C. Palov - Ark of Fire

Hearing a thud, Edie rushed over and unlocked the door to their hotel room, snatching the just-delivered, complimentary copy of the Washington Post off the doormat. Door closed and relocked, she quickly flipped through the newspaper, ignoring the front-page story regarding the terrorist attack at the National Gallery of Art. Instead, she searched for a headline, a photo, a story tucked away in the Metro section, anything regarding a triple homicide at the Hopkins Museum.

“There’s nothing in the paper . . . how can that be? Surely by now someone has found Dr. Padgham and the two dead security guards.” She tossed the newspaper onto her unmade bed.

“It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the murders were committed,” Caedmon calmly reminded her. He had just showered and shaved, which explained why he was half dressed, his red hair matted to his skull. Attired as he was in a white muscle-man tank, Edie could see that he had broad shoulders and a lean, rangy build.

“Yeah, but the night shift should have found the bodies. The guards are supposed to make the rounds of the museum every thirty minutes. And I know for a fact that Linda Alvarez in payroll arrives at the museum at seven o’clock sharp. She has to walk right past Dr. Padgham’s office to get to—” Edie stopped, hit with a sudden thought. “Once they access the computer logs at the museum, the police will know that I was at the museum when Dr. Padgham was murdered. Which makes me a fugitive.”

One side of Caedmon’s mouth quirked upward. “Hardly a fugitive.”

“Well, okay, a person of interest. Isn’t that what they call them on cop shows?” She peered at her mussed reflection in the wall mirror. Feeling the sting of tears, she turned her back on Caedmon, worried the dam might burst.

Since yesterday afternoon she’d been fighting the onslaught, and, truth be told, she was tired of fighting. Tired of being strong. She just wanted to curl up in her unmade bed, pull the pile of stiff covers over her head, and cry her eyes out. But she couldn’t. She barely knew Caedmon Aisquith and if she scared him off, she’d be left to fend for herself. Like she’d had to do so many times before. When she was a kid, her mother used to leave her untended for days on end.

“I’m sorry for getting all emotional on you. I just—” She sank her teeth into her lower lip, struggling to hold back the tears.

As she stood there, her back still turned to him, she heard Caedmon pad over to where she stood. Then she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

“There’s no need to be ashamed of your emotions.”

“Easy for you to say . . . you’re a redheaded pillar of strength.”

“Not true.” Gently he turned her in his direction, pulling her into his arms. Because he stood somewhere in the neighborhood of six foot three, her head perfectly fit into the niche of his freckled shoulder.

Edie closed her eyes, drinking in his warmth, his solidness. It felt so good to be held in his arms. Good in a way that made her think of the sleepless night just passed. How many times had she been tempted to climb out of her bed and get into his? Too many to count.

Worried she might give in to those wayward urges, sex being the best balm of them all, she extricated herself from his arms.

“I need to call the Hopkins and find out what the heck is going on,” she said, striding over to the desk that was wedged between the TV armoire and the dresser drawers.

“Given that we’re very much in the dark, I think that’s a wise idea. Although make no mention of what you saw or witnessed yesterday at the museum.”

Nodding, Edie dialed the main number for the Hopkins Museum. When prompted by the automated phone system, she keyed in the four-digit extension for the payroll department. Hearing a perky voice answer, “Linda Alvarez. How may I help you?” Edie motioned Caedmon to silence.

“Hey Linda, it’s Edie Miller. I’m sorry for pestering you so early in the morning, but I really screwed up my time card yesterday . . . oh . . . really? Huh.”

Edie placed her palm over the handset, whispering, “According to Linda, I never clocked in yesterday. But I know for a fact that I did.”

She removed her hand from the phone. “Silly me, huh? You’d think after all these weeks I’d be able to get it right. I, um, was in and out so quick that I guess I forgot to—” Caedmon mouthed the words Ask for Padgham . “Is Dr. Padgham in his office by any chance? He asked me to take some photos for a special project and I was just . . . oh, gosh, that’s terrible. Well, um, since he’s not at the museum, would you be a dear and walk down the hall to his office for me? I spilled a cup of coffee all over his Persian carpet and I just wanted to make sure the cleaning crew took care of—Yeah, he is a bit of a priss, isn’t he? Thanks, Linda.”

Again, Edie placed her palm over the handset. “You’re not going to believe this. She claims that Dr. Padgham’s longtime partner was killed yesterday in a hit-and-run accident and that Dr. Padgham flew to London to take care of the burial arrangements.”

Caedmon’s blue eyes narrowed. “They’re trying to make it appear that Padge is still among the living. My, my, what a tangled web we weave.”

A finger to her lips, she again motioned him to silence. “That’s great. Well, I, um, gotta run. Thanks a million, Linda. I’ll catch you later.”

Edie hung up the phone, stunned.

“What did she say about the bloodstained carpet?” Caedmon prompted.

“Per Linda Alvarez’s eagle eye, there’s no stain on Dr. Padgham’s carpet. No bloodied bits of brain matter. No noxious pile of vomit. Nothing but a beautifully vacuumed Persian carpet.” Edie pulled out the chair in front of the desk and plopped into it. She glanced at Caedmon’s reflection in the wall mirror. “It’s a cover-up. A huge, wipe-the-slate-clean cover-up.”

“Since the last thing that the thieves want is for the police to become involved, they’ll undoubtedly devise an accident for Padge in London. No one on this side of the Atlantic will question Padgham’s sudden death except to say that it was a tragic misfortune he didn’t see the lorry in the roundabout.”

“I think they killed Dr. Padgham’s partner.”

“More than likely they did,” Caedmon replied, his crisp accent noticeably subdued.

“How in God’s name did the thugs at Rosemont pull off such a well organized cover-up?”

Caedmon seated himself on the edge of the bed. “With inside help, I dare say. Who captains the ship?”

“At the Hopkins? That would be the museum director, Eliot Hopkins.”

“Call him. Set up a meeting for later this morning.”

Edie cast him a long, considering glance. “Tell me why exactly I want to set up a meeting with the museum director?”

“In the hopes that Mr. Hopkins will spill some gilded beans.”

“You’re a fine one for wishful thinking. I can’t think of a single reason why Eliot Hopkins would agree to meet with us, let alone give us the straight scoop.”

“Try coming at the problem from a different angle. Why would the venerable Mr. Hopkins agree to participate in the theft of a relic he already owned?”

“That’s easy. Insurance fraud. He intends to collect on the policy.”

“But I suspect that the Stones of Fire was purchased on the black market.”

“Meaning the relic wasn’t insured,” Edie said, beating him to the punch.

“Ergo, Eliot Hopkins had nothing to do with Padge’s murder. But I believe he had something to do with the subsequent cover-up.”

“But why cover up the murder? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Still sitting on the edge of the bed, Caedmon crossed one jeans-clad leg over the other. “What would happen if the authorities discovered that the director of the Hopkins Museum knowingly purchased a stolen relic that was smuggled out of its country of origin?”