Iris Johansen - Blind Alley

“Did you hear her?” Jane asked Trevor. “But we don't have another plan.”

“I have a few ideas, but we'd better make this one work. I've devoted too much time and effort to it.” He was silent a moment. “Sontag . . . I've heard the name but I don't know anything concrete about him. And, dammit, I've got to give names and places in the next articles and I can't mention Sontag without him willing to go along with us. Get back to me as soon as she hears.”

“I will.” She added deliberately, “I realize the importance of communication in situations like this.”

“Was that another jab?” Trevor asked. “I've been a little busy for the last forty-eight hours. I haven't had more than two hours' sleep since I left Atlanta.”

“What have you been doing besides hijacking Web sites?”

“Isn't that enough? No, I guess not. Oh, and while I was trying to break into those secure Internet sites, I had a thought about how Aldo could have found his victims. So simple. The Driver's License Bureau. Their files are well secured but a good computer hacker could get in and go through them and Aldo's an expert. He'd be able to get photos and addresses without a problem.”

“And Aldo didn't start stalking me until I took my driver's test.”

“I could be wrong, but you might have Quinn check out the possibility.”

“I'll tell him right away.”

“It may be closing the barn door after the horses have escaped but it's all I could come up with. Other than brainstorming on that subject, I've been scouting out places to set up Aldo. It has to be a place that he thinks he can access and yet one that we can booby-trap.”

“Did you find it?”

“Not yet. But I've still got time. You gave me my three weeks.”

“No, I didn't. I accepted your estimate. The sooner, the better.”

He laughed. “In other words, don't sleep, don't rest, until I get the job done.”

“I didn't say that. Just don't lollygag.”

“I'll try not to.” He paused. “What have you been doing since I've been gone?”

“Sketching, doing homework, playing with Toby, going out of my mind with boredom. The same things I did when you were here.”

“I notice you're being careful to make sure I know my presence makes absolutely no difference in your scheme of things.”

“Maybe it makes a little difference. It irritates me that you're free to do something.”

“I stand corrected.”

“And at least you're somewhere different and interesting. I've never been out of the U.S.”

“You're young. You have plenty of time to do your globe-trotting. And this town isn't all that fascinating.”

“You have the experience to judge and compare. It would probably seem interesting to me. Tell me about it.”

“I've barely scratched the surface and these tourist towns are pretty much the same until you dig deep.” He laughed. “Cripes, what a play on words. I promise it wasn't intentional.”

“I still want to hear about it.”

He was silent a moment. “Because Cira lived here?”

“Is it so strange that I'm curious about the place where she lived and died?”

“No stranger than anything else connected with this muddle.” He paused. “I'll make a deal. You tell me about those dreams, and I'll describe this town down to the last ruin. You can see it through my eyes.”

“I'll be able to see it myself in three weeks.”

“But I doubt if Quinn is going to allow you to traipse around the city.”

That was true but she'd be darned if she gave in to him after resisting the temptation for the past weeks. “I'll find a way.”

“Okay, I thought I'd try.” He sighed. “It was only a bluff. Give me a day or so and I'll fill you in on the joys of ancient Herculaneum. Maybe that will shame you into being more generous with your confidences.”

“It won't.” Her mind was racing, trying to think of all the things she wanted to ask. “The theater. I want to know all about the theater at Herculaneum. All I could find on the Internet was a mention that it was famous. Nothing about Cira. Surely there has to be some mention somewhere if she was so famous.”

“Two thousand years, Jane.”

“Okay, then I want to know how she lived, the flavor of the time. . . .”

“Good God, I'm not a history buff and I'm going to have a few more things to do than—”

“Then do them. I just thought during your spare time you could— Forget it.”

He sighed. “I won't forget it. I'll give you what you want. You'll have to forgive me if I put Aldo first in priority.”

“I wouldn't forgive you if you didn't.” Her hand tightened on the phone. “Do you think he's seen the articles yet?”

“It depends how often he checks these Web sites. That's why we have to keep the insertions coming and building in intensity. If something catches his eye, he'll go back and see if he can find other references. But, dammit, we have to have something in Archaeology Journal to authenticate.”

“How soon?”

“Next week would be best. The week after if necessary. It doesn't have to be much. Just a short story and maybe a picture of the statue found with the skeleton.”

“What statue? That's just part of the big lie. We don't have a statue of Cira.”

He was silent. “I do.”

She stiffened. “What?”

“I bought it from the British collector Aldo sold it to. I made him an offer he couldn't refuse.”

“Why?”

“I wanted it.” He hurried on, “Anyway, we have a statue to use in the Archaeology Journal article if they'll use it.”

“I'm surprised you're willing to lend it. Isn't that dangerous for your plans of finding the gold? It's bound to attract more attention to Cira and her life. An article is one thing, but it's a visual-oriented world and a photo prods the imagination. Look at all that fuss the bust of Nefertiti caused.”

“I'll take my chances. You can bet the place I choose to stage Cira's reconstruction won't be anywhere near Julius Precebio's tunnel.”

“That goes without saying.” Jane was silent, and then asked, “Why did you want it?”

“It was mine, dammit. It was my favorite bust of Cira and I negotiated with Guido for it as part of my cut. Aldo stole it. It was mine .”

“The Italian government would give you an argument.”

“It was mine,” he repeated. “I'll call you tomorrow night at midnight. Good night, Jane.”

“Good night.” She hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully out at the lake. Cira again.

“I wanted it. It was mine.”

“Jane?” Eve called. “Are you through talking?”

“Yes.” She turned and went into the cottage. “But he didn't tell me much more than we knew from checking the Web sites. He's worried about Archaeology Journal but he said he'd handle it.”

“Then I'm sure he will. You can't fault his skill and dedication.”

“It was mine. Aldo stole it from me.”

“I believe the word's ‘obsession,' not ‘dedication,'” she murmured. “At any rate, he's going to call me back tomorrow night and maybe we'll learn more.”

Dahlonega, Georgia

Two days later

Cira?

Aldo stiffened as his gaze flew over the words in the Florence newspaper. Only a few lines but they were enough to rivet his attention and take his breath away.

A woman's skeleton entombed and preserved for the ages.

He closed his eyes as fear surged through him in an icy tide. His worst nightmare.

If it was true. If the woman was Cira.

But it could be Cira. Found in an anteroom of the ancient theater, and what other actress had so many statues commissioned of her?

He opened his eyes, his gaze scanning the article. Be sure. Check all sources. He started jumping from site to site.