Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

“I take it they were blown away.”

“Totally. And I have to admit I got just the tiniest kick out of the drama, you know? Building the suspense by telling them about my great-grandfather’s quest; reading to them from his journal; slowly unwrapping each piece…”

“Sounds like an archaeological striptease.”

Daria laughed. “And every bit as provocative, I assure you.”

“I never would have suspected it of you, but it sounds as if you got the job done.”

“There was an audible, collective gasp when I unwrapped the goblet and let them pass it around the table.”

“You should have your own TV show, like that guy on the Discovery Channel.”

She looked at him blankly.

“Guess you don’t watch a lot of TV,” he said.

“Not so much. By the way, Louise has already spoken with her insurance agent. They’re lining up an appraiser for the artifacts and one of their property people is coming to look at the building ASAP. Maybe as early as tomorrow.”

“So all she needs now is a number and an okay from the bank.” Connor took a seat at the kitchen table.

“Cutting to the chase, yes. Of course, the bank is going to want to have everything authenticated. Fortunately, there is someone at the Philadelphia Museum of Art who is qualified, and they’re going to try to get her down here quickly. Hopefully, she and the insurance appraiser can work together. It’s very hard to put a dollar value on some of these artifacts, and I’m hoping the art historian from the museum can help the appraiser understand that.”

“You know, even if you decide not to take the job, you’ve already done the university a great service.”

“Are you kidding? If they get the funding, no way I’m walking away from this.” Daria leaned against the kitchen counter. “There will never be another opportunity like it. Besides, I feel this is something I’m supposed to do.”

“Because Alistair was your great-grandfather?”

“If I said I didn’t feel that connection, I’d be lying. I’ve read all his journals. I feel as if I know him. I understand how and why his imagination was captured by the poets who’d written about the City Ruled by the Queen of the Night-that’s how Shandihar was known in antiquity. I understand, because I was drawn to the field by similar stories, stories told by my own father. And I understand how his curiosity grew into obsession, and how he felt when he stood on that mound of rocks and sand and knew that the object of his quest lay beneath his feet. I felt as if I was there with him. When he described how it felt to touch the past with his own hands, I knew the feeling intimately.”

“Because you’ve felt all those things, too.”

“A thousand times.” She jammed her hands into the pockets of her shorts. “I’ve brushed away dirt from the face of a hundred idols, and uncovered the bones of kings and priests, farmers and potters. When you live in that world-the world where the past surrounds you-you experience life in a different way. You see what’s important, what lasts and what falls away.” She paused, as if gathering her thoughts. “You see the evolution of society through countless eyes, and you see the patterns of society that emerge over the centuries, the advancements, how one society builds upon the discoveries of a previous one. How knowledge is shared, how religions spread. You develop a deep respect for those who lived in ancient times, believe me, when you’ve uncovered their homes and seen how they lived, who they loved. You hold the cups they drank from, the combs they used to dress their hair, a statue of the deity they worshipped, and you feel them.”

“I imagine being the daughter of both an anthropologist and an archaeologist, you would be as mindful of the individuals as you are of the civilizations you’ve studied.”

“You remembered that, about my parents?” She smiled, pleased that he’d recalled their conversation over dinner the night they met.

“I remember everything you said,” he told her. “I remember you were going to give me some information about your brother-Jack, right?-and I was going to see if some friends of mine could get a lead on him.”

“Yes, Jack.” She nodded. “If you’re serious, I can get copies of the reports written by the investigators my parents have hired over the years. That’s probably the most accurate way to bring you up to date. My parents have a full file of reports.”

“Of course I’m serious. Get them to send you copies of those reports and we’ll take a look.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate that. And I know my parents will. I’ll give them a call right now.” She patted her pockets for her phone. “I must have left my phone upstairs when I changed after the meeting with the bank. Hang on for a sec while I run up and get it.”

She was almost out of the room when he asked, “Daria, do you ever worry that you spend more time in the past than you do in the present?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because you never talk about your own life in terms of today or tomorrow.”

“I never think about it. But I suppose it’s because the past is my job, my career.”

“But it doesn’t need to be the focus of your life,” he said softly. “What do you do when you’re not working? What do you do for fun? Who are your friends?”

“There aren’t too many times when I’m not working, and frankly, I think my work is fun.”

“And your friends?”

“Mostly people I’ve worked with.” She crossed her arms defensively. “How many of your friends are in the FBI, Connor? How much of your life do you devote to your job?”

“Point taken.” He nodded. “Most of my friends are in the Bureau, and I do spend much of my time working on my cases.”

“So what’s the difference between you and me?”

“The difference is that I live my life in the present,” he told her. “You seem to live a lot of yours in the past.”

She reddened but did not reply.

“Don’t you want a here and now?” he asked. “Don’t you want a story of your own?”

She stared at him for a long moment, then left the room.

Good move, Shields, he chastised himself as her footsteps echoed down the hall, then seconds later on the stairs leading to the second floor. What had he been thinking, saying such personal things to her? And who was he to question how she lived her life?

“No one,” he answered himself aloud. “No one at all.”

Daria was an intelligent woman who’d made her choices a long time ago, and appeared to be happy with those choices. She was well-known, had published widely, and was successful on an international level.

Connor wryly thought that he, too, could make this last claim, though his success was certainly on a far different level than hers.

“The eagle and the dove,” he muttered aloud.

“What?” Daria walked back into the kitchen, her shoulder bag over her arm and a folder fat with paper in her hands.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I had no right to say what I did. It’s your life and one you’re obviously happy with, so just forget what I said.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “My parents are going to send me a copy of their file on Jack. I’ll let you know when it comes. They said to tell you thank you. But right now, we have other things to talk about. Was your friend at the FBI able to locate any of the missing artifacts?”

“Yes, he was.” Connor opened his briefcase and took out several pieces of paper. “Quite a few, actually.”

“Yes!” She grinned and reached for the papers, her previous pique apparently forgotten.

Connor handed them over, saying, “There are several galleries that have objects on loan, and two or three that have purchased pieces outright. Assuming that these are authentic and are in fact from Shandihar…”