were always moving, always doing things. He did not like being here, and he especially did not like knocking on a stranger’s door in the middle of the night.

Unfortunately, since he did not find the thing he had looked for in the old man’s rooms and he did not know where it had gone, he was forced to risk this to get more information. Fernando Sequeira did not take failure well.

“Open up, please.” He knocked again, dropping his knuckles heavier this time. His pulse beat at his temples as he stared at the window at the end of the hallway. The elevated heart rate wasn’t the result of fear. It came from readiness. Whirling red and blue lights from the police cars parked out in the street below alternately tinted the panes.

A few feet back from him, up against the wall and out of sight of the door’s fish-eye peephole, Jose Pousao stood waiting with a silenced pistol hidden under his hoodie. He was more slightly built than Calapez, and young enough to be his son, but he listened well and had a taste for killing. That was something that was hard to train into a man. Calapez had always felt that killing was in the blood, a talent a man either had or did not have. Calapez knew he was lucky to be partnered with the younger man. When things got dangerous, Pousao wouldn’t hesitate to kill someone. In fact, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill everyone who wasn’t Calapez.

Just as Calapez was about to knock again, a man’s voice answered from the other side. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Police.” Calapez spoke with an American accent, hiding his native Portuguese. Doing something like that was not hard to do after watching bootlegged American movies. He had been a good mimic since he’d been a child.

“I didn’t call the police.”

“We know that, sir.” Calapez curbed his anger. Tonight had already been frustrating because he had not found what he had been sent for, nor did he know where he might find it. The easy thing Fernando Sequeira had asked him to do had turned out not to be so easy, and there had been only one location given. Killing a man—or a woman—was simple enough, but finding things was more difficult. If the elephant had been there, if the old man had not already been dead, the night would have gone more easily. As it was, he was stuck looking for the cursed thing. “We need to look out your window.”

A moment passed and Calapez knew the man inside the apartment was studying him. Calapez wore a nondescript coat over a shirt and tie and slacks. A suit in New York City was urban camouflage, like a Hawaiian shirt in Florida around the beaches. Calapez had learned how to blend in while in many places doing Sequeira’s business over the years.

“My window?”

“There was a murder next door, sir.”

“No one here saw a murder. I was asleep until all the commotion started outside.”

“Yes, sir. But there are security cameras on this building that might help us in the search for the killers.”

“How does getting into my apartment help you with that?”

“Your apartment is close to one of the cameras. We want to see what the view would be from here before we get the necessary paperwork going.”

“Can’t you do that from outside?”

“Not from five stories up, sir. We haven’t taken the killers into custody yet. They might still be in the neighborhood. They could be in this building. We would like to prevent anyone else from falling victim to them. Your assistance will be appreciated, and your safety may hinge on your cooperation.”

The man hesitated for a moment. “Could I see your identification?”

“Of course.” Calapez dug the badge and wallet out of his pocket. He’d purchased both from a street dealer who specialized in such things. The dealer had sworn no one could tell the difference.

Evidently the man in the apartment couldn’t. The locks snicked back one by one. He opened the door. Of medium height and pasty, myopic behind thick lenses and his gray hair in disarray, the apartment dweller looked like an accountant or a grade-school teacher.

Calapez put away the fake identification, then took out a small notebook and flipped it open with a practiced flick of his wrist. This wasn’t the first time he’d pretended to be an official and he’d encountered plenty of the real ones in his line of work.

“Could I have your name, sir?”

“Montgomery. Felix Montgomery.”

Calapez swept the living area with a glance. “Are you here alone, Mr. Montgomery?”

“I am.”

“Then if I can see your window, I will be only a moment.”

Montgomery led the way to the window. Pousao stood nearby and kept watch over the man.

Calapez pulled the drapes to one side and peered out the window. From his vantage point he could see the windows of the apartment where the dead man had lived, but curtains blocked the view inside the rooms.

“Do you know what happened over there?” Montgomery asked.

“A man was killed.”

Uneasiness made Montgomery fidget. “Was it a domestic situation?”

“No, sir. A break-in.” That much would be on the news in short order. Calapez continued watching.

“That’s terrible. There haven’t been any break-ins that I’ve heard about.”

“This sort of thing happens in the best neighborhoods, sir.” Calapez turned and looked at Montgomery. “Do you have a camera, sir?”

Montgomery hesitated. “I do. I teach photojournalism.”

“Would you mind if I used your camera? I left mine in the squad car.”

Montgomery frowned. If he was a schoolteacher, that was probably the same frown he gave students who showed up to class without a pencil or paper. “It’s a digital.”

“That’s fine. I’ll need a telephoto lens if you have one.”

After another brief hesitation, Montgomery walked toward the back rooms. Pousao trailed him, silent as the man’s own shadow. Only a few minutes later, while Calapez watched the group milling in front of the apartment building across the street, Montgomery returned with the camera. The telephoto lens was long and large, professional quality.

“Do you know how to use this?” Montgomery held on to the camera.

“I do.”

“I still don’t understand why you need to borrow—”

Calapez nodded to Pousao and the younger man drew a short, wide-bladed knife. With a practiced motion, Pousao shoved the blade into Montgomery’s neck at the base of the skull. A surprised look of pain filled the man’s face as life left him. Calapez snatched the camera from the dead man’s hands as the body sagged to the floor.

While the man quivered, Calapez returned his attention to the apartment building across the street. “Put the body in the bedroom. Find a few more things to steal and we’ll make this look like a burglary gone wrong.”

Pousao grabbed the corpse and pulled it away.

Focusing on the apartment building, Calapez looked through the camera and adjusted the lens to bring the apartment into focus. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew it would be a matter of time. Perhaps the police would find the elephant he had been sent there for. Then all he’d have to do would be to retrieve it. The task was more difficult, but he knew Sequeira would not accept anything less.

“Jose.”

“Yes.”

“I see television reporters out there. Turn on the television and find the coverage. We need to know who the chief investigator is and if they have found the elephant.”

Pousao turned on the television and searched the channels till he found one reporting live from the scene. “I have discovered the woman.”

“Who is she?” Calapez kept the camera aimed at the apartment building.

“Her name is Annja Creed.”

“Is she police?”

“No. She is an archaeologist.”

An archaeologist possibly meant the NYPD knew something about the elephant. Sequeira talked to people such as those. He had cultivated a number of resources within that circle. Calapez had visited with some of them himself, to get things Sequeira wanted. A few of those people Calapez had killed to obtain those things. Calapez didn’t understand what his employer saw in antiquities, but there was no denying Sequeira’s interest.

Calapez took down the archaeologist’s name in his official-looking pad, then he extracted his cell phone and placed a call to his employer. Despite the lateness of the hour, or the earliness, depending on a person’s point of view, the phone only rang twice before it was answered.

“Do you have it?” Sequeira sounded fully awake. His voice was deep and full-bodied, as if rumbling from a huge chest. Sequeira was a broad man in his forties and worked to stay in shape.

“There has been a complication.” Calapez hated giving his employer bad news. Sequeira was not one to easily accept such a thing.

“I have been watching the news. You killed the old man?”

“Not me. He was dead when I arrived there, and the elephant was not to be found.”

“Then you must locate it.”

“I will. I only wanted you to know where the situation stood.”

“I have faith in you, Francisco. Otherwise I would have sent another in your place.”

“I will get the piece for you when I can, but there appears to be additional interest in the old man’s murder. The police have summoned an archaeologist to the old man’s home.”

“Then they must suspect what the elephant means.”

“Perhaps.”

“Find out, my friend. I must know. Perhaps there will be another way to get at this thing.”

“I will.” Calapez heard the anticipation and frustration in Sequeira’s words. Calapez did not know why the elephant piece was so important. His employer kept him in the dark about many things. “I hesitate to ask, but would it be helpful at this point if I knew more about the elephant? What makes it so interesting?”

“There is a legend about the elephant, a thing I must know from it in order to pick up a trail that vanished hundreds of years ago. For me to explain would take hours. Know only that the elephant is but the key to a mystery that has lain buried for hundreds of years as that piece wandered through the hands of queens and warriors. And there is a treasure. I want that treasure, and to find it, I must solve the mystery of the elephant.”

“Then I will bring you the elephant.”

“See that you do.” Sequeira broke the connection.

Calapez returned the phone to his pocket and continued watching the apartment building.

* * *

NGUYEN RAO STOOD in the shadows that filled an alley across the street from the police cars and gawkers. The constant strobe of the flashing light bars had ignited a small headache deep within his skull, but that could have been the effects of the cold, as well. He wasn’t used to this weather. Cambodia, where he was from, was much more temperate.

He was tall and athletic, dressed in a dark gray business suit under a long coat that was not warm enough. His eyes watered against the chill, or it may have been because he had not slept. The plane ride from Phnom Penh had drained him. He had flown a lot during the time he had been getting his education in England, but he had never learned to relax during the flights.

The arrival at JFK International Airport had been delayed in England, and then there had been confusion with New York Port Authority security that had forced a longer postponement of his assignment. As a result, he had arrived at Maurice Benyovszky’s apartment too late to talk to the man regarding the sale of the elephant. Listening to the reporters and the gossiping people in the streets, Rao had learned of the old man’s death and was saddened. Life was something meant to be treasured, each a treasure to be enjoyed and to further a person’s education of self and that person’s place in the world.

He wondered if Benyovszky’s murder would in some way dim Vishnu’s Eye. Actions impacted many things. Then he wondered when he had started believing in the old legend enough to even question such a thing. He wasn’t given to idle fancy.

But there was something to the story. The fact that the elephant existed proved there was some validity to the myth.

A story is only a myth till it becomes part of history. At that point, myth turns into fact. Professor Beliveau had often stated that in his classes. And he would go on to state that they were in the business of separating myth from fact, yet maintaining both because sometimes it was important for a culture to have its myths and legends. Those things shaped generations and gave them a shared history.

If the elephant exists, then the way to the Lost Temple exists.

But the Eye of Vishnu? Would that truly allow a man to bridge the past and the future, to see the things that were and the things that would be?

That would be a very powerful thing. Rao felt guilty for not believing in the Eye more. His temple had discovered the legend years ago, almost lost in their records because of all the strife that had run rampant through his country for so long, but there had been nothing discovered in those ancient texts that would lead the priests to the Lost Temple. The priests had spent years looking for it. Only when the elephant was found on the internet did they find another crumb of the trail that had been left. Even that discovery had been by chance, not by deliberate research.

So much had been lost in all the years of upheaval and invaders. Even now, parts of Cambodia were not at peace, and the shadow of the Khmer Rouge continued to touch the country. A rough voice startled him from his thoughts.

“Hey! What are you doing here? Spying on people? Is that what you’re doing?”

Rao chose not to answer, though he stepped sideways to look at the speaker. As a Vietnamese man in this neighborhood, especially at this time of night, he stood out. He hoped that his silence could be mistaken for not understanding the language.

The man who addressed him looked to be around thirty, about Rao’s age. But the man was big through the shoulders, and powerful looking. A reddish beard covered his face under a black knit cap that fit tightly to his head. He wore fingerless gloves and a bulky coat. Three other men trailed behind him, all of them about the same age and scruffy looking. All of them held a vulpine gleam to their eyes, predators gazing upon defenseless prey.

“Did you hear me?” The man came closer. “You no speak English?”

Rao actually spoke English quite well. Better than the man standing in front of him as a matter of fact. The man confronting him spoke with a thick Slavic accent.

“I think he’s just ignoring you, Vladi,” one of the other men said with the same accent. The three of them circled around the bigger man like wolves preparing for a kill.

Glancing up, Rao took in the fire escapes that zig-zagged up to the roofs.

“Don’t look away when I’m talking to you.” Vladi thumped Rao in the chest with a thick, blunt forefinger. “If you think one of your gangs is going to muscle in on our territory, you got another think coming.” The big man grinned and the expression was pure hate. “We’re gonna send a message of our own back to your people.” He reached for Rao.

Twisting, stepping back and giving ground before the bigger man’s hand, Rao avoided his opponent’s clumsy effort, caught his wrist and yanked just enough to pull the man off balance. Vladi staggered forward, fell and caught himself on his hands and knees.

Taking advantage of the big man’s position, Rao leaped to Vladi’s back, used it to propel himself up to catch the railing on the nearest fire escape, and clambered up the other landings as quickly as a squirrel climbing a tree. At the top of the four-story building, he leaned over the edge and looked down.

Vladi had gotten back to his feet. All of them stared at Rao in surprise, then one of them leaped up to pull down the access ladder with a loud clang that drew the attention of the police. Two of the uniformed police officers came over to the alley to investigate, turning on flashlights and holding their pistols in their holsters. Vladi and his cohorts scattered and ran back down the alley as the policemen’s flashlights picked them out of the darkness.

Rao continued walking across the rooftop, intending to find a new spot to continue his surveillance. If the elephant was still attainable, he intended to have it. The priests at the temple would expect him to continue the hunt, and he was not prepared to give up on it.

Chapter 3

“Hey, bro, you can’t just hold us here forever. We know our rights. You can’t arrest us if we didn’t do anything. And this is our home anyway. You can’t even be here if we don’t want you here. We could make you wait in the hallway.”

The speaker was the younger of the two Russian men sitting on the ratty pale green couch that looked like it had been scooped up off the street. The rest of the furniture was ill-matched and just as unkempt, spreading across three different styles and at least thirty years. None of the pieces were collector’s items.

Cigarette smoke hung like a cloud in the air. European symphonic heavy-metal tracks spun through the iPod dock on top of a television, showing a futuristic military video game paused in midaction. Something was blowing up but Annja wasn’t sure what it was.

She stood behind Bart with her hands in her jacket pockets and didn’t say anything. Although a police investigation wasn’t something she regularly took part in, she’d seen plenty on television, and she’d watched Bart in action a few times. She felt safe, and she was definitely curious.

The two Russians were obviously related and it showed in their features—the same eyes, the same facial structure. One of them was thin and lupine-faced and maybe twenty, wearing a concert T-shirt, and the other looked slightly older and was beefed up and overweight, like a martial arts fighter who’d been hitting the borscht and beer too often. The younger guy had long dark hair and a spotty beard while the older one was shaven bald and wore a dark beard with lime-green tints.

Based on the look of their apartment, and the stench, and their lackadaisical nature, both of them were delinquents and probably a total waste of time.

“You know your rights?” Bart looked impressed.

The younger brother nodded and fist bumped his brother. They waggled their fingers like the fist bump had caused an explosion. “You bet we do, bro. We know our rights back and front, and you can’t just arrest us.”

“What would I arrest you for?”

“Nothing, bro.” The young one wiped his hands in front of him like he was cleaning a slate. “We ain’t done nothing. The police chick outside—” he pointed through the door, indicating the hallway “—she said she just wanted to ask us some questions. Next thing we know, bro, here you are.”

“You mean Officer Falcone said she wanted to ask you questions?” Bart asked.

“I didn’t get her name, bro. Maybe that was it.” His eyelids hung heavily and he moved too loosely to be completely sober. “It was that police chick out there.”

“Call her Officer Falcone. She won’t be happy with ‘police chick.’ Trust me.”

“Officer Police Chick called you down here, bro? That’s what you said, right? That’s why you’re here?”

Annja didn’t know how Bart kept his composure. She was getting frustrated just listening, unable to get the memory of the murdered man out of her mind. Bart sighed in annoyed acceptance. “Yes. She did.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

The guy wrapped his arms around himself. “She said my uncle got killed.”

“Great-uncle,” the brother said quietly. “You forget, Maurice was our great-uncle on Ma’s side. Her mother’s brother.”

“Okay, then, our great-uncle. Only, if you ask me, he isn’t so great. He’s just this old guy. Kind of bossy. Too bossy. Likes to tell people what to do.” He looked at Bart. “That true, bro? Somebody killed our great-uncle?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You sure? ’Cause he was kinda old. Coulda just died.”

“He didn’t just die.”

“Maybe he killed himself.”

“No. That didn’t happen.”

“Then I don’t know what to tell you, bro. You got me.”

“I just have a few questions I’d like to ask,” Bart said.

“I’m through answering questions. Through talking about my great-uncle, too. You can’t arrest us, so you gotta go.” He pointed to the door. “I’m revoking your apartment privileges.”

Bart took out his cell phone, poked it for a second, then showed it to the younger man, revealing the mug shot there. “Demyan Koltsov. Is that you?”

The guy straightened up then, squinted and shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“Well, I can arrest you on suspicion of being Demyan Koltsov, take you downtown to fingerprint you and verify that, yes, in fact, you are Demyan Koltsov, and then lock you up.”

“Lock me up?” Demyan’s eyes widened. “For what, bro? I didn’t have nothing to do with that old man getting killed!”

“For lying to a detective in the performance of his duty, for starters. It also says here that Demyan Koltsov is wanted for FTA regarding a weed bust.”

Demyan waved that off. “Those are bogus charges, bro. I was entrapped. And that failure-to-appear rap? I told the judge I couldn’t be there that day, bro. I had a doctor’s appointment. Had a note and everything.”

“I’m not interested in an FTA. That’s not my business. I want to talk about your great-uncle.” Bart put his phone away. “So either you talk to me about Maurice Benyovszky here, or I cuff you and take you downtown to deal with that FTA. We can talk about your great-uncle while you’re getting booked.”

Demyan looked at his brother. “Can you get me out of jail, Yegor?”

The older brother frowned and shook his head. “I don’t have any money. Why you come asking for money from me when you know I ain’t got any? You’ll just have to stay in jail until I find out if Ma has any money. And if she will bail you out.” He lowered his voice into a whisper. “You didn’t pay her back for bailing you out on that weed bust.”

Demyan sighed like he was the most put-upon man on the planet. “This ain’t my night, bro. My girl’s two-timing me with her ex. I lost my part-time job at the pizza place—”

“I don’t think you can say you lost that job when you never showed up for a shift,” Yegor said.

Demyan pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Man, they texted me and told me I was fired.” He shook his head sadly. “That would have been a sweet job. I’d have been driving around, delivering pizza, everybody glad to see me.”

Yegor clapped his brother on the shoulder with a big hand. “You don’t have a car. The car you had was my car, and it got impounded, remember?”

“Hey.” Bart’s voice turned sharp, a pure cop tone that made both of the younger men focus on him instantly. “Either we talk about what I want to talk about or I’m taking you in.”

Yegor shot Bart a look of sad surprise. “Me? Why you arrest me?”

Bart nodded at Demyan. “Him I got on the FTA. You I got for outstanding traffic warrants. Now, are we going to talk?”

“Sure, sure.” Demyan smiled and nodded. “I hereby invite you back into our apartment. We’ll talk about anything you want.”

“You said you worked for your uncle?”

“We did. Me and Yegor. On account of my mom, she’s Uncle Maurice’s niece or something?” Demyan looked at Yegor.

Yegor thought about it and nodded. “Yeah. Her mom is sister to Uncle Maurice, so we’re great-nephews. I think that’s how it works.”

“Anyway,” Demyan said, “we got this job from the old guy on account he don’t know how to do computers. Me and Yegor, we know computers. Know video games. All the tech. Uncle Maurice went into business for himself, started buying stuff from storage places. Things that people run off and leave on account they can’t pay the rent on the storage no more?”

Bart nodded.

“People run off and leave some weird stuff, bro. I’m telling you. Me and Yegor, we’ve pulled stuff outta some of them storage units you’d think come from Mars. Had this one guy was sewing different parts of dead animals together. Saw where he’d put a bat head and wings on a cat, bro. That was messed up.”

Bart started to take a note, but Annja shook her head.

“It’s called rogue taxidermy,” she said. “Probably not anything for you to get concerned about. People do it to create curiosity pieces for collectors of the weird.”

“People don’t get any weirder than a cat with a bat head and wings, bro.” Demyan shook his head. “Sickest thing I ever saw. Gave me nightmares. Sometimes I still get them.”

“What did your great-uncle do with the stuff he got from the storage units?” Bart asked.

“Pieced it out and sold it, bro. What else you gonna do with stuff like that? A lot of it was junk we just dumped. Never know what you’re gonna get outta one of them things.”

“Where did he sell it?”

“Online, wherever he could find somebody that wanted something. Me and Yegor dragged some of them things around to pawn shops and swap meets. Man is all about making a dollar. He pays me and Yegor chump change, though.”

“He pays for the apartment we’re living in,” Yegor said quietly.

“Oh, yeah. He does that, too.” Demyan looked at his brother. “Only if he’s dead, he ain’t gonna do that no more, is he?” He frowned. “Who’s gonna pay the rent if Uncle Maurice is gone?”

Yegor shrugged and looked unhappy.

“Hey, Demyan.” Bart snapped his fingers. “Focus.”

Demyan looked at Bart, had to narrow his eyes a moment, then looked again. “What?”

“If you guys put the stuff up on the computer for your uncle, who managed the sales?”

“Me and Yegor. We boxed stuff up, carted it to the post office. Uncle Maurice wasn’t gonna do it. Man had no skills when it came to tech and he sure wasn’t gonna walk to the post office every day. Knew good stuff from the bad in storage units, though. Man could turn a dollar.”

Bart pulled up a picture of the elephant on his phone. “Tell me about this.”

A wide smile split Demyan’s face. “Oh, yeah! The elephant! I remember the elephant!”

“Uncle Maurice said he was gonna make bank on it,” Yegor added. “Said he had a bunch of different people bidding on it the first day we put it up.”

“Do you know who bought it?” Bart asked.

“No.” Yegor shook his head. “Uncle Maurice took care of all that. Me and Demyan just pulled stuff out of the storage units, sorted it out, boxed it when it sold, then lugged it to the post office after Uncle Maurice wrote the address on it.”

“Should be information on who bought it on the website, bro,” Demyan said.

“Maybe you could show me that,” Bart suggested.

* * *

DESPITE BEING PARTIALLY dazed and suddenly realizing he might be homeless or moving at the end of the month, Demyan got around on the computer just fine. Annja figured it was because he played his video games night and day, a stack of them barely hid behind a giant pink plastic pig bank that had suffered a permanent appendectomy and stood open and mostly empty.

“Here, bro.” Demyan waved at the laptop computer that he set up on the scarred coffee table covered in burn marks.

A website entitled Maurice’s Super-Good Things showed on the screen. The site had cheap theatrics, fireworks and a slideshow showing some of the stuff that Benyovszky had featured for sale.

“Me and Yegor named the site,” Demyan announced proudly.

“Yeah.” Yegor nodded.

“Great,” Bart said. “Now show me the elephant.”

Demyan’s fingers flicked across the keyboard and brought up the picture of the elephant. “Here you go.”

“When did the sale close?”

Squinting at the monitor, Demyan tapped a few more keys. “A guy calls himself the Idaho Picker.”

Bart frowned. “That’s not his real name.”

“No. That’s his handle on the site.”

“Can you get me his real name?”

“Sure.” Demyan tapped some more, bringing up other screens of information. “Says his name is Charles Prosch.”

“Do you have an address and phone number for Mr. Prosch?”

“Yeah.” Demyan tapped keys again.

Chapter 4

Annja cycled through the items Benyovszky had up for sale on his site. He had a lot of merchandise, most of it was furniture, exercise equipment, clothing and assorted electronics, computers, video-game consoles and DVDs. She also took notes on the storage companies Benyovszky regularly bought defaulted units from, and managed to track the elephant back to a company called Illya’s Storage, which appeared to cater to the Russian neighborhood. Benyovszky had kept good notes, and his nephews had entered all of the information. At least, they had evidently entered a great deal of the details in the database.

Bart was on his cell phone doing background work on Charles Prosch.

“You’re pretty good on that computer, bro.” Sitting on the couch, Demyan smiled at Annja as she worked the keyboard.

Bro? Annja let that pass because Demyan still referred to Officer Falcone as “police chick,” too, and she didn’t intend to become “computer chick.” “I am.”

“You could probably make somebody a good secretary.”

Annja resisted the impulse to show Demyan how much fun a punch in the nose could be. Instead, she tried to ignore him.

Demyan sucked at his teeth and smoothed his mustache with his fingers. “If you want, maybe I can make some calls for you. Check around. See if there are any openings for secretaries. I know a few people. I could hook you up with a sweet job.”

“Thanks. But I already have a job.”

“What?” Demyan grimaced. “You got too much class. You ain’t no police chick.”

“No, I’m not.” Annja looked at the guy, pinning him with her gaze. “Which means I don’t have to play by police rules or be nice when someone says something insulting.”

Demyan broke eye contact and looked away, but only for a moment. Then he found something new to talk about. “You know who might have killed Uncle Maurice, bro?”

“Who?” Annja pulled up the bid page and looked at the other names listed there. Few of them were real names, but Bart and his digital police investigators would be able to track them down and put actual identities to online handles.

“His old cronies. Some of the other guys that were part of the Potato Bag Gang.”

That caught Annja’s attention and she stopped what she was doing. “The Potato Bag Gang? What’s that?”

“Mafia wiseguys.” Demyan touched the side of his nose and winked. “Uncle Maurice was part of the original Russian organized crime guys that came over when communism started going bust.”

Bart put his phone away and crossed the room back over to Annja. “Back in the 1970s, Russian criminals, some of them, first started turning up in Brighton Beach. Those guys tended to be con artists, not hardcases. One of their main schticks was selling antique gold rubles to buyers who thought they were getting a great deal. They told the buyers that they couldn’t get caught with the rubles, couldn’t exchange them to a legitimate market, so they had to sell them at a loss. Only when the victims opened the bags those con artists gave them, they only found potatoes, not rubles. So those guys became known as the Potato Bag Gang.” He grinned. “Don’t tell me I knew something you didn’t.”

“You did, and it’s not that hard to do. History and culture are huge. There’s no way I can know it all.” Some days that bummed Annja, knowing that she couldn’t know everything. She usually distracted herself from that by learning something out of the ordinary. “But I also think the Potato Bag Gang is interesting. I’ll have to look into it at another time. Did you get hold of Prosch?”

Bart shook his head. “Not yet. I left a message, but it’s still early out in Idaho.”

“Idaho? The state of Idaho?” Annja couldn’t remember Idaho even being mentioned on the pages she’d sorted through. “You’re not just saying that because of the Potato Bag Gang.”

Bart grinned. “Yeah. Surprised me, too. Prosch lives in a town in the middle of nowhere named Bonner’s Ferry. The town’s supposed to have like ten thousand people in it. Compared to New York, it’s a ghost town.” He checked the time on his watch. “I’ll call again in the morning.” He looked at Annja. “I can have an officer take you home. Save you some cab fare.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s three o’clock. I’ve got a report to file and information to collect, then I need to wait for a decent hour to call Prosch. I’m going to go down to the diner at the corner and camp out. See what turns up.”

“Want company?” Annja wasn’t prepared to let go of the mystery that had been brought into her orbit, and Bart was a friend. It had been a long time since they’d had the excuse to hang out together.

“This isn’t your thing, Annja. I feel bad about asking you to come see what you had to see earlier. I just needed answers if you had them.”

“I’m thinking I could go through Benyovszky’s files and get a better idea of the kind of business he was doing. If that would help.”

Bart hesitated, then smiled. “It would. I don’t want this to be more of an inconvenience than it already is.”

Annja stood. “It won’t be. An inconvenience would be me going home and not being able to sleep because I’m wondering what this is all about. Somebody killed that poor old man for a reason. I’d like to know why.”

“That’s the problem.” Bart’s eyes held a glint of bitter sadness. “Sometimes even when you know the answers, you don’t understand them. People kill each other for the stupidest, most selfish reasons you can imagine.”

Demyan leaned forward to insert himself into the conversation. “I’m telling you, bro, you need to listen to me. It was probably one of them old-time gangsters Uncle Maurice sometimes hung around with.” He leaned back on the couch. “Them guys, they would sit and talk about the old days, and not one of them with two nickels to rub together. They were jealous of the business Uncle Maurice, Yegor and me had going. We were making money, bro, and they wanted some of it. Uncle Maurice said that elephant was the biggest score he’d ever pulled down.”

“Did he tell people about that?” Bart asked.

Demyan shrugged. “Yeah, a few people. Some of those old guys, sure. He wanted them to know when he got a fat score. Liked to rub it in and tell them they should be doing their own business when he was drinking down at The Red Bear Bar.” He paused and rolled his shoulders. “Did you see how much he got for that elephant, bro?”

“I did,” Bart replied.

“So…how much?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

Demyan scowled. “Like I said, Uncle Maurice didn’t tell me and Yegor anything except go empty out this storage unit and bring the stuff here. Put this stuff on the website. Box these things up. Go to the post office with this. That pretty much covered it. He was supposed to be training us, but he didn’t.” He pursed his lips. Evidently the pleasant buzz he’d had earlier was fading. “Never once did he tell me and Yegor that we were doing a good job, you know? He coulda done that. Coulda showed a little appreciation. That wouldn’t have been so hard, bro.”

Bart shook his head in ill-concealed disgust. “The man is dead. He put a roof over your heads and kept the two of you in enough cash to mostly keep you out of trouble. Have some respect.” He headed for the door and Annja fell in behind him.

“Not all the weed we could smoke, bro,” Demyan said softly. “We coulda smoked a lot more weed.”

Annja put a hand on Bart’s shoulder and kept him moving.

Outside in the hall, Bart walked over to Officer Falcone, a young brunette with dark hair and eyes.

“Something I can do for you, Detective?”

“I can do something for you, Officer Falcone.” Bart hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “There are warrants out on those idiots in that apartment.”

“I didn’t know that. We didn’t background them. I was just told they were the dead man’s nephews and we were supposed to hold them for you.”

“Well, I’m telling you now they’ve got warrants out for them. Grab your partner and take those two imbeciles downtown. There’s an FTA on the little one and traffic holds on the big one. That’ll give you guys a couple small collars and a reason to get in out of the cold tonight.”

Falcone smiled. “Thank you, Detective.”

Bart waved the thanks away. “Don’t mention it. Take your time booking those two clowns. I want to be able to find them if I need to for the next forty-eight hours.”

* * *

CALAPEZ SPOONED THE last of the Greek yogurt from the plastic container while Pousao watched the building on the other side of the street. Finished with his meal, he glanced at his watch and discovered it was 4:14 a.m. They had been in the dead man’s apartment for over four hours. The morning coming, they would have to move soon. He could already hear neighbors moving around in the other apartments. Early morning activity, footsteps and snatches of hurried conversation, sounded out in the hallway.

Pousao stood and shifted slightly, then pushed his chin toward the window. “Hey. That woman, Annja Creed, she’s leaving the building with one of the cops.”

Calapez crossed the room and gestured for the binoculars the younger man held. When Calapez had them, he trained his view on to the street, picking up the archaeologist instantly. She stood out in the crowd. She and the detective pushed through the reporters outside the perimeter set up by the police officers.

“Do they have the elephant?” Pousao asked.

“I don’t know.” Feeling more tense now because he knew Sequeira would not accept losing the object, Calapez watched as Annja Creed and the detective entered a small diner.

“They are not going far.” Pousao rotated his head on his shoulders and the effort produced cracks. “What do we do?”

“What we’re doing now. We wait. We watch. Going back to Sequeira without the elephant would not be good business.” Calapez handed the binoculars over to his young associate, then went back to raid the dead man’s refrigerator again. He opened the door and peered inside. Nothing looked good. The deceased obviously didn’t dine in much. Frustrated, he closed the door again. “I will go over to the diner and bring us back something to eat. Maybe I will find out what they are talking about, or where the elephant is. While I am there, you keep watch.”

Pousao nodded and returned to his vigil.

Calapez waited at the door till he heard silence, then let himself out. If the police did not have the elephant, he had to figure out where it had gone—soon.

Chapter 5

Hours later, Annja stifled a yawn and looked through bleary vision at the list of storage units and buyers she had compiled. The sorting program on the software made building that list easier, but there were still a lot of names. Benyovszky had been in business for himself for eleven years.

The diner was low-key and welcoming, worn and lived-in, filled with lots of younger regulars who worked on tablets or talked on the phone while they ate their breakfast. They wore business attire and were the smallest group in the diner. Most of the clientele was older and spoke in Russian or heavily accented English. They gathered as couples or small groups. All of them looked pensive and distracted, and Annja wouldn’t need a second guess to know what the topic of conversation was.

“Can I get you a refill?”

Annja looked up at the young waitress and nodded. Annja slid over her nearly empty coffee cup, did the same with Bart’s, and told the young woman thanks after she’d poured the fresh-brewed coffee. Annja added cream and sugar to both coffees, turning the hot liquid the color of caramel.

Bart was talking on the phone, listening mostly, and the one-sided conversation didn’t give Annja much to work with. Curiosity grew in her as she waited. Finally, Bart put the phone away and returned his attention to her.

“That was Broadhurst. He says the ME released a prelim based on the scene.”

Through the large plate-glass window behind Bart, Annja could see the reflection of the apartment building across the street. The ME’s long black vehicle had eased into the collection of police cars and crime-scene vans. Morning light filtered through the dregs of the night, bringing a sense of the new day. Traffic had increased, both vehicular and pedestrian. Passersby stopped only briefly to find out what was going on, then they got back to their day. Murder was nothing new in the metro area.

Even though she had seen such casual acceptance of murder and death before, in New York as well as countries around the globe, Annja still refused to think people could just keep moving without being touched by the tragedy.

She put those thoughts away and concentrated on Bart. “What does the ME say?”

“The victim had no defensive wounds. Looks like whoever killed Benyovszky hit him from behind with a hammer, or a similar weapon. The ME won’t commit as to what the weapon was, but she thinks death was instantaneous. At least the old guy didn’t suffer.” Bart picked up his coffee, blew on it and took a sip.

“If the first blow killed Benyovszky, why keep hitting him?”

Bart shook his head. “Anger? Frustration? Maybe fear, if the murderer was afraid Benyovszky would get back up. Don’t know. But whoever did it was thorough.”

“You said there were no defensive wounds?”

“Yeah.” Bart sipped his coffee. “Could mean that Benyovszky knew his murderer. Let the person into the apartment.”

“Then why was the lock shattered?”

Bart frowned. “I don’t have an answer for that one yet. You’re right. If Benyovszky let his killer into the apartment, that person didn’t need to break in.”

“And if the killer had broken in, Benyovszky would have had defensive wounds because he wouldn’t have trusted whoever came through that door.”

“Yeah. That line of thinking leaves us two options.” Bart counted them off on his fingers. “One, whoever killed Benyovszky panicked and left something behind, then had to break back in to get it. Or two, someone else broke into the apartment after Benyovszky was dead.”

“How much time passed between the murder and the discovery of the body?”

“ME says maybe an hour. It’s a tight window, but it’s there.”

Annja considered that, not enjoying the fact that she didn’t have answers, or at least a better idea of what had gone on in that apartment. Including where the elephant statue was and what it meant.

Lying on the table, Bart’s phone began to ring. He picked it up and glanced at the screen. “There’s only one person I almost know in Idaho.” He clicked the phone on. “This is Detective Bart McGilley of the New York City Police Department.” He turned the phone outward and leaned toward Annja.

Annja leaned forward, too.

“This is Charles Prosch. You left a message on my machine, Detective McGilley. Asking me to call you?” The speaker’s voice was old and hoarse, but held a quiet strength in the Western twang. “I don’t usually get phone calls from New York police detectives, and I haven’t been there or the East Coast in years, so you can understand how I’m curious.”

“Yes, sir. I’m calling in regards to a murder that took place last night.” Bart flipped open his notebook and took out his pen. “The victim was Maurice Benyovszky. I’d like to know how you knew him.”

“What happened?”

“Mr. Benyovszky was attacked and killed in his apartment by unknown assailants.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Prosch cleared his throat. “I never met Mr. Benyovszky, but he seemed like a nice guy. From what I saw on his site, he did a pretty good business. Why would you single me out from all those people?”

“An auction you were involved in finished last night.”

“The one with the elephant piece.”

“That’s right. Can you tell me about that piece?”

“I’m more of a collector than an expert, Detective. A dabbler, if you will. I buy a few things now and again, keepsakes mostly, of things I saw while I was in the Corps.”

“You were in the Marines.”

“I was. Thirty years. I did a lot of traveling, then I came back to Bonner’s Ferry where I was born and where I buried my parents. You put down roots doing something like that. I got married, but that didn’t take. She couldn’t be the Marine I was, and I don’t blame her for that. I’ve got two daughters out of it who I love, a handful of grandkids.”

Annja smiled at that. Prosch’s offspring sounded a lot closer than Benyovszky’s hand-me-down nephews. She felt a chill as the door opened and took a sip of her coffee to warm up.

“What do you know about the elephant?” Bart frowned and looked a little frustrated.

“Like I said, not much,” Prosch replied. “It’s an elephant. Looks Asian, if I’m any judge, and I could be just as wrong as I am right.”

“What’s it made of?” Bart consulted the sheet that had been printed out regarding the piece.

“Mr. Benyovszky wasn’t sure, but it looked like sandstone to me. I spent some time in Laos. As I recall, they did a lot of carving in sandstone in that area.”

“You paid a lot of money for an elephant made of sandstone.”

Prosch laughed good-naturedly. “Actually, I wasn’t going to spend that much, but I got caught up in a bidding war.”

Bart wrote that down and underlined it. “A bidding war?”

“Yeah. The other guy who wanted the elephant kept jumping my bid by a dollar. Just enough to edge me out. Kind of irritated me, and I’d talked to Mr. Benyovszky on the phone once when I called to ask him about the piece. He seemed on the up and up. So I figured I’d keep in the bidding game as long as I could, kind of drive up the price for him. Help him out. The other guy seems like he has plenty of money.”

“Do you know who the other guy is?”

“Sure. I looked him up after Mr. Benyovszky mentioned him. He’s a fella named Fernando Sequeira.”

Glancing up, Bart cocked an eyebrow at Annja.

She shook her head and mouthed, I don’t know him. But she turned her attention to her tablet PC and started looking the man up. She got a hit immediately. Fernando Sequeira was a successful businessman in Lisbon, Portugal. Scanning the links that turned up in her search, Annja also discovered that Sequeira was an amateur historian, an interest he had gotten from his grandfather.

Link me, Bart mouthed.

Annja sent the page address to Bart’s phone. While Bart continued talking, Annja searched for Sequeira’s name linked with “elephant” but didn’t pull up anything that seemed to fit with Bart’s case.

“Tell you the truth,” Prosch went on with a touch of chagrin, “I was surprised I won that elephant. I thought that Sequeira fella would swoop in at the last minute and take it. I musta waited twenty minutes for that to happen. When it didn’t, I realized I paid a lot more for that elephant than I had counted on.”

“What did you do after the sale closed?” Bart asked.

“Poured myself three fingers of whiskey, promised myself I wouldn’t stick my neck out like that again and figured I’d get hold of this Sequeira fella and see if I couldn’t get most of my money back. He was interested up to a point.” Prosch paused and his voice turned a little harder. “Unless Mr. Benyovszky and this Sequeira fella were working together to set me up. That what happened?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Prosch. For right now, I’d hang on to your money. Nobody seems to know where that elephant is.”

“Is that so? Well, now that does make a body curious, don’t it?”

Bart grinned. “It does indeed. Hang on to my number if you will, Mr. Prosch.”

“Oh, trust me, I will, Detective.”

“I’ll call back if I have any more questions, and if something turns up on your end, I’d appreciate hearing from you.”

“You will. Count on it.”

Bart broke the connection, laid his phone on the table and glared at it. “So I got a guy out in the wilds of Idaho who hasn’t been to New York in years, and I got a guy in Lisbon, Portugal, who were both interested in that elephant.” He wiped a hand over his mouth and smothered a yawn, but his eyes still glowed with bright interest. “How many others were bidding on that thing?”

Annja checked the list. “Eight people.”

“But they all bailed early.”

“They did.”

“And we still haven’t found the thing.” Bart knotted his hand. “I hate mysteries.” He looked up at her. “I know you enjoy them, but I could live without them. Give me a case where I catch a perp red-handed and just have to fill out the paperwork. Those are the investigations I like.”

Annja knew that wasn’t true. Bart McGilley was clever and knowledgeable. Those were things that underpinned their friendship. They loved puzzles and mystery shows. She didn’t offer to argue the point at the moment.

An Asian man entered from the street and the way he didn’t fit in caught Annja’s attention immediately. Bart tilted his head slightly, shifting his gaze to the man, as well.

The man wore a dark gray suit and a long jacket. On his head he had a black woolen cap. A shade under six feet tall, he looked thin for his size, but his shoulders were broad and he moved with economical grace as he strode toward their table.

Bart shifted slightly so that he could get to his service weapon more quickly, but the nonchalant look on his face never waned.

The Asian man stopped a few feet short of their table, just out of arm’s reach, and smiled slightly at them. “Good morning. I do not mean to trouble you.” His accent held a note of British English in it. “My name is Nguyen Rao. I have come about the elephant Mr. Benyovszky had for sale on his website. Do you have the elephant?”

Chapter 6

Feeling nervous and out of place, Rao smiled at the man and woman seated at the table in front of him. Neither of them appeared to be surprised to see him, and that was good. Nervous people could sometimes make quick mistakes that would bring misfortune to all concerned.

The man broadcasted his profession in his narrowed eyes and readiness for physical confrontation. The move to access the pistol belted at his hip had not gone unnoticed. Rao had seen plenty of policemen during his journeys across Europe and throughout Asia. Criminals and policemen could be confusing, though, because both of them were similar in nature. Rao had dealt with criminals, as well. He much preferred dealing with neither and instead working on his studies.

The woman, though, was similar in some ways, but different in others. She did not seem like a policeman or a criminal because she was more open, more accepting and not shut down. Her curiosity about him showed in the glint of her eyes and the set of her lips. But she kept herself balanced and ready all the same. Composed for confrontation, yes, but she was more curious than cautious. In many, that would be a weakness. Rao was not certain that such motivation was a weakness in her.

He knew of her and of her work. Anyone who labored in the field of antiquities might possibly know her name and her face. The television show rendered her familiar to a great number of the populace, but such familiarity also took away remembrance of her work as an archaeologist.

The policeman spoke first. “What did you say your name was?”

The ploy allowed the man to think a little longer, or perhaps it was only so the microphone of the recording device he wore might pick up his name better.

“Nguyen Rao.”

“I’m Detective McGilley of the New York Police Department.” The detective smiled a little, and the effort was almost guileless. His face was placid as a lake in a dead calm, but his body language was tight. Rao had learned to read both while in the temple.

“It is good to meet you, Detective McGilley.”

McGilley didn’t offer to introduce Annja Creed. “What are you doing here?”

“I came about the elephant.”

“You’re not from around here.”

“No.” Rao made himself endure the inane questions. He knew they would be coming and he had prepared himself to deal with them.

“Where are you from?”

“Phnom Penh.”

McGilley’s eyes cut to Annja Creed for just a moment.

Rao spoke again to remove the confusion and lack of knowledge. “Phnom Penh is in Cambodia.”

McGilley smiled a little at that. “Cambodia’s a long way off, Mr. Nguyen.”

“It is.” Rao thought being agreeable would be best. “The trip by plane required many hours.”

“I’m sure it did. When did you get to New York?”

There was almost no suspicion in the man’s words to touch the ear, but Rao knew the focus that drove the question. “Too late to save Mr. Benyovszky.”

“To save him?”

“Your inference was that I had killed him,” Rao said politely. “I did not. Had I gotten to him in time last night, or this morning—I must admit to some confusion regarding the time, I might have saved him.”

The cop surfaced in McGilley then, and Rao knew that the conversation was going to go badly. Still, he knew he had to try to convince the American that he was in no way responsible for Benyovszky’s death.

“You knew that Benyovszky was going to be killed?”

“No. Had I known that, I would have notified authorities. I was not there. Mr. Benyovszky was. If he felt he was in no danger, then why would I have thought so?”

“You said if you had reached him earlier he might not be dead.”

“I misspoke. It could just as well have been that both of us were killed. I choose to think that his death might have been prevented. But that is already in the past and we must work on the future.”

“Do you know who killed Benyovszky?”

“No.”

McGilley looked around, noticing then that nearby patrons were starting to pay attention. He returned his attention to Rao. “Perhaps we can talk about this somewhere else.” He slid out of the booth and stood, and the woman closed her computer, tucked it away in a messenger bag and slid out of the booth, as well.

“I can save us some time,” Rao offered, thinking that maybe the direct approach—though the most honest—was not working in this instance. “I only need the elephant.”

“We can talk about that outside.” McGilley waved toward the door and indicated Rao should precede him.

Thinking that maybe he was wasting his time, that the elephant had already been lost, probably taken by the man or men who killed Maurice Benyovszky, Rao felt disappointed and turned his thoughts to getting out of police custody, for he felt certain that was where he was headed. He turned and started for the door, then he spotted one of the Portuguese men he’d encountered weeks before.

The man stood at the counter next to the side door and nursed a coffee or a hot tea. No one else was around him.

Rao did not know the man’s name, but there was no mistaking that cruel look or those dead eyes.

* * *

UNTIL THE MONK started to walk out with the police detective and Annja Creed, Calapez thought he had the situation in hand. The fact that the monk was there let Calapez know that the Asian didn’t have the elephant. Evidently the piece was still in play.

However, when recognition flared in the monk’s eyes, Calapez felt threatened and reacted instantly because he preferred the element of surprise to be one of his weapons rather than someone else’s. He pushed away from the counter and swept his coat back, reaching for his pistol.

The detective, focusing on the Asian, was slow getting to his own weapon. Calapez had the 9mm out and started firing, aiming for the detective because he knew the American would have a weapon and the monk and the woman probably didn’t.

Calapez squeezed the rounds off as quickly as he could, putting all three of them into the center of the detective’s chest. The American went back and down, the pistol tumbling from his fingers. The woman dropped down beside him, concern tightening her features.

The monk came toward Calapez so quick that Calapez couldn’t bring his pistol around fast enough to center his weapon on the man. It didn’t matter, though, because one of the men Calapez had stationed outside stepped through the door and raised a machine pistol, spraying bullets indiscriminately.

* * *

SEEING THE MACHINE pistol in the other man’s hands as he entered the diner and knowing that continuing to stay inside the building would only be endangering the rest of the patrons, Rao abandoned his forward momentum and threw himself over the counter. As he landed on fingers and toes, he swept out his left leg, caught the legs of the man tending the grill, and knocked him down as well, so the machine pistol’s bullets cut the air where he’d been, instead of tearing through flesh.

The man sprawled in shock and decided to lie there, still clutching the spatula he’d been using. He mumbled, curses or prayers, Rao couldn’t tell over the yammering machine pistol. Bullets hammered the stainless-steel grill vent and cored through the tile wall, spilling ceramic fragments over the floor.

Rao ran, staying low behind the counter, knowing that his opponents would seek to find him because they had recognized him as a familiar threat even if they didn’t know what he truly represented.

Hoping that his departure would draw his enemies away from the diner, Rao slid around the end of the counter and angled for the door. Bullets chased him, cutting through the air just inches behind him. Thankfully the patrons were down on the floor and out of the way.

He hit the door with both palms, spreading the impact so that the glass door shattered. He ran through the falling fragments and out into the street, thinking that the Portuguese man would have set up his cronies at that door, as well. He just managed to stay ahead of a swath of bullets from the two gunmen standing outside the wrecked door.

Traffic had been held up by a red light at the intersection. At the sound of the shots, the drivers panicked and began trying to pull around each other. Failing that, many of them got out and ran or stayed in their vehicles.

Rao ran, his head low, and knew that the gunmen pursued him.

* * *

ANNJA FELT THE shock of adrenaline hitting her system, but concentrated on examining Bart. He’d been hit by the man’s bullets. That was all she knew.

She reached for him, gazing at his chest and expecting it to be a bloody ruin. It wasn’t. Three bullet holes showed in his shirt, one of them piercing his coat as well, but there was no blood.

Vest, Annja thought frantically. He’s wearing a protective vest.

Then she was aware of the swarthy man beside her. He grabbed her roughly by one elbow and shoved the hot barrel of the pistol against her neck. The barrel was so hot that her flesh seared. She almost fought back, but she knew that would only fail. All the man had to do was squeeze the trigger and the fight would end before it started.

“Move,” the man ordered in a harsh voice.

Annja stood, looking down at Bart. His eyelids flickered, but he was almost unconscious, barely aware of what was going on around him. Even with the vest, his ribs could have been cracked. One of them might have punctured a lung.

The man yanked her again, guiding her toward the back door. Annja knew she had a chance to escape then. The man wasn’t paying strict attention to her. He didn’t know what she was capable of.

But there were too many people around. The innocents would get hurt. She didn’t want that. She held herself ready and waited.

Through the door, outside in the cold air of morning, horns blaring at the traffic jam that had taken shape in the intersection, Annja strode down the sidewalk as the man guided her. They were walking away from the building where Maurice Benyovszky had been killed, walking past the other door to the diner now.

Police would arrive quickly. She knew that. She concentrated on her breathing, keeping it smooth and regular, and she paid attention. There had been two men inside the diner, the guy who held her captive and the man who followed them that had wielded the machine pistol.

The Asian man had vanished, but the two armed men sprinting through the stalled traffic gave Annja a good idea which way Nguyen Rao had gone.

If that’s even his name. Anger flared up in Annja then. She wasn’t sure who to blame for Bart getting shot. From the way the guy who was holding on to her had acted, he’d chosen to shoot Bart as soon as Bart had tried to leave with the Asian man.

They definitely weren’t working together. The Asian man had been asking about the elephant piece, but that didn’t mean the guy holding on to her was interested in that.

“Annja Creed,” the man said in that hard voice as he looked around.

She didn’t respond.

Angrily, the man shook her. “You will speak when I speak to you.”

“All right.” Annja took note of the neighborhood. Pedestrians had been drawn to the diner, thinning out of the alley and the streets. The smart neighbors and passersby stayed in their homes and watched.

“Where is the elephant?”

Okay, so all of this is connected. Everybody has an elephant on their agenda. Annja took a breath and stepped off the curb, keeping pace with the man at her side. “I don’t know.”

“Does the detective have it?”

“No. The elephant wasn’t in Benyovszky’s apartment.”

The man cursed in Portuguese. Annja understood enough of the man’s invective to understand he was mad and scared.

“What is the elephant?” Annja asked.

“None of your business. If you do not know, it is better that you do not learn.”

Annja kept walking, but she was aware that the man was no longer as focused on her. He was looking for a way out now, a way through the police net that would be going up even as they were speaking.

“Maybe I can help,” she suggested. “Just tell me why you’re looking for the elephant and maybe I’d be able to figure out where it is.”

“No.” The man shook her again and kept walking, glancing at the street. “Who killed Benyovszky?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t kill him?”

“The old man was dead when we got there.” Realizing what he had just done, how he had admitted more than he’d intended, the man cursed in Portuguese again.

“There.” The man carrying the machine pistol under his coat pointed to a sedan sailing swiftly down the street. He stepped toward the curb and started flagging the vehicle down.

She didn’t want to get into the car with the men—escape would be harder there if not impossible. Annja lifted her right leg and drove her foot into the back of her abductor’s knee, tripping him and forcing him down at the same time. She caught his gun hand in her hands and twisted. The man released the pistol with a cry of pain just before his wrist bones shattered. He fell away, dropping to the sidewalk.

The man with the machine pistol wheeled around and started bringing his weapon from under his coat.

Knowing she wouldn’t reach the other man in time to prevent him from employing the machine pistol, Annja reached into the otherwhere and grabbed the handle of the sword that had once belonged to Joan of Arc. In less than an eyeblink, it was in this world with her, a piece of her just as surely as any of her limbs.

The sword was crude and beautiful at the same time. Over three feet in length, with an unadorned cross-guard, the handle wrapped in leather, the sword was a weapon, not a showpiece. It had been forged for battle, and Annja was intimate with its abilities. She joined her two hands together as she stepped forward and swung.

Catching the morning light, the blade sang through the air in a horizontal arc that sheared through the machine pistol a bare inch above the man’s hands. Gaping in disbelief, the man stared at the useless weapon he held as the pieces tumbled to the sidewalk.

Before the man could react, Annja set herself and lashed out with a roundhouse kick that lifted the gunman from his feet and bounced him off the side of a nearby parked car. The vehicle’s anti-theft alarm screamed and echoed along the street.

Annja released the sword, letting it go back into the otherwhere and disappear. The other man pushed himself up, but his injured wrist gave out on him and he crashed back down to his chest. Annja stomped on his hand as he reached for the dropped pistol, then picked up the weapon herself.

Backing away, Annja pointed the pistol at the second man. “Roll over onto your stomach. Lock your fingers behind your head. I’m sure you’re familiar with the drill.”

Without a word, the man did as he was ordered. The first man lay unconscious. Three uniformed police officers sprinted up the street toward Annja.

Out on the street, the driver of the approaching car slowed, then saw that the odds had shifted. Ducking down, the man pulled toward an alley and drove away.

The police officers pointed their weapons at Annja. One of them addressed her in a too-loud but calm voice. “Ma’am, put down the weapon.”

Annja complied, then laid on her stomach the same way the man she’d captured was. Handcuffs closed around her wrists and she kept telling herself that Bart would get her cut loose as soon as he was able.

Being handcuffed didn’t bother her so much, though. It was the thought of the elephant, lost out there, people chasing after it for some unknown reason, and she was getting behind in that pursuit.

Chapter 7

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Shaking her head, Annja made an effort to stop rubbing her bruised wrists. Although the pain had subsided, they still throbbed from the constriction they’d suffered while she’d been brought down to the police station. The policeman who had put the handcuffs on had put them on tight and time had passed before Bart could get free of the paramedics and the investigators and arrive to release her. “I’m fine.”

Bart squinted up at her as if taking her measure. “You don’t look so good.”

“Me?” She frowned at Bart, who was sitting on the other side of his desk in the detectives’ bull pen. All around the station cops were fielding reports and filling out forms. Evidently Benyovszky’s murder and the shoot-out at the diner hadn’t been the only things going on tonight. The conversations and the constant noise distanced her from the memory of the old man lying dead in his apartment and the violence in the diner that had spilled out into the street. “You’re the one who got shot.”

In the uncertain glare of the fluorescent lighting, Bart looked pale and haggard. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and breathed shallowly. His shirttails were out and his tie hung in a coat pocket. “The vest stopped the bullets.”

“The vest doesn’t stop the impact. That’s still like getting hit in the chest with a sledgehammer.”

Bart grinned at her ruefully. “How would you know something like that?”

Actually, Annja had experienced that same injury on occasion, as well as getting shot. Things hadn’t been dull since the sword had come into her possession. She didn’t know if the increased danger was just her lifestyle or a byproduct of having the sword.

“There was a special on the History Channel about body armor,” she replied. “You should go to the emergency room and get checked out. In addition to the bruising, the hydrostatic shock caused by the impacts could have cracked your ribs or torn muscles.”

“I’ll be fine.” Bart opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of pain relievers and shook a couple tablets out into his hand. He swallowed them down dry and grimaced, at the taste or the pain, Annja wasn’t sure which. He put the bottle back in the desk drawer. “There’s a line at the hospital. There always is. If this is still hurting in a few hours, I’ll go in.” He took a breath gingerly and winced. “In the meantime, I’ve got a case I’m working on that just blew up big-time, and I still have no idea why people are shooting up the neighborhood over an elephant statue we can’t find.”

Annja decided not to press the issue and risk reminding Bart that she was just a civilian pushing into police business. Friendship would only carry her so far, and she knew Bart wouldn’t bend regulations any further. She massaged her wrists again. “Do you have anything on the two men who were arrested at the diner?”

“I do.” Bart stood with effort and picked up a file folder from the desktop. “Come with me.”

* * *

“HIS NAME’S FRANCISCO CALAPEZ.” Bart peered through the one-way glass into the interview room at the man sitting alone at a desk.

Calapez sat in a straight-backed chair that was bolted to the floor. Other than the two chairs, one across from the other, and the table, the room offered nothing more in furnishings or accoutrements. Hands cuffed to the table in front of him, one of them sleeved in a temporary cast, Calapez looked uncomfortable and half-asleep.

Holding her arms across her chest because it made the bruises on her wrists throb less painfully, Annja peered through the one-way glass. “What’s he saying?”

Bart shook his head. “Nothing. He started yelling lawyer as soon as we sat down to talk to him. We only got a name because his prints rolled up in the system. We’re not even certain that’s his real name yet. We’re still awaiting verification on a true ID. According to the files I’ve seen, and there may be more hits coming in soon because this guy, whoever he turns out to be, has got a record in Europe that’s coming in to us in pieces.”

Annja thought about that. “What kind of history does he have?”

“Guy’s a strong-arm, probably a killer, but no one’s ever pinned that on him.”

“He told me he didn’t kill Benyovszky.”

“How did you have time for a discussion in the middle of everything that was going on?”

“He brought it up. He asked me if I knew who killed Benyovszky. Calapez wants the elephant.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.”

“If the guy’s going to shoot at you—and he did—” Bart pointed to his chest “—it’s a safe bet he’s going to lie to you, too.”

“I don’t think he killed him.”

Bart sighed, but carefully. “Neither do I. If Calapez had killed Benyovszky and taken the elephant—which this all seems to focus on, he would have disappeared. We took his shoes when we brought him in because we noticed dried blood on them.”

Annja glanced down at Calapez’s sock-covered feet.

“The lab has the shoes now, but there were traces of blood in the tread, and I’m betting that blood at one time pumped through Maurice Benyovszky.”

“No bet.”

“The lab will take a while getting the results back to us, though. So for right now, I can’t put Calapez in Benyovszky’s apartment. Which means all I have him on is a weapons charge and intent to murder at the diner.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“I hope so. Depends on the judge and how much money Calapez can get his hands on. If this guy makes bail, he could be in the wind and we might never see him again.”

“Even after him blasting away inside the diner?”

“Yeah. Until we can prove he killed somebody, we can’t leverage enough to guarantee he’ll be held without bail. If we could prove he was a threat to national security, we could lock him down tight.”

“But Calapez could walk away from this.”

“He could.” Bart grimaced.

On one hand, Annja couldn’t believe Calapez could be released, but on the other she knew that things often happened just as Bart described. When he was feeling particularly irritated at his job, he sometimes stated that the justice system protected criminals more than it protected citizens. Of course, that took a really bad day for him to bring that up.

Annja thought about that for a moment. “Can you connect Calapez or the other man who was arrested to Fernando Sequeira?”

“No.” Bart grimaced. “But I think the three of them would fit well together. Sequeira isn’t a squeaky-clean television and radio mogul in Lisbon. I did a background check on him. When it comes to television and radio programming, Sequeira is something of a golden boy. However, he’s got a bad habit of stealing artifacts from other countries, making illegal acquisitions. According to Interpol, Sequeira has hired people to get things for him off the books. They couldn’t make a case stick against him because he took care of his hired help.” Bart paused for a sip of the coffee he’d brought into the room with him. “But he’s never been indicted for murder.”

“So why do these guys fit together?”

“Sequeira’s name came up in the bidding on Benyovszky’s site. Calapez is in town asking about the elephant. Sequeira likes getting things. Calapez likes getting money for getting things for people, and he’s been suspected of retrieving artifacts for Sequeira before. The math is easy.”

“If Sequeira has a lot of money—”

“He does.”

“—then why didn’t he just outbid Charles Prosch and acquire the elephant without anyone getting hurt?”

“I’ll be asking him that, if the DA’s office ever gets through Sequeira’s lawyers so I can get a face-to-face with him. The man’s put up shields that are keeping our enquiries at bay.”

“He must be hiding something.” Annja knew Bart had to be thinking along the same lines.

“Maybe.” Bart shrugged and winced. “Sequeira’s also the kind of rich that likes to have privacy and can afford it. He’s got a history of avoiding publicity except when he wants to shine the spotlight on himself. Could be he just doesn’t want to deal with us.”

Annja looked at the man in the interview room, watching as Calapez calmly picked at the temporary cast. “I suppose since Calapez isn’t talking, neither is the other guy you have in custody.”

“You’d think they were twins with a limited vocabulary from the way they shut down so quickly to lawyer up.”

“What’s the other guy’s name?”

Bart shook his head. “We don’t know. His prints aren’t on file anywhere. He’s young enough that he may not have been in trouble before now. After tonight, though, we’ll have his prints, so he’ll be in the books for anyone who needs to know.”

“I don’t think either one of these two guys, or any of the other guys working with them, killed Maurice Benyovszky.” Annja pulled at her coat, her mind active and restless.

“Neither do I.” Bart looked unhappy. “Doesn’t make sense for them to kill Benyovszky, grab the elephant, then hang around to shoot me and wreak havoc in a local diner.”

“That means Benyovszky’s killer is still out there, and more than likely has the elephant.”

“I know. We’re going to be working the murder scene, the shooting at the diner, and we caught another squeal about a murder in an apartment building across the street from Benyovszky’s building. One of the neighbors checked in on a guy named Felix Montgomery, found out he was dead. Other neighbors say they saw him in the building as late as eleven o’clock. So the time of death was sometime between eleven last night and this morning. Someone had rammed a blade into Montgomery’s neck at the base of his skull and killed him.” Bart touched the back of his neck to indicate where the blow had been delivered.

“A knife kill like that means training.”

Bart glanced at her in consternation with raised eyebrows.

“Discovery Channel,” Annja replied, realizing she was entirely too knowledgeable and calm about the violence. Bart wasn’t privy to everything she had done since gaining possession of the sword.

“You’re watching way too much television.” Bart swung his focus back to the prisoner. “And one of the things Calapez did before he’s been doing whatever he’s been doing for the past eight years is mercenary work. He signed on with the Portuguese Army when he was eighteen, served in special forces for a few years, then mustered out. So somewhere he would have gotten that kind of training.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Hang on to him as long as we can. Unless an attorney shows up here, I can lose Calapez in the system for seventy-two hours before I have to bring him before the judge. I will have to take him in for medical treatment, but I can finesse that, too. I don’t know if we’re going to be any closer to an answer by then, but we’ll keep working the case. That’s what we do.”

Someone knocked on the door. Bart told them to enter.

A young plainclothes cop stepped into the room. “Unis caught the Asian guy who was at the diner, Detective McGilley. The guy who approached you and her.” He nodded at Annja. “Sergeant Vogt wanted me to let you know.”

“How did the unis find him?”

The guy smiled mirthlessly. “They didn’t catch him. He walked up to them and turned himself in. There’s nothing to arrest him on, but we’re holding him as a material witness.”

“Do we have a name for him?”

The detective checked the folder he was holding. “Nguyen Rao. Says here he’s a professor in Cambodia.”

“That’s the same name he gave us at the diner,” Annja said.

Bart nodded. “Did Mr. Nguyen say what he’s doing in New York?”

“He’s not really talkative. He asked to speak to you both.”

“Where is he?”

“Got him in an interview room.”

Bart headed for the door and Annja followed at his heels. This was twice the man had reached out to them.

* * *

NGUYEN RAO SAT in the interview room and looked serene. His hands rested palms-down on the desk that looked like a twin to the one in Calapez’s room. His eyes were open and staring at the one-way glass, but he appeared to be asleep. Or really, really relaxed. Annja didn’t know how a man could do that after nearly getting shot down just a short time ago. Then again, she was pretty calm herself, but she’d had a lot of experience at that sort of thing.

Bart thumbed through the file that he’d gotten on the man. Annja read the folder’s contents over his shoulder.

There wasn’t much. Nguyen Rao—that did appear to be his real name—was a professor attached to the most prestigious university in Phnom Penh. He was thirty-two years old and also worked as a curator for the national museum.

Annja took out her tablet and tapped in Rao’s name, quickly locating several papers he’d written on Cambodian history ranging from the country’s pre-history through the Khmer Rouge. Many of those papers included a photograph of Nguyen that matched the man in the interview room.

“Is he legit?” Bart peered over Annja’s shoulder as she skimmed through the papers Rao had written.

“He is, if these papers are all truly his work and not part of a cover.”

“You have a suspicious mind.”

“Tonight has created a little paranoia, I suppose.” Annja smiled at him.

Bart smiled back. “Paranoia’s good for you. Sometimes they really are out to get you.” He cut his eyes back to the tablet PC. “So he’s like you? An archaeologist?”

“Not quite. He’s more of a historian.”

Bart returned his attention to the man on the other side of the one-way glass. “If he’s a historian, then what’s he doing here in New York looking for that elephant piece?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“I’m going to.” Bart left Annja standing there and walked to the door down the hall.

Chapter 8

Rao sat quietly at the table. The handcuffs felt cold and tight around his wrists, but the weight and the idea that he was restrained didn’t bother him. He knew he could escape the handcuffs easily enough, but getting out of the building without being recaptured or shot was a different matter.

He hadn’t gotten caught earlier. Once he’d seen that Annja Creed had overcome her captors, he’d allowed the police pursuing him to overtake and arrest him. He wanted to talk to the policeman again, the one who had investigated the old man’s murder. Rao needed to know what had become of the elephant piece Benyovszky had listed on his site.

The door opened and Rao looked up at the arrival. The young detective, Bart McGilley, entered the room with a file in one hand and a cup of coffee in another. His expression was neutral, but Rao easily read the tension in the other man’s movements.

McGilley set his coffee and the file on the table, then sat, as well. As he moved, he carried himself gingerly.

“Are you in pain?” Rao remembered the man had been shot in the diner.

“I’m fine.” McGilley’s answer was flat and final. “You should be worried about you.”

“I have not done anything wrong, therefore I do not see anything I should be concerned about.” Rao was pretty certain that fighting to defend himself was allowed in the United States. The laws here could be exasperating, but he thought he was correct about that. He had not killed anyone, and he had been attacked first. “I only turned myself in because I knew there would be questions as to my involvement in the violence at the diner.”

“We’ll see about that.” McGilley stared him in the eye. “They said you wouldn’t talk to anyone but me.”

“You, or Professor Creed. Is she still here?” Actually, Rao wanted to talk to the woman more. He wanted to know how much she knew, if she could add anything to the amount of knowledge he had about the elephant.

“You’re talking to me.”

“Of course.” Rao made himself be patient. The wheels of bureaucracy turned slowly in any country.

“Tell me about the elephant you’re looking for.”

“It is an object that I would like to have.”

“Why?”

Rao considered that for a moment, thought that his business and that of the temple need not be discussed with the American police and decided to withhold a replay regarding those interests.

“Did you hear the question?” the detective asked.

“I did.”

“Then talk to me.”

“I choose not to. That has nothing to do with the events that occurred at the diner.”

A flicker of anger darted through the detective’s eyes. The corners of his mouth tightened in displeasure. “Things will go easier for you if you cooperate.”

“I am cooperating. I turned myself in. Surely you can see that I am cooperating.” Rao kept his voice calm and easygoing, offering no threat nor confrontation.

“I need to know about the elephant piece.”

“I will not discuss that.”

“A man was killed last night, probably for that elephant. You understand how that is important, something I should know.”

“I did not kill him. I have not been inside Maurice Benyovszky’s building. Your investigation will confirm that. Or, at the least, not be able to put me inside that building.”

“Are you boasting?”

“I am merely stating the truth as I see it.”

“Professor Nguyen—” the detective laced his fingers together on the table “—maybe you don’t understand your circumstances. Potentially you’re in a lot of trouble here.”

“Have I broken any laws?”

“None that I’m aware of, but you’re at the center of a murder, and that makes you a material witness. I can hold you on that alone for a time.”

Rao had not known that. That revelation did make things more complicated.

“Tell me about you and Calapez,” McGilley went on.

“I do not know anyone named Calapez.” Rao guessed that must have been the name of the man inside the diner, the one who had come at him shooting. Rao was not lying. He did not know the man’s name, which was what he had stated, but he had known the man was also after the elephant.

“You seemed to know him earlier.”

“Calapez is the man who was in the diner.” The name of the man was new to Rao. He filed it away. “He had a weapon and seemed intent on using it. I reacted.”

“I saw you when you recognized him. I know you knew him then.” McGilley laced his hands around his coffee and Rao knew the man was drawing warmth from the hot liquid. “He knew you, too.”

“He has said this?” That would be interesting, and it would mean that the man who had sent Calapez to get the elephant knew more than Rao and his superiors had reckoned.

“I’m asking the questions.”

“Of course. I meant no disrespect. I did not know the man’s name until you mentioned it now.”

“How do you know him?”

“Only through a chance encounter earlier. He struck me as a violent man. A killer. I am certain that if you look into his background you will discover this for yourself.”

“Where did you encounter Calapez before this morning?”

Rao considered that quickly and thought that he would not be risking too much by telling the truth. “In Phnom Penh.”

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

“What was he doing there?”

“I do not know.”

The detective frowned in irritation. “Where did the two of you meet?”

“We did not meet.”

“Where were you when you saw Calapez?”

“In the museum where I sometimes work.”

The detective checked the file. “At the national museum?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know what Calapez was doing there?”

“No.”

“Between you and me, I don’t think Calapez is much of a history buff or art lover.”

“I do not get that impression either.”

McGilley paused for a moment as if to let that sink in. “What brings you to New York?”

“I came to see Mr. Benyovszky, as I told you in the diner.”

The pupils of the detective’s eyes dilated, giving away his excitement even though he remained stone-faced. “Did you and Mr. Benyovszky know each other?”

“No. We had exchanged email and a few phone calls.” Rao knew that would check out if the police checked Benyovszky’s phone records. He did not want to get caught in a lie. That would complicate matters regarding the recovery of the elephant.

“You should really tell me about the elephant.”

Rao didn’t reply. He had learned what he could from the policeman. They knew nothing about the elephant. McGilley asked more questions, but Rao remained silent. Finally, in frustration, the detective got up and left the interview room.

* * *

“WHAT ARE YOU going to do with him?” Annja watched Nguyen Rao through the one-way glass.

Bart’s aggravation showed in the hard lines along his jaw and the stiffness of his neck. He tossed the folder onto a nearby table. “I’m going to sit on him, hold him as long as I can. Sooner or later, someone will come looking for him, and when they do, I’ll know more.”

“Maybe I could talk to him. He did offer to speak to me, too.”

Stubbornly, Bart shook his head. “No. That’s what this guy wants, for whatever reason, and I’m not agreeing to any of his demands. I want him to sweat, let him sit in a box for a while to soften him up. I’m betting he feels more like talking then.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll discuss you talking to him. If he still wants to.”

Annja knew Bart wasn’t going to budge on his decision. “What are you going to do until then?”

“I’m going to go home and get some sleep. While Nguyen Rao is sitting in a cell, freaking out and realizing I’m serious about holding him, I’ll be getting the rest I need. When I talk to him again, I’ll have a clear head and I’ll probably know more. I’ve got guys working on his background. We’ll find whatever Nguyen is hiding. We might even have the elephant by then, too. If we do, the balance of power in our discussion will probably shift.” Bart looked at her. “You need to go home, too, Annja. I appreciate all the help, and I’m sorry to have gotten you out of bed.”

“And almost got me killed?” Annja raised a mocking eyebrow.

Bart nodded. “And that.” He regarded her for a moment. “The guys who arrested you told me you took down Calapez and his friend. That was pretty gutsy.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know you can defend yourself.” Bart sometimes sparred with Annja in the dojo she frequented when she could. She’d taught him a lot, adding to the basic defenses he’d been trained on in the academy. “When Calapez forced you out of the diner, I was afraid something was going to happen to you.”

“It didn’t. We both got lucky.”

“Yeah, well, Calapez ended up with a broken hand.”

“I saw an opportunity and took it. I wasn’t getting into the car with him.”

“Why was Calapez so intent on taking you?”

“As a hostage, I suppose.”

“Maybe.” Bart took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m glad everything turned out okay.”

Annja stepped in and gave him a hug, patting his back, thinking about how close she’d come to losing him. Bart was a friend, a really good one, and she didn’t want to ever lose him. “Me, too.”

* * *

OUTSIDE THE POLICE STATION, Annja turned and walked down the street, her hands in her pockets and her collar turned up against the cold wind. Bart had offered to have an officer drive her home, but she’d refused, knowing that they were busy and she wanted to be on her own.

She thought about returning to her loft, to the work she had waiting for her there, but she knew she couldn’t focus on that or rest right now. Her mind was too busy, seeking out answers to the riddle of the elephant. Frustration chafed at her because she didn’t know enough to ask the right questions.

Before she knew it, she’d gone down a few blocks aimlessly. Spotting a cab, she hailed it, met it at the curb and told the driver to take her to Maurice Benyovszky’s building.

* * *

“ARE YOU POLICE?” The woman who asked Annja that question stood in front of a dryer in a local Laundromat two blocks down from Benyovszky’s address. Annja had noted the address of the business on some receipts on Benyovszky’s desk when she’d looked over his things.

Plump and in her late twenties, the woman looked Slavic and spoke with a Russian accent. Her dark hair was pulled back and frizzy from the heat inside the Laundromat. She held a three year old girl on her hip as she worked one-handed to put the wet clothes into the machine.

“No. I’m not the police.” Annja helped the woman put the load of clothing into the dryer.

“I saw you with them this morning on the television.” The woman pushed quarters into the machine and started it cycling. The clothing thumped as the big barrel turned, and the little girl on the woman’s hip watched the contents spin.

Several other women and a few men of all ages occupied the Laundromat, all of them dealing with their clothing. A television blared from the mount in the corner, displaying a ghost-hunting program. The whir and vibration of the machines created a soft blanket of noise that filled the building. The strong smell of detergent and bleach burned Annja’s nose.

“I work for them sometimes,” Annja replied. “As a consultant when they need me.”

The woman was suspicious and distrustful. That was a typical reaction to anyone outside a culture. Annja wasn’t of Russian heritage, wasn’t from the neighborhood and her clothing separated her from everyone else in the Laundromat. The woman placed her child on the folding table in front of the dryer and fussed with her hair, combing it neatly.

“Your daughter is beautiful,” Annja said.

The little girl smiled shyly and ducked her head into her mother’s bosom.

“Thank you.” The woman smiled, but she didn’t open up anymore to Annja.

“Did you know Mr. Benyovszky?” Annja asked.

Shrugging, the woman picked up her daughter again. “I see him in the hallway sometimes. He was a good man. Very kind. His two great-nephews, though, they are a waste.”

“I got that impression myself.” Annja hesitated, wondering if she was pushing too hard or too sudden, and knowing there was no other route to handling the situation. “I’d like to talk to someone who knew Mr. Benyovszky.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want his murderer to get away.”

“No one does. If anyone knew, they would tell the police.” Suspicion darkened the woman’s face. “They say whoever killed Mr. Benyovszky stole a fortune.”

“I don’t know. In fact, I don’t know that anything was taken for sure. That’s what I’m trying to help the police find out, but in order to know that, I need more information about Mr. Benyovszky and his business.”

Another woman walked up to the first. This one was older and more plump. Her hair had turned gray and her face was weathered by years. She spoke rapidly in Russian, too fast and too low for Annja to understand.

When the first woman looked back up, she said, “My friend tells me that she sees you on television and that I should trust you because she thinks you are a nice person.”

Annja smiled at the other woman. “Spasiba.”

The older woman nodded. “You are welcome.” The words came hesitantly, but they were sincere.

“If you want to find out more about Mr. Benyovszky’s business you should seek out Yelena Kustodiev,” the first woman said.

“Where can I find her?” Annja asked.

“She lives in the next building.” The woman hesitated, shifted her child on her hip, and looked pensive. “She is a…a very strange woman. It is best to be careful around her if you have to speak to her. I will write you the address.” She accepted the pen and paper Annja handed her from her backpack. “When you go there, please do me the favor of not telling Yelena Kustodiev who told you about her.” She shook her head as she wrote down the address. “She is a most intimidating woman. You will see.”

Chapter 9

Nguyen Rao sat in the back of the squad car and worked on the handcuffs that bound him. The locks were no problem to manipulate. The most difficult thing had been in acquiring a pick. While he had been transferred from the room where Detective McGilley had spoken with him, he’d managed to steal a ballpoint pen from the desk of another policeman on the way out without being noticed. Rao had stripped the clip from the pen, then dropped the writing utensil into a convenient trash receptacle, keeping only the slim length of metal.

Until the two policemen escorting him had placed him in the back of the squad car, he had kept the metal covered in the folds of his palm. Now he bent the metal and hooked it into the cuff on his right wrist. He didn’t need both open if that wasn’t possible, but managed it more easily than he’d believed. The locks had been simple, and he was dexterous, but he’d had to be patient, as well. That was made harder because he didn’t know how far they planned on taking him.

The two policemen in the front seat on the other side of the metal mesh barricade separating the rear seat from the front talked about football, arguing in a good-natured way that told Rao they were friends, not just workmates. He kept that in mind, knowing he did not want to entertain any bad karma while engaged on his mission. He sought only to right an old wrong. If possible.

The first cuff clicked open, followed quickly by the second. Rao kept his hands behind him, thinking only of the elephant and of Calapez’s involvement. Rao wondered who had sent the man there, and he wondered if he would have been able to entreat Maurice Benyovszky to give him the elephant in person while so many attempts over the phone had been denied.

Rao didn’t know if Benyovszky was a good man or not, but he knew that no man deserved to have his life taken from him. He wished that Benyovszky would enjoy better terms in his next life, but that was out of Rao’s hands.

Not for the first time, he wished the elder monks had sent someone else. But he was the most knowledgeable about the elephant, and he spoke English easily enough. He had been the best choice for the assignment, and he had taken on the responsibility.

“I’m telling you, Frank, ain’t no way the Pats are gonna squeak by this year, and if they do, the Broncos are waiting on them.” The driver sipped his coffee as he pulled to a stop behind a cab at the intersection.

Glancing around, Rao tried to get his bearings. The city was an unknown area. He had managed to get around only through the map function on his phone, but he no longer had that. Still, he had confidence in himself.

He was also discomfited by the fact that he had turned himself in only to be taken into custody. He had not thought he would be placed under arrest. He still did not know how that had happened even after the police officers had explained his rights to him, then had told him he was being taken into custody as a material witness, but not as a criminal. The whole matter was highly illogical. They had said his incarceration—not their word but Rao had no other word for it—was to ensure he would provide testimony at the proper time.

He had argued, but he had quickly seen there was no other way around it, so he had given in. And he’d stolen the ballpoint pen.

Tipping over onto his right side, Rao drew back his left leg and kicked the window. The door had no handles on the inside in the rear compartment. The glass shattered and flew out to cascade against the car in the next lane.

The policemen turned around, yelling at him through the mesh separating them from him, promising dire consequences. Rao ignored them, aware of the policemen hurrying to open their doors. They were as separated from him by the mesh as he was from the front of the vehicle.