C. Palov - Ark of Fire

“Be my guest,” she muttered, releasing her hellion’s grip.

He let the phone ring five times, disconnecting when an automated message began to play.

“It appears that the old boy has turned off his mobile.”

“Wrong!” Edie Miller screeched at him, garnering several sideways glances from passersby. “The old boy is lying under his desk in a pool of his own blood.”

Worried that she might continue to draw unwanted attention, he motioned to the cluster of nearby tables. “I’m willing to hear you out, provided you keep calm. Understood?”

She nodded, actually managing to look contrite.

“Very well, then. Do be seated while I get us some coffee. Unless, of course, you prefer tea.”

“No. Coffee is fine.” She glanced at the nearby espresso bar. “A cappuccino would be better.”

“Duly noted. I won’t be but a moment.”

Like an obedient child, she shuffled over to a small bistro table adjacent to the espresso bar. Seating herself in a chair, she removed the tote bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her breast. Though the mass of dark brown corkscrew curls was her crowning glory, it was the deep-set brown eyes that drew and held his attention. Attenuated by straight brows, the combination gave her a somber, almost sad air wholly at odds with her forceful personality. And wholly at odds with her eccentric attire: a black leather motorcycle jacket, clunky black boots, and a long purple and red tartan skirt.

“God help me for coming to the crazed damsel’s rescue,” he muttered under his breath. Mistakenly thinking her e-mail had something to do with his earlier suspicions regarding an RIRA reprisal, he’d decided at the last to don his armor and go to battle. He couldn’t have been more off the mark.

After placing his order for a cappuccino and a hazelnut coffee, he removed several notes from his wallet and handed them to the cashier. Moving away from the queue, he grabbed sugar packets, dairy creamers, plastic stirrers, and paper napkins, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. A few seconds later, a coffee cup clutched in each hand, he made his way to the bistro table.

“Not knowing how you take your coffee, I rather overdid it.” He plunked the treasure trove onto the middle of the round table.

His noticeably subdued companion reached for two of the sugar packets. “I always sweeten the deal with a couple of sugars,” she remarked, snapping the paper packets to and fro as she spoke. Ripping them open, she poured the contents into her cup. “You know, it’s just occurred to me that I don’t even know your first name.”

“Caedmon,” he replied, watching her brow wrinkle when she heard the Old English moniker, the unusual name his father’s way of making a man of him, forcing him to face the bully boys at a tender age.

“I thought the English were all tea drinkers.”

“Rumor has it I’m something of an iconoclast.” Opening a creamer, he poured a dollop into his cup. That done, he began the inquiry. “How is it that you came to witness this supposed murder?”

“You’re a hard sell, aren’t you? Although I suppose if the boot were on the other foot, I would be as well. To answer your question, I’m a freelance photographer at the Hopkins Museum. That’s how I came to witness the murder.” About to raise the cup to her lips, she suddenly lowered it to the table. “Before I tell you what happened, I need to know in what capacity you knew Dr. Padgham,” she abruptly demanded, her lack of subtlety disarming.

“We played cricket together at Oxford. As so often happens with youthful friendships, we eventually lost touch with one another. When Padge learned that I was in Washington on the last leg of a book tour, he rang me up. Suggested we meet for drinks. Talk over old times, that sort of rubbish. Satisfied?” When she nodded, he said, “It’s now your turn, Miss Miller.”

“A month ago I was hired by Eliot Hopkins to photograph and digitally archive the entire museum collection. I work on Mondays because that’s when the museum is closed to the public.”

“Enabling you to take your photographs unimpeded,” he intuited.

“Exactly. But today was unusual.”

“How so?”

“Dr. Padgham was in his office. He’s never in the office on Mondays.”

“Was there anyone else in the museum?”

“Per usual, there were two guards downstairs in the main lobby.” She shot him a penetrating glance. “You’re following all this, right?”

“Yes, yes,” he assured her. “Please continue.”

“Sometime around one thirty, Dr. Padgham called and asked if I would come upstairs to the administration offices.”

“Why did he do that?”

“He wanted me to take some photographs for him. I got the idea that he was working on some kind of special project. That’s why he was in the office on his day off. Obedient minion that I am, I went up to the fourth floor and took the photos.” As she spoke, Caedmon detected a note of sarcasm in her voice. “I was about to leave Dr. Padgham’s office when a cable came loose on his computer. Dr. Padgham conned me into climbing under the desk to tighten the connection.”

Caedmon nodded. “Now that sounds like the Padge I know and love.”

“You knew and loved . I told you, he’s—”

“I know, he’s dearly departed. No need to belabor the point.”

“No need to be so crabby,” she countered, proving she was no shrinking violet. “Anyway, I was still crouched under the desk when a man walked into Dr. Padgham’s office and shot him in the head point-blank.” As she spoke, her hands began to tremble. She wrapped both of them around her cup. “He was killed instantly. The killer had no idea that I was under the desk . . . that I witnessed the whole thing.”

Caedmon stared at the curly-haired beauty sitting across from him, resisting the urge to pull her to him, to calm the fearful quiver that had traveled from her hands to her entire upper body.

“How did you get away?”

“I climbed down the fire escape. I was hiding in the alley when I saw the killer approach a D.C. cop. And this is where the story takes a turn for the worse.” She looked him in the eye, her gaze disturbingly direct. “The killer and the cop were in cahoots with one another.”

Cahoots?

By that, he assumed the two men were in collusion.

“Did these two men see you hiding in the alley?”

“No. But it didn’t much matter because the killer had already accessed the museum security logs. That’s how they found out that I was in the building at the time of the murder. That’s why they’re looking for me.”

“Would you be able to identify the assailant?”

“Murderer,” she corrected. “And, no, I didn’t see his face. He wore a ski mask. By the time he took off the mask, he was too far away to get a good look-see. Although he sported a military-style buzz cut. And he was big. Really, really big. Steroid big,” she added, using her hands to indicate height and width. If her measurements were to be believed, the killer had an improbable shoulder span of some four and a half feet. “That’s all I can remember.”

“I see.”

“Wait!” she exclaimed, cappuccino spilling over the brim of her cup as she excitedly jostled the table. “He wore an unusual silver ring on his right hand.” Opening her tote bag, she removed a sheet of paper. “Do you have a pen?”

He wordlessly reached into his breast pocket, obliging her request. Pen in hand, she drew an intricate pattern. Tilting her head to one side, she reviewed her handiwork before sliding the sheet of paper in his direction.

“Sorry, I’m a photographer, not an artist.”

Caedmon examined the drawing, instantly recognizing the pattern.