Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

“Cool. Good for her.” Connor smiled. And good for me. She’s within driving distance. “So where’s the problem?”

“The problem is that when she opened the vault where her great-granddaddy’s stash has been kept for the past hundred years and started cataloging the artifacts, she discovered that some of the more important pieces were missing.”

“Stolen?”

“She thinks so.”

“So she called the FBI, that’s good. We have a whole department dedicated to-”

“I told her all that. But she didn’t call the Bureau, Connor. She called you. She doesn’t want anyone else. She doesn’t want the publicity-feels it will look really bad for the university at a time when things apparently aren’t going real well.”

“Okay, I’ll drive up there, I’ll look things over, see if I can confirm that there really was a theft. If these items have been stored away for almost a century, there’s a chance that over the years, a piece was removed to go on display here or there.”

“That’s what I told her, but the president of the college says the last curator of the museum was a real stickler. There’s no notation of that vault ever being opened. She doubts anyone presently at the school-including most of the trustees-would even recall that these items were in storage there.” John shook his head. “She needs the art-theft team, is what I think. I can have that coordinated, but right now she just wants to talk to you.”

“Did she leave a number?”

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

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

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

Connor shrugged. “Change of pace. Maybe I’m tired of running all over the globe, chasing down informants.”

“Nice try.” John closed his eyes. “Next.”

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

“Who is Daria McGowan, Connor?”

“She’s an archaeologist.”

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

“Like you said, she’s very well known internationally.”

“How do you know her?”

“I met her in Morocco. Last fall.”

“You’re involved with her?”

Connor smiled. “I only met her once.”

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

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

“And?”

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

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

“That’s what I just said.” Connor nodded. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

“Thanks. You want one?”

“Sure.”

Connor joined John in the kitchen a few minutes later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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