Tess Gerritsen - The Keepsake

“Tens of millions? And what does he get back for all that money?” asked Jane.

“Get? Why, the thrill, of course! Wouldn’t you like to be the first person to step into a newly opened tomb? The first to peek into a sealed sarcophagus? He needs us and we need him. That’s how archaeology has always been done. A union between those with the money and those with the skills.”

“Do you remember his son’s name?”

“I wrote it in here somewhere.” He opened his book of field notes and began flipping through the pages. Several snapshots fell out onto the desk, and he pointed to one of the photos. “There, that’s him. I remember his name now. Bradley. He’s the young man in the middle.”

Bradley Rose sat at a table, pottery shards spread out before him. The other two students in the photo were otherwise distracted, but Bradley stared directly at the camera, as though studying some interesting new creature he’d never seen before. In almost every way he appeared ordinary: average build, a forgettable face, a look of anonymity that would easily be lost in a crowd. But his eyes were arresting. They reminded Jane of the day she’d visited the zoo and stared through the fence at a timber wolf, whose pale eyes had regarded her with unsettling interest.

“Did the police ever question the man?” asked Jane.

“He left us two weeks before she vanished. They had no reason to.”

“But he knew her. They’d worked together on the dig.”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t that make him someone worth talking to?”

“There was no point. His parents said he was home with them in Texas at the time. An airtight alibi, I should think.”

“Do you remember why he left the dig?” asked Frost. “Did something happen? Did he not get along with the other students?”

“No, I think it was because he got bored here. That’s why he took that internship out in Boston. That annoyed me, because I would have taken on a different student if I’d known Bradley wouldn’t stick it out here.”

“Boston?” Jane cut in.

“Yes.”

“Where was this internship?”

“Some private museum. I’m sure his father pulled strings to get him in.”

“Was it the Crispin Museum?”

Professor Quigley thought about it. Then he nodded. “That may have been the one.”

Jane had heard that Texas was big, but as a New England girl, she had no real appreciation of just what big really meant. Nor had she imagined how bright the Texas sun was, or how hot the air could be, as hot as dragon’s breath. The three-hour drive from the airport took them through miles of scrub brush, through a sunbaked landscape where even the cattle looked different-rangy and mean, unlike the placid Guernseys she saw on pleasant green farms in Massachusetts. This was a foreign country, a thirsty country, and she fully expected the Rose estate to look like the arid ranches they passed along the way, low-slung and spread out, with white corral fences enclosing parched brown acreage.

So she was surprised when the mansion loomed into view.

It was set on a lushly planted hill that looked shockingly green above the endless expanse of scrubland. A lawn swept down from the home like a velvet skirt. In a paddock enclosed by white fences, half a dozen horses were grazing, their coats gleaming. But it was the residence that held Jane’s gaze. She’d expected a ranch house, not this stone castle with its crenellated turrets.

They drove to the massive iron gate and stared up in wonder.

“How much, do you think?” she asked.

“I’m guessing thirty million,” said Frost.

“That’s all? It’s got, like, fifty thousand acres.”

“Yeah, but it’s Texas. Land’s gotta be cheaper than at home.”

When thirty million dollars sounded cheap, thought Jane, you know you’ve stepped into an alternative universe.

A voice over the gate intercom said: “Your business?”

“Detectives Rizzoli and Frost. We’re from Boston PD. We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Rose.”

“Is Mr. Rose expecting you?”

“I called him this morning. He said he’d speak to us.”

There was a long silence, then the gate finally swung open.

“Drive through, please.”

The curving road took them up the hill, past a colonnade of cypress trees and Roman statues. A circle of broken marble pillars stood mounted on a stone terrace like an ancient temple partially felled by the ages.

“Where do you get the water out here for all these plantings?” asked Frost. His gaze suddenly whipped around as they passed a fragmented head of a marble colossus, its remaining eye staring up from a resting place on the lawn. “Hey, do you think that thing’s real?”

“People this rich don’t have to settle for fakes. You can bet that Lord Carnivore guy-”

“You mean Carnarvon?”

“You can bet he decorated his home with real stuff.”

“There are rules against that now. You can’t just snatch things out of other countries and bring them home.”

“Rules are for you and me, Frost. Not for people like them. ”

“Yeah, well, people like the Roses aren’t going to be too happy once they figure out why we’re asking these questions. I give them about five minutes before they throw us out.”

“Then this will be the nicest damn place we’ll ever get thrown out of.”

They pulled up beneath a stone portico, where a man already stood waiting for them. This was not one of the hired help, thought Jane; this must be Kimball Rose himself. Though he had to be in his seventies, he stood tall and ramrod-straight, with a handsome mane of silver hair. He was dressed casually, in khaki trousers and a golf shirt, but Jane doubted he’d picked up that deep tan simply whiling away his retirement on the links. The vast collection of statuary and marble columns on the hillside told her this man had far more compelling hobbies than hitting golf balls.

She stepped out of the car into air so dry, she blinked in the parching wind. Kimball didn’t seem at all affected by the heat, and the handshake he gave her was cool and crisp.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” said Jane.

“I said yes only ’cause it’s a sure way to end these damn fool questions. There’s nothing here for you to chase after, Detective.”

“Then this shouldn’t take long. We only have a few things to ask you and your wife.”

“My wife can’t talk to you. She’s sick and I won’t have you upsetting her.”

“It’s just about your son.”

“She can’t handle any questions about Bradley. She’s been fightin’ lymphocytic leukemia for more’n ten years now, and the littlest upset could tip her right over.”

“Talking about Bradley would upset her that much?”

“He’s our only boy, and she’s attached to him. Last thing she needs to hear is that the police are treating him like a suspect.”

“We never said he was a suspect, sir.”

“No?” Kimball met her gaze with a look that was both direct and confrontational. “Then what’re you doing here?”

“Bradley was acquainted with Ms. Edgerton. We’re just touching all the bases.”

“You’ve come a long way just to touch this base.” He turned to the front door. “Come in, let’s get it over with. But I’ll tell you now you’re wasting your time.”

After the heat outside, Jane welcomed the chance to cool off in an air-conditioned house, but the Rose residence was startlingly frigid and made to seem even less welcoming by the marble tiles and the cavernous entrance hall. Jane looked up at the huge beams that supported the vaulted ceiling. Though a stained-glass window let in squares of multicolored light, wood paneling and hanging tap estries seemed to absorb all brightness, throwing the house into gloom. This was not a home, she thought; this was a museum, meant to show off the acquisitions of a man addicted to collecting treasures. In the entrance hall, suits of armor stood like soldiers at attention. Mounted on the walls were battle-axes and swords, and a decorated banner hung overhead-the Rose family crest, no doubt. Did every man dream of being a nobleman? She wondered which symbols should be displayed on the Rizzoli family crest. A beer can and a TV, maybe.