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Shadows In The Night
Heather Graham
Is she a suspect or a target? A year after the chilling death of her mentor, criminologist Harley Frasier is still rattled. Secretly she's suspected murder all along. Now the unveiling of the Amenmose exhibit is triggering a series of unexplained attacks, and she has only one man to trust.FBI special gent Micah Fox is used to charging into dangerous territory to solve a case. Working with a civilian is new ground, especially when she's as irresistible as Harley. He can't say no to her sharp instincts and sexy smile. And with a threat closing in, there's no way in hell he'll leave her unprotected.


Is she a suspect or a target?
A year after the chilling death of her mentor, criminologist Harley Frasier is still rattled. Secretly she’s suspected murder all along. Now the unveiling of the Amenmose exhibit is triggering a series of unexplained attacks, and she has only one man to trust.
FBI special gent Micah Fox is used to charging into dangerous territory to solve a case. Working with a civilian is new ground, especially when she’s as irresistible as Harley. He can’t say no to her sharp instincts and sexy smile. And with a threat closing in, there’s no way in hell he’ll leave her unprotected.
The Finnegan Connection
Harley wondered how she could feel someone so completely when she wasn’t even touching that person.
“I have to go,” Micah said. He walked to the door. Harley followed, ready to lock up when he left. She stayed a short distance behind him. She felt as if her flesh and blood, muscle and bone, had come alive, as if neurons or atoms or other chemical entities were flashing through her system with tiny sparks of red-hot fire. He had to leave, otherwise she’d embarrass herself.
But she didn’t really care.
Still, he was right. They needed time. Just because they could hook up didn’t mean they should forget that there were consequences to any deed, even if neither had any expectations.
At the door, he turned to her.
She walked forward, her eyes on his, until she was touching him, and when she did, he backed into the door. At the same time, his arms came around her.
She let herself touch his face. Stroke his cheek, feel the power in his arms as he drew her close. She shuddered with delicious abandon as she felt the heat of his body, the texture and strength in his muscles. And then she felt his mouth, crushing hers, and she returned the kiss with equal passion.
Shadows in the Night
Heather Graham


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author HEATHER GRAHAM has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA’s Lifetime Achievement Award and the Thriller Writers’ Silver Bullet. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.
For more information, check out her website, www.theoriginalheathergraham.com (http://www.theoriginalheathergraham.com/), or find Heather on Facebook.
Contents
Cover (#uca28e89f-731b-5513-ad8e-b41a550cf0ee)
Back Cover Text (#u183fd408-18da-5a85-b7c3-69381bbe1387)
Introduction (#u5f5beb2e-13c2-5f63-a49d-acbb34f17341)
Title Page (#u53a3c443-8b7c-5e69-b849-e81a40439c6a)
About the Author (#ub4a76e65-07d4-544b-8aa1-2cd7bc7286b8)
Prologue (#u26258cac-1555-5018-84f7-07927d87179a)
Chapter One (#u08a6a3d1-ce99-5298-9cab-d0185142f2f0)
Chapter Two (#u354effea-c46d-5532-9dd2-d07bd8fb90f8)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u897dea75-6954-58de-9bfb-b5fbc838cea1)
The Mummy
A Year Ago
“Sir!”
The word was spoken softly and with respect.
Dr. Henry Tomlinson, renowned Egyptologist, turned. One of the grad students had just slipped through the inner flap of the air-controlled prep tent and was smiling benignly, awaiting his attention.
He hadn’t actually taught in about five years, but he still loved it—and working with students. He’d retired to spend all his time in the field, and he’d recently been hired by Alchemy, an Anglo-American sponsoring company, to head this dig. Alchemy was into all kinds of tech and had become a Fortune 500 company. Every year, they sponsored an exceptional archeological event, followed by a public exhibit. Recent ones had been centered around the Amazon River, central China—and now ancient Egypt. Their resources were phenomenal and Henry still couldn’t believe his good fortune. But no matter what monetary resources had been offered, he was thrilled about having grad students involved.
This one was Harley Frasier. Just twenty-six, she was tall, shapely, honey blonde, with a face crafted in perfect classic symmetry and enormous green eyes that seemed to take in everything. She was serious and brilliant and could nail the crux of information with laser-like acuity. She also had a sense of humor and the most delightful laugh he had ever heard.
Of the five specialty graduate candidates, she was, beyond a doubt, his favorite. He often felt like a grandfatherly mentor to her—and the idea made him happy. He’d had no children of his own. He’d never even had a wife. No time for a family. He hadn’t intended it be that way forever, but there was always so much to do. If he’d had the chance to be a father, he would’ve been pleased and proud to have had Harley as a granddaughter. She seemed to feel the same closeness to him.
Perhaps their bond was odd since, of the five grad students, she was the one who was different, the only one not majoring in Egyptology—though she was minoring in it. She had no plan to go into Egyptology or even archeology or history for her life’s vocation.
Harley was with him, first of all, because of her knowledge regarding the field and her love for it. But she was also there because her work was going to be in criminal psychology and forensic science. Henry had been baffled when he was approached by her university. Professors at the Maryland college Harley was attending—which was arguably the top school for criminology and it also offered majors and minors in Egyptology and archeology—had explained to him the importance of having a student like Harley on this expedition. He had been on the hunt for the tomb of Amenmose for nearly a decade; for that entire decade, he’d been finding more and more clues about the location—and, of course, with the permission and blessing of the Egyptian government—finding other ancient tombs and treasures in the process. This allowed for his continued excavations. But the discovery of the tomb of Amenmose was the main focus of his work.
Many others had searched.
Some of them had died or disappeared in that effort.
History suggested that Amenmose had been murdered. As a criminology student, Harley was to be in on the discovery and would seek and find whatever evidence those who had managed his secret burial might have left behind.
Not that, to Henry’s mind, Amenmose hadn’t deserved murder. He had usurped power every step of the way. He’d abused officials below him. It had even been intimated that he had attempted to kill those in power above him.
“I think we’ve gotten all the manual labor done for the evening and we’re going to pack it in, maybe drive to that little town for some dinner. Want to come with us? You should. You’d enjoy it. Or shall we bring you back something?” Harley asked him.
“Next time, Harley, I’ll come with you all,” he promised. “There’s so much in here! I’m not going to go touching anything until we’ve had a chance to work with the preservation measures, but I do intend to look at everything.”
Earlier that week, they had finally discovered the secret site of the tomb of Amenmose. And, of course, since then, Henry Tomlinson had been on cloud nine. This was a dream come true, a fantasy realized, the culmination of a lifetime of love and dedication.
Harley laughed softly. “Yes! You did it, Dr. Tomlinson.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
The Amenmose find was among the most important ancient Egyptian discoveries of the past few years; he couldn’t have been more excited about being a major player in that discovery. And even now, at the end of an exhausting day—and even though he truly enjoyed the young people working with him—he was far too fascinated to leave. There were a dozen or so coffins to be studied, one of them presumably that of Amenmose; the group wouldn’t consider opening them until everyone was back at the museum in Cairo. But he could study the canopic jars they’d found thus far. There were also other artifacts that had been carefully moved into the prep tent. So much to observe and to describe! And there were the broken coffins, which had probably been as meticulously set as any of the others, but had been in the section where a partial cave-in had taken place. Several of those outer and inner coffins had split and exposed their mummies. Henry Tomlinson was fascinated to see what study was possible before the mummies were packed and crated and prepared for the trip to Cairo, where options for preservation were far more sophisticated, and where the mummies could be X-rayed and DNA could be tested.
Oh! It was all so monumental.
Amenmose had been a priest in the days when another priest, Ay, had ruled Egypt as regent. Ay had done so for a well-known pharaoh, the boy king, Tutankhamen. As regent, Ay had wielded immense power. He’d gone on to become pharaoh in his own right—after the death of Tut at the age of nineteen.
Amenmose, according to ancient texts, had tried to usurp some of that power. And he’d had his own followers in the court, making him a dangerous man. Because of this he had feared for his immortal life—and his wife had kept his burial plans a complete secret, shared only with members of his family. Naturally, legend had it that many of his most loyal followers—rather than give away any secrets—had been willing to die with him, sealed alive in a grave for eternity.
“Dr. Tomlinson, you worked so hard. And wow! You triumphed. You should celebrate. Come out with us. Is there nothing I can do to convince you?” Harley asked. She still had that wonderful smile, as if she were the one who was far older and wiser. “Nothing’s going to disappear. We’ll go have some dinner and drinks and come on back. There are plenty of men on guard here. And,” she added, “you really deserve a little celebration with us. Think of it—you researched and imagined and looked into the ancient Egyptian mind and you made the discovery. It’s your shining moment. You’re another Carter with his Tutankhamen, Dr. Tomlinson. Do you realize that?”
“Oh, no, no,” Henry demurred. He shook his head firmly. “A celebration is tempting, but I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t. I do promise that I’ll come with all of you on another day. Harley! Look at this! I feel like, as the song says, I have treasures untold.”
Harley laughed. “You saw The Little Mermaid?” she asked.
He stared at her, feeling a bit chagrined. “Oh! Yes, I get it, you wouldn’t think that I’d see a children’s movie...” He laughed, too. “Remember, I do have great nieces and nephews! Anyway...”
He started walking as he spoke. “Harley, these are such treasures! This broken coffin.” He gestured at it. “Damaged by time and by that cave-in, however many centuries ago. And this fellow, Harley. It almost looks as if he was buried alive. Wrapped up alive and screaming.”
“I don’t think you can embalm anyone and have that person come out of the process alive,” Harley reminded him, amused. “That’s only in fiction. We both know what was involved in Egyptian embalming, and just how many factors could’ve had an effect on the mummy’s appearance. Screaming mummies belong to B movies, right? And when you think about it, weird mummies are all the more reason you should come with us.”
“Why is that?”
Harley didn’t answer. The flap opened again and Jensen Morrow, another of the students, poked his head in to answer.
He’d obviously heard the question.
“Ooh! ’Cause you shouldn’t be alone with scary old stuff when you have cool kids like us to hang out with!” Jensen said.
They all laughed. Jensen was a good-looking, dark-haired young man who loved the study he was involved in, and Dr. Henry Tomlinson liked him very much, as well. Jensen played hard, but he worked harder. He came from money; his father was an inventor who’d come up with a special cleaning product. And yet Jensen never acted like money, never acted pretentious or entitled the way some rich kids did.
“Tempting, tempting, tempting,” Henry said again. “But I’m going to stay.”
Jensen raised his eyebrows at Harley. “Hey, girl, then it’s you and me heading out. The old man here isn’t coming. That’s okay. We’re bringing back the goods. Just the two of us, since Belinda Gray is waiting for a video chat with her fiancé—military, as we know!—in Iraq. Roger Eastman agreed to help one of the tech guys investigate some computer info they’re picking up. I hate to say it, but we’re getting chatter about an insurgent group starting up. And Joe Rosello said he wants to learn more about the excavation equipment. He’s working with that pretty Egyptian girl, our translator, and learning about hoists.”
“Hoists? Yeah, right!” Harley said. “Satima. She is pretty, and thank goodness we have her. I’m just grateful she filled in at the last minute when the older gentleman we’d hired wound up ill. If I know our friend Joe at all, I know he’s very happy!” she said to Henry. “We won’t go far, since we seem to be feeling a wee bit nervous! And we won’t be late. We’ll bring you something to eat and see if you want to be social when we get back, okay? If, and only if, you’re absolutely positive you don’t want to take a ride with this handsome, if ridiculous, guy and me?”
Henry laughed. “Oh, Harley, you’re a sweetheart, but give it up. You know I’m not coming.”
She grimaced, a delightful movement of her face. “Yes, I do,” she admitted. “But we—your devoted students—have to try. I’ll bring you a special treat for dinner.”
“Don’t worry about me, guys. I’ll be fine.”
“Sorry, we will worry about you. At least we can make sure you eat. I’m willing to bet you’re going to be up all night—and you won’t even notice that you haven’t slept,” Harley said.
He smiled and made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go! Get on out with you. Be young and have fun and don’t become an obsessive old curmudgeon like me. Jensen, get her out of here!”
“Yes, sir!” Jensen said.
Harley still hung back. “You’re neither obsessive nor old,” she insisted. “Okay, wait. Maybe you are obsessive. Anyway, we’ll be back by nine or so, and like I said, I’ll bring you something delicious.”
“Sounds lovely! See you soon.”
And at last, Harley and Jensen left.
Dr. Henry Tomlinson turned his attention back to Unknown Mummy #1 for several long moments. Many pharaohs and royalty and even esteemed but lesser men, like Amenmose, ended up with unknowns in their tombs—servants needed in the next life.
Almost the entire lid of the coffin had been torn open. That afternoon, two of the students had painstakingly cleared out the rubble around the mummy. But Henry felt as if he was indeed looking at remnants featured in a B horror flick; the thing really did appear to be a man who’d been wrapped up with his mouth open in horror, left to silently scream into eternity.
Mummies weren’t wrapped like this alive. Unless, of course...
He’d never been intended to be a mummy?
He’d been a murder victim.
Could this unidentified mummy be Amenmose himself? he wondered excitedly. They hadn’t identified the man’s tomb.
Great question, but it wasn’t scientific to jump to conclusions. X-rays would give them an image of the insides—and that would probably tell them if the facial contortions had happened because of some accident in the drying process or if he had somehow been wrapped alive!
No, it couldn’t be Amenmose, Henry decided. According to the ancient texts and all the information at his disposal, Amenmose had died before burial. Besides, they’d discovered one coffin in an inner tomb, deep in a hidden recess—again, just as the ancient texts had said. Amenmose’s enemies might have defiled his tomb if those who loved him hadn’t concealed his remains. The mummy here, found in the outer chamber, couldn’t be Amenmose—not unless there was a great deal they were missing! “Sorry, old boy. Lord only knows what happened to you,” Henry told the mummy.
“Hey!”
The inner flap to the preparation tent opened again. Henry looked over to see that it was Alchemy’s director at large, Ned Richter.
He was smiling. As he should have been. Their day had been fantastic.
“Hey,” Henry said. He liked Richter okay. Although not an Egyptologist himself, the man was studious and yet always ready help out with manual labor when needed.
Henry didn’t like Richter’s wife, Vivian, so much. She was an Egyptologist, too—at least in her own mind, he thought with a snort. Okay, so she did have her master’s degree from Brown; she was just annoying as hell and she didn’t think clearly or reason anything out. She was an attractive enough woman with short dark hair and dark eyes, and she claimed the maternal side of her father’s family had been Egyptian.
She liked to pretend that she knew what she was talking about.
She seldom did.
“Just checking on you!” Richter said.
Henry heard Vivian speaking behind her husband. “Tell him to come with us. We’ll get some food and drinks.”
“Hey, Viv!” Henry called out. “I’m good tonight. Going to work. And a couple of the students are picking me up something to eat. Listen,” he added in a more affable voice, “can’t wait till you and I have a chance to talk tomorrow. We can compare notes then!”
“Can’t you make him come?” Henry heard Vivian whisper.
“No,” Richter said flatly. “He’s head of the examination and prep all the way through the removal to Cairo—by Alchemy and the Egyptian government. As you know,” he muttered.
“See you in the morning!” Henry called pleasantly. Yes!
But he’d barely turned around before he heard the inner tent flap opening again.
This time, it was Arlo Hampton, the Egyptologist who’d been employed specifically by Alchemy to watch over their investment.
Arlo was young—tall, straight and a little skinny. He preferred his thick glasses to contact lenses. Good thing for Arlo that nerds were in; he was, beyond a doubt, a nerd. But a friendly and outgoing nerd. He loved Egyptology, and yet, unlike certain other people, he wasn’t full of himself or convinced that he knew everything.
“Hey, I knew you’d be alone with the treasures, snug as a bug in a rug!” Arlo told him cheerfully. There was something slightly guilty in his voice. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, though.”
“I’m great. And, of course, if you want to join me...”
“I’m beat, Henry. I’m what? Thirty years younger than you? I don’t know how you do it. I’m going to have a sandwich with the grad students when Harley and Jensen get back, and then hit my bunk until tomorrow. If that’s okay. I mean, I should be like you, hard at work... Oh, I did just meet Belinda’s boyfriend on Skype. Seems like a decent guy. So Belinda, Roger and Joe are taking care of their personal business, and then we’re all going to meet and after that—”
“I saw Harley and Jensen. They’ll bring me food. You’re fine, Arlo. Have a nice night.”
“Yeah, thanks. Strange, though. Something doesn’t feel right his evening. Am I just being paranoid?”
“Yes. And shoo. Go on, Arlo. You worked hard today. And I’m an obsessive old bastard. Get out of here!”
Arlo grinned. He lifted his hands. “I’m gone!”
And, at last, he was.
Henry was thrilled. He even began singing Ariel’s song from the Disney movie The Little Mermaid.
He walked back over to Unknown Mummy #1. “Strange,” he said, shaking his head with perplexity as he studied the mummy. “Just who was he? And what brought him here in this state?”
But then he shrugged. He’d found “natural” mummies at other sites—servants who’d stood guard after burial rites and died where they collapsed after the tombs were sealed and they slowly asphyxiated.
Henry walked back over to his desk to dictate notes into a recorder for the exhibit, which would one day be based on this project. “The earliest Egyptians buried their dead in small pits in the desert sand. The sand and the heat naturally ‘mummified’ the dead. Later, to prevent animals from digging up the bodies, they resorted to creating coffins. Coffins kept out animals, but they didn’t allow for the natural mummification that had been occurring when the bodies had gone straight into the sand. So the Egyptians began to learn the art of embalming. They quickly discovered that the ‘wet’ parts of the body needed to be removed. That included the heart and lungs, brain and liver and other organs. These were stored in canopic jars, where they were guarded, just as the body was guarded, so the dead were protected and ready as they entered into the afterlife. The process became forty days of drying with natron, a form of salt. Of course, a body was never simply dried. It was adorned with oils at various stages and also treated with religious rites.”
Henry stopped speaking; he thought he’d heard something moving in the preparation tent. That was odd. The local guards and the staff who worked for Alchemy were weary and bored with the findings. Egyptians had been unearthing mummies forever and ever, and even the security force of Americans and Brits was more bored by the ancient than intrigued. Most of them had worked around the world. They were, in a word, jaded—and far more interested in the pay scale than the work itself.
He looked around the tent. Nothing. Everything as it had been. Crates and boxes and mummies and treasures!
He shook his head, impatient with himself. He was incredibly lucky to have this time alone in the preparation tent. He’d been the one to do the research and the calculations; he’d been the one who’d garnered the sponsorship that had provided the money for this expedition. His papers had raised significant interest. It was—yes, indeed—his baby.
But eventually Dr. Arlo Hampton would want his time here, his chance to study these mummies, these treasures. So would Yolanda Akeem, their liaison with the Department of Antiquities. Then, of course, there was Ned Richter...and his wife. He’d bet that Richter couldn’t care less if he got any time with the mummies and ancient treasures or not. Richter was there to guard Alchemy’s interests and, Henry suspected, to ensure that they looked as if they were being incredibly magnanimous to the Egyptian government. After all, Alchemy financed these expeditions, he was almost certain, for tax breaks—and the media attention and promotion they provided.
Fine. The excavation was a great success. And this was his time. His time alone with all his treasures!
He started to go back to his work, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen movement from the corner of his eye.
He stood up and walked around.
Nothing.
Henry sat back down and continued his recording.
“Ancient Egypt—”
There was something behind him!
He tried to spin about.
And he saw nothing but binding, the linen binding that had been used on the ancient dead, saw it wrapped around fingers and a hand, saw the fingers and the hand circle his neck and—
Fingers, like wire, clutching his throat, so powerful, so strong...
He fought their hold. Wriggled and squirmed. He tried to rise; he couldn’t. The pain was terrible. The world began to blacken before him; little dots of light exploded in the darkness. And all he could think was that—
The mummy!
The mummy had risen to kill him!
It was impossible. Impossible. Impossible...
He was a scientist. Rational. He didn’t believe.
He was a scientist...
And as the last electrons exploded against the stygian pit of his dying mind, he couldn’t help but think...
He was a scientist.
Being killed by an ancient Egyptian mummy.
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right.
Chapter One (#u897dea75-6954-58de-9bfb-b5fbc838cea1)
One Year Later
The New Museum of Antiquity
New York City, New York
The moon that shone down through the skylights in the temple region of the museum created a stunning vision. Opalescent light shimmered on the marble and made it appear that the ribbon of “Nile” river by the temple was created of crystal and glass. The lights in the area were dim, designed to look as if they were burning torches set along the walls.
The exhibit in the New Museum of Antiquity was impressive—even to Harley, despite all the time she’d spent in the real Sahara. In designing this space, the organizers had also borrowed heavily from another famous NYC museum, all to the benefit of the Egyptian displays. Harley felt a sudden breeze from an air-conditioning vent, and she shivered.
“Mummy thing getting to you, huh?”
“Pardon?” Harley turned quickly to see the speaker. The words had been teasing; they’d also been spoken in a pleasantly deep, masculine voice.
The voice aroused a strange memory she couldn’t quite reach—and seemed to whisper to something inside her, far beneath her skin.
She hadn’t seen the speaker before, despite the fact that his voice seemed oddly familiar. Here, on opening night, she should’ve known most of the invited crowd. But she didn’t know him, and—as her chosen field of criminology had taught her—she studied anyone she didn’t recognize in a situation such as this evening’s event.
A soiree to celebrate the exhibition. This was opening night for the traveling exhibit that would, in the end, return to Egypt, where the precious artifacts of that country would then remain. But tonight they celebrated the very first time the exhibit had been seen! It would open to the public in the morning. It had, quite properly, been named in honor of Henry—the Henry Tomlinson Collection of Egyptian Culture and Art.
There would be toasts in his honor, of course.
This phenomenal display would not have been possible without him.
But Henry was gone, as much a part of history as his treasures.
She sensed that this man—with his deep, somehow familiar voice—was connected to Henry.
She definitely hadn’t seen him before.
He wasn’t the kind of man you forgot.
He was tall—well over six feet, she thought. Because she’d recently taken identification classes that taught criminologists to look for details to include in descriptions, she also noted that not only was he about six foot three, but he had excellent posture. Nicely muscled, too. She had no doubt that he was the kind of man who spent time in a gym, not to create impressive abs, but to train the complex human machine that was his most important tool.
How could she be so sure of this? she asked herself. And yet she was.
He wore a casual suit, no jewelry. He was freshly shaven, and kept his dark hair cropped close to his head.
Someone’s bodyguard?
Beneath the glimmer of the moon that showed through the skylights, she couldn’t quite ascertain the color of his eyes. She had a feeling they were light, despite the darkness of his hair.
Thirty-three to thirty-six years old, she estimated. Carefully nondescript clothing—dark blue suit, dark blue shirt, pin-striped tie in shades of blue and black. Sunglasses resting on head.
He moved closer to her; she was certain he’d been doing the same kind of study on her that she’d nearly completed on him.
No, she’d never seen him before, but she had heard his voice.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You’re not afraid of mummies, right?” he asked again, his expression quizzical.
“No, not at all,” she assured him. “Ah, well, that’s a bit of a lie. I might be afraid of some of the bacteria that can be found in old tombs, but as for the mummies themselves...no. My dad was a cop, a very good one. He taught me to fear the living, not the dead.”
“Sounds like a bright man,” he said. He stepped toward her, offering his hand. “Micah. Micah Fox.”
She shook his hand. “Harley Frasier. How do you do? And pardon me, but who are you? Do I know you?”
He smiled. “Yes, and no. I’m an old student of Dr. Tomlinson’s,” he said. “I was at Brown when he was teaching there. About twelve years ago, I was lucky enough to join him on one of his expeditions. Back then, he was looking for the tomb of a princess from the Old Kingdom, Fifth Dynasty.” He paused, still smiling, and shrugged. “He found her, too—right now she’s in one of the display cases in a room not far from here, near the temple.” He stopped, studying her again, and asked, “Are you surprised by that?”
“No, no, I’m not. You don’t look like an Egyptologist,” Harley said. “Sorry! It’s not that Egyptologists look a certain way. I just—”
“It’s okay. I’m not an Egyptologist,” he told her. “I meant is it surprising that he found his princess? No, of course not. Henry was the best. But even though I began in archeology, I changed my major. I’m with the government now.”
“FBI?” Harley guessed.
He nodded.
“Something seems to be coming back. I’m not sure what,” she said. “I know your voice, but I don’t know you. I mean—”
“Yes, you know my voice. I guess I should start over. I called you soon after the incident when you were staying in Rome. Your group was shipped from place to place, and we were trying to get a handle on what happened. I’m the Fox from those phone calls. Special Agent Micah Fox—though I admit, I was working on my own, and not as assigned by the bureau. And I apologize, because I do know a lot about you, although it wasn’t appropriate to bring that up at the time. You’re Craig Frasier’s first cousin, and Craig and I have actually worked together. Of course, we’re in different offices now. Naturally, you’ve met a number of the men and women with the New York office. Craig told me you finished grad school, and you’re deciding what to do with all your education—join up with NYPD’s finest, remain with the private agency employing you now, or go into a federal agency. But tonight, you’re here for the same reason I am, honoring our old professor. For one summer, you were an unofficial Egyptologist. And, as I just explained, you recognize my voice because we spoke on the phone. I’m Criminal Division, FBI. Right now, I’m assigned down in DC. I’ve taken some leave to be here.”
“I...see,” she said.
Did she?
No, not really.
Wait. Fox—yes, that was the name of the man she’d spoken with about Henry Tomlinson, just once, what now seemed like a lifetime ago.
These days, that time was mostly a blur. Maybe because she didn’t want to think of it. But she couldn’t stop her mind from rushing back to the night they’d returned to the camp, laughing and loaded down with food and drink for their professor, only to find him on the floor, along with the broken coffin and the “screaming” mummy. He’d been garroted by his own belt, eyes open and bulging, throat blackened and bruised, a swatch of ancient linen wrapped around it.
There’d been an immediate outcry. Security was convinced that no one from outside had been anywhere near the expedition tents; they kept a tight perimeter around the work area, which included the tents that had been set up for the staff. Egyptian police had come out, ready to help with the investigation.
Then, all hell had broken loose. The computer had picked up more chatter. And word had come that the fledgling, unaffiliated militant group calling themselves The Ancient Guard was bearing down on the expedition. Perhaps they intended to steal the artifacts to finance their cause. Not an uncommon scenario... It meant that everyone and everything needed to go as quickly as possible. Government forces were being sent out, but no one wanted scientists from around the world caught up in an exchange of gunfire.
Security forces from Alchemy, along with the Egyptian police, did their best to preserve what they could from the expedition, as well as the body of Henry Tomlinson so they could discover the circumstances of his death.
Much was lost. But at least no one else was killed. The final inquiry, conducted by the Egyptian police and the Alchemy security force, concluded that the brilliant archeologist Dr. Henry Tomlinson had driven himself mad and committed suicide. According to their conclusions, he believed a mummy had come to life with the intention of murdering him... It was suspected that some unknown bacteria had caused the temporary fit of insanity, and everything from the expedition would be scrutinized using proper precautions.
Harley had fought the verdict—vociferously. She was a criminology student; she knew what should have been done and a lot of it wasn’t. Pretty much nothing had been done, really, not as far as a crime scene examination went.
Not in her opinion, anyway.
How many men committed suicide with their own belts in such a manner? She sure as hell hadn’t seen or read about any. And she was studying criminology.
Nope, never heard of it!
Her friends backed her up, at first. And then, one by one, it seemed, they all decided that the poor professor—so caught up in his love and enthusiasm for his work—had gone mad, even if only temporarily. No one could find a motive for murdering him. Henry Tomlinson had been respected and dearly loved by everyone. No one could find a clue.
The police assigned to them had been incompetent, to Harley’s mind. Authorities in Egypt and in the United States hadn’t done enough.
And the Alchemy people...
They wanted it to be a suicide. They didn’t want to deal with a murder. They accepted the verdict without a whimper.
They were so sorry and sad, they’d claimed, and in hindsight, they could see so many mistakes.
They should’ve known to be more careful!
Henry should’ve known to be more careful!
But in fact, they said, the professor’s enthusiasm for the project had caused them all to bypass modern safety regulations that might have kept him alive.
A great company line, Harley thought in disgust.
And what was the matter with her? They might all have been killed by a crazy insurgent group that hadn’t defined exactly what it was fighting for or against. It was a miracle that they’d gotten out, that they were all alive.
Well, most of them. And Henry, poor Henry, he’d done himself in—according to the authorities and to Alchemy, who went on to say that now they’d never completely understand the biology of what had gone on. They weren’t allowed back on the site; the Egyptian government had stamped a foot down hard.
And that night...
First, they were shuffled to Cairo, then, almost immediately—on the orders of the Egyptian authorities and the US State Department—they were put on planes to Rome, and from Rome they were flown to New York City.
But, thinking back, Harley recalled that it was while she’d been staying at the little Italian hotel near the Spanish Steps that she’d spoken with this man. Fox. He’d wanted to know whatever she knew about the situation, and she’d told him everything, adding that she didn’t believe a word of the official explanation.
There was no way Henry had killed himself.
Special Agent Fox had seemed to accept her version, but apparently he’d been just as stonewalled as she had.
Like her, he’d been forced to realize in the end that no one was going to believe him. Or her.
And even if the authorities had believed him, they didn’t care enough to make a killer pay!
Here, tonight, for the first time in a year, everything about that horrible occasion was suddenly coming back.
Tonight was about honoring Henry Tomlinson. This would be an event during which people would shake their heads sadly, missing the professor who’d done so much, declaring it tragic that he’d lost his mind because of what he’d loved so deeply.
“Ms. Frasier?”
She blinked, staring at the man in front of her, wondering how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.
In a way, she did know him. They’d just never met in person. She’d left the Sahara before he reached it. Then she’d been flown out of Cairo, and soon after that she was back in New York.
“I’m sorry!” she said softly.
He shook his head. “Hey, it’s all right. I know you really cared, and that you tried to do something. It must have been hard to maintain your own belief that he’d been murdered when everyone else was telling you otherwise,” Micah Fox said.
It had been and still was. “Oh, don’t you know?” she muttered. “‘Henry went crazy. Bacteria in the wrappings. He just had to dig in before proper precautions were taken. It’s so tragic—don’t make it worse by rehashing every little thing!’”
Her tone, she knew, was heavy with sarcasm.
They were alone in the temple area—or so she believed. Still, she looked around and repeated, “I’m sorry. I tried... I do believe he was murdered. They did find bacteria, but not enough. Henry was murdered. And I couldn’t do a damned thing to prove it.”
Micah nodded at her. She liked his face. Hard-jawed, somewhat sharp-boned. His eyes, she saw now, were actually blue—sky blue—and they seemed to see a great deal.
“Remember, I was a student of his, too. And now I’m an FBI agent. And I couldn’t do anything, either. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He paused. “I should explain. I knew about you through Craig, of course. And also through Henry. We kept in touch when we could—he’d let me know what was up, what was going on. I went into law enforcement, but I still love Egyptology. Henry thought the world of you.” He shook his head. “I can only imagine what it was like that last night. I hope you’re okay now. Time...heals, so they say.”
“So they say.”
“It heals when you’re at peace with the past.”
“And I’m not,” she said grimly, and added, “And neither are you.”
“No. Anyway, I’d like to find out about the last time you saw him. If you don’t mind.”
“There won’t be a chance tonight,” she said.
“I know. At a later date.”
Harley nodded. “I’ll be happy to speak with you. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”
“You found him.”
“Yes.”
“I’d just like you to go over it with me. I realize it’s painful, but...”
“The verdict was ridiculous! You know what the ME said! That he killed himself.”
“An Egyptian ME, who wanted out of there as quickly as possible, with armed insurrectionists about to attack the place.”
True!
But then...
“The company, Alchemy, brought in a medical examiner, too. He agreed with the Egyptian ME’s findings.”
“I’m sure that all happened in about two minutes in Cairo or Rome. And as soon as they made their decision, Henry was shot through with preservatives and packed into a box. So anything that could be construed as evidence was compromised. I could be way off base. We could be way off base. Thing is, I’d feel better if we could talk.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
Of course?
She didn’t want to remember that night!
And yet, here was someone—someone in law enforcement—who agreed with her, the only person who did. Like her, Fox believed there was a truth out there that everyone else had denied.
They looked at each other awkwardly for a moment.
“Well, a pleasure to meet you in person. I guess I’m going to head over to the party area,” Micah said. His voice softened. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. You might want more time here. On your own. By the way, as I said, I really do know your cousin fairly well. We worked together years ago on a case in DC. He’s a great guy.”
“Yes. Craig’s great,” Harley agreed.
She sensed that he wanted to say more.
Like maybe when or where they could meet again?
But he didn’t speak. They weren’t alone anymore.
Jensen Morrow came striding through the temple area. He apparently saw Harley, but not Micah Fox, probably because he stood in the shadow of a carved obelisk.
“I knew I’d find you here!” Jensen told Harley, heading toward her for a huge hug.
He’d written his thesis, gotten his graduate degree and taken a job here as an assistant curator, making use of his doctorate in Egyptology. He’d been her friend through her suspicions, her anger, her demands—and her final defeat, when she’d realized that nothing was going to be done.
No one was ever going to make her believe that Henry Tomlinson had been convinced that a mummy was attacking him—while strangling himself with his own belt.
Jensen, she was certain, had just given up. He’d been told the lie so many times that to him, it had become truth.
Harley accepted Jensen’s hug; she still cared about him. When they’d first met, they’d hit it off as friends. They might have become more at one time; he was fun, energetic and thoughtful, not to mention tall, dark and handsome. But everything had changed the night Henry Tomlinson died.
Even though she didn’t see the friends she’d made in Egypt very often—they were all busy working, getting on with their lives—they had all stayed friends. They were, in fact, oddly close; they had shared the experience of the dig, Henry Tomlinson’s death and the escape from the desert under dire circumstances in the middle of the night. All of that meant they had an emotional bond few people shared.
And yet it was a closeness stained with the loss of the man they’d all adored. Stained, too, by the way they’d fled on the very night he died, swept up in a reign of terror.
She’d gone on to finish her own graduate work, head bent to her studies, and had taken part-time work with a prestigious investigation firm in the city so that she could still take classes when she chose while deciding what path to take for her future. It felt right, for the time being. But she had to make some real decisions soon. And yet, even as she’d worked toward her educational and career goals, she had felt that she was waiting. A temporary post—with flexible hours!—was all she’d been willing to accept at the moment.
“They’re about to start,” Jensen said, pulling away from her to study her face. That was when he rather awkwardly noticed there was someone else in the temple exhibit.
He offered Micah Fox a hand. “I’m sorry. How rude. I didn’t see you. I’m Jensen Morrow.”
“Micah Fox,” the other man returned. “And actually, we’ve spoken. Over the phone.”
“Oh! Hey, that was you?” Jensen said. “Wow. Was I vague when I talked to you? Or worse, rude? If I was, I didn’t mean to be. It’s just that...well, you had to be there that night. We found Henry—or, I should say, Harley found Henry—and by the time the medical examiner arrived, they were screaming that the insurgents were a few miles out and we had to break camp ASAP! I know Harley and I were going crazy with concern and disbelief and...well...hey,” he finished lamely.
“There wasn’t anything you could have done to change the situation,” Micah said.
“Well, you’re FBI, right? I guess if you couldn’t prove anything different from what was said or get anything done, Harley and I, who had no law enforcement power, couldn’t have done more than complain and question. Which we did. Who knows? The thing is—thing that got me, anyway—we weren’t in a closed or confined space. I mean if bacteria were going to get him, you might’ve thought someone else would’ve had a reaction or... Anyway, had you been assigned to the case—officially? The FBI works in Egypt? Or does it?”
“The FBI works all over the world, as necessary,” Micah replied. “But...I was there because of Henry.”
“Special Agent Fox was another of Henry’s grad students, but years ago,” Harley quickly explained.
“Ah,” Jensen murmured. That was obviously enough of an explanation. “I guess you were crazy about him, too.”
“I was. Brilliant man. Horrible circumstances.”
Jensen glanced at Harley. “I think we were the last people who saw him. Alive, I mean. Harley was trying to get him to come out with us. But you knew him. There was no way he was going to leave his work that night.”
“No, Henry wouldn’t want to leave his work.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Well, I think they must be about ready to start.”
“Let’s go.” Harley slid her fingers into Jensen’s and they left, nodding to Micah. It was ludicrous, but she was suddenly afraid to be too close to the man. He not only projected strength—he was someone warm when the world had been cold. Too confident, too attractive...
She could easily give in to her feelings of sadness and loss and even anger on a night like this. With a man like this.
She was aware of Micah watching them leave.
And she wondered what he was thinking.
* * *
HARLEY FRASIER, CRAIG’S COUSIN, was certainly a beautiful young woman, Micah thought, watching her leave, hand in hand with Jensen Morrow. He’d been studying her intently for some time before he’d spoken with her. It was evident that she had really cared about Henry. And he knew how Henry had felt about her.
According to Craig, she had wonderful parents and a great older brother, living grandparents, all kinds of family life. Micah’s parents had been lost in a bridge accident when he was a child; his aunt had raised him. Auntie Jane. He loved her and she was a talented and compassionate woman. But she was it as far as family went. He had no siblings, no cousins—no one else anywhere that he knew about. His family went far back in Virginia history; it had simply winnowed down to him and Jane.
His father had been FBI. People had feared the dangers of his job. They’d never imagined that he might die young because of a bridge collapse.
Henry Tomlinson had treated him like a son or grandson. He’d shared his enthusiasm for Egyptology with Micah. Henry had a family he adored. He hadn’t married, but he had a loving niece and nephew-in-law, and he was crazy about their kids.
He’d send Micah pictures of an unusual canopic jar right alongside ones of the kids with their new puppy. That was Henry.
Micah followed the pair who’d just left, wondering if he was indulging himself in an exercise of futility. Was the truth about Henry Tomlinson’s death ever going to be uncovered? Henry had been murdered, which was terrible enough, but it had happened on a night when both the Egyptian government and the US Department of State had been determined to get all the workers away from the site and out of the country. The group who’d planned the attack had called themselves The Ancient Guard.
Apparently, they hadn’t believed that Alchemy intended that the treasures they’d found would merely go on loan to the United States and other countries—and that they’d remain Egyptian property. Maybe they hadn’t cared. And maybe, like most militant groups, what The Ancient Guard wanted, religious and political ideology aside, was a chance to fight and stave off frustration. And probably steal the treasures to finance their fighting.
They’d either been beaten back or dissipated quickly when met with armed resistance.
Micah had gone to Cairo to investigate Henry’s death on an unofficial basis, and then to Rome, where the Alchemy crew had briefly stayed. Their communication had been by phone—he’d been a day behind each time everyone had moved on. And by the time he’d reached the States, it had all been too long.
Henry had been cremated, just as he’d instructed his niece to arrange in the event of his death. Then, of course, it was too late to bring in any experts.
But Henry had never suspected that he might be murdered.
And why would he?
Why the hell kill an academic like Henry? The man had never wanted or kept anything for himself—he’d never tried to slip away with even the smallest, most insignificant artifact. His work had always been about sharing treasures with the world.
Tonight... Well, tonight, Micah could watch. He could see the people who’d been close to Henry in his last days.
The grand foyer of the museum had been chosen for the site of the private gala opening. The center monument here was a massive replica of a temple from Mesopotamia that sat in the center of a skylit rotunda. The museum was beautiful, and just down the street from its larger cousin, the Metropolitan. Many design ideas that worked well in the first had been used in this newer museum. The offices were deep in the basement, for the most part. The museum was dedicated to the ancient world; it was divided into sections that concentrated on the earliest humans to the rich, ancient civilizations of Greece, Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and more.
The exhibition hall that would open to the public in the morning was an admirable addition to the museum. Exhibits didn’t stay forever, but the hall itself would continue to thrive because of the work of Henry and other archeologists and scholars; right now, however, it was all about Henry.
Men and women in pairs and groups stood around the room, chatting, while waiters and waitresses in white-and-black attire moved about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.
Many of those invited were here because they were sponsoring patrons of the museum. There were also a number of politicians, including the mayor.
None of them interested Micah.
He scanned the crowd, taking note of those he did find intriguing.
Arlo Hampton, young, pleasant, eager. Tall and slim, but handsomely boyish-looking in a suit, speaking with an Egyptian dignitary. Ned Richter and his wife, Vivian. He so robust, she so tiny, both smiling, standing close, chatting with the mayor. And there—between an aging Broadway director and his latest ingénue—Belinda Gray, sans her fiancé, who was still serving in the military. He saw Roger Eastman, wiry and lean, wearing thick-lensed glasses, talking with his hands as he loudly discussed a technical innovation for dealing with the security of priceless historic objects. Across the room, in the midst of a few young female museum apprentices, was Joe Rosello. Joe seemed electrically energetic; he was a square-shouldered guy who could’ve been a fullback. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a very white smile.
Micah had done research on everyone involved with the last stages of the dig. Every one of the workers who’d had access to the tent. It hadn’t been easy finding out about the Egyptian workers. Since they weren’t archeologists or preservation experts, they hadn’t been allowed into the inner sanctum of the camp, where the preparation tent was located. Still, he’d done his best. But everything in him screamed that the guilty party was not Egyptian, but someone among those who should have loved and honored Henry.
Why? he asked himself again. Why the hell would anyone kill Henry? If he could come up with a why...
“Micah?”
He turned. He hadn’t expected to know many people here tonight. His name had been softly voiced by one of the few people he did know, and he knew her fairly well.
Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece.
Simone was in her midthirties, a sandy-haired woman who looked eternally like a girl. She was small and slim and wide-eyed. She was accompanied by her husband, Jerry, a banker, who was equally slim and wide-eyed.
Micah greeted them both.
“Thank you for coming. And thank you for caring so much,” Simone said. “It’s still so hard to accept what they say.”
“Yes, it is,” Micah agreed.
“But tonight,” Jerry said brightly, “tonight we honor his body of work.”
“Yes. An incredible body of work,” Micah said. “How are the girls?”
“Getting big!” Simone answered. “Ten, eight and five now.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen pictures. They’re beautiful.”
“They are. Thank you. They loved their uncle Henry, too,” Simone said.
“We all miss him.”
“Oh, look—there’s Arlo Hampton,” Jerry said. “Micah, we’ll talk later? Simone, we need to find out what he wants us to do when he speaks.”
“Excuse us,” Simone said.
“Of course!” Micah told them. They moved on.
He continued to survey the room.
Hail, hail, the gang’s all here. Grad students. Administration staff. Egyptologists. City officials. Museum people. And there...
An exotic woman with dark skin and almost inky black hair was speaking with Simone and her family. Arlo stood beside them.
Yolanda Akeem. They’d met briefly—very briefly—in Cairo. She was the Egyptian liaison with the Department of Antiquities. Naturally, she’d be here tonight.
She saw him looking at her. She elegantly lifted her glass a few inches in acknowledgment.
She’d given him whatever information she’d had in Cairo; it hadn’t been much. A two-second autopsy report and a lecture on the dangers of the Middle East. He didn’t listen to much of it. Henry’s body was gone by then and the members of the expedition had been shuttled off. He’d been ready to follow them as quickly as possible when they’d been in Egypt—and through their escape from the trouble that had befallen the expedition that night.
Tonight, they were all here.
And there was Harley Frasier. She had a smile on her face as she spoke with Gordon Vincent, director at large for the museum. Her smile was forced. Jensen was with her, smiling and chatting, as well. He seemed to be putting a little too much effort into being charming.
Which didn’t seem necessary, since he was already employed by the museum.
Harley didn’t; she worked for Fillmore Investigations, a large security and investigation company that served the civilian market, but was known for its close affiliation with the New York City PD and other law enforcement agencies. The founder of the company, Edward Fillmore, had barely survived a kidnap-for-ransom scheme as a child. He had founded his company on the premise that all agencies, public or private, should work together for the benefit of victims. Since Micah’s job with the FBI had come about because of similar circumstances, he liked the man without even knowing him. Micah was pleased that Harley Frasier had chosen such a reputable company. None of his business, of course. But...
He’d felt something for her, just from hearing her voice over the phone a year ago.
And now...he’d seen her.
Anyone awake and breathing would find her attractive and charming.
He was certainly charmed by her and impressed by her—and so much more.
Even though he hardly knew her...
He forced himself to look away from Harley and objectively observe the other people in the room.
He was standing back, watching, when he became aware that a friend had arrived.
“I have to admit I was definitely expecting you to be here,” Craig Frasier told him.
Micah smiled without glancing over. “And I guess I’m not surprised that you’re here,” he said.
“I can’t let you get into too much trouble,” Craig murmured.
“I’m just here to honor an old friend,” Micah said.
“Like hell.” Craig smiled grimly, studying the crowd milling in the foyer. “But I don’t know what you think you can discover at this late date.”
Micah turned to face Craig at last, a rueful half smile on his face. “Right. Well, it would help if someone suddenly had a guilt attack and admitted going crazy—from the bacteria in the wrappings, of course—and murdering Henry.”
“Not going to happen.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to harass your cousin,” Micah said.
“I’m not worried. I think you two can actually do each other some good it you get a chance to really talk. Maybe you can figure something out, late as it might be. There was so much done so quickly and so politically. State Department, international bull. A cover-up. Yeah, it’ll be good for the two of you to talk.”
“You say that as if you doubt the official line, too,” Micah said quietly.
“Because I do. I believe it was a cover-up.”
“Not by the government,” Micah said.
“By?”
Micah looked at him and said, “By Alchemy.”
Craig didn’t get a chance to respond.
Arlo Hampton took the microphone on a small portable dais set in the center of the foyer. He cleared his throat, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, friends of the museum, friends of science and exploration, and friends of the City of New York!”
It took a moment for everyone to stop talking and start listening. Someone tapped a champagne flute with a fork or spoon. Then the room fell silent.
“We welcome you to our amazing new exhibit, brought to us through the genius of the man—the brilliant, kind, ever-giving man—whose name will now grace our museum walls, Dr. Henry Tomlinson. Those who knew Henry loved him. He was a scholar, but he was also a very human man who loved his family and friends. No one knew Egyptology the way Henry did...”
A sudden gasp from the crowd silenced him. Everyone turned.
Someone had come up from the basement steps, and was now staggering through the crowd.
Someone grotesquely dressed up in a mummy’s linen bindings, staggering out as if acting in a very bad mummy movie.
A performance for the evening?
No.
Because Arlo grunted an angry “Excuse me!” and exited the dais, walking toward the “mummy” now careening toward him.
“What the hell?” Micah and Craig were close enough to hear Arlo’s words. “Richter, is that you? You idiot! Is that you?”
It wasn’t Richter; Micah knew that right away. Richter was far too big a man to be the slight, lean person now dressed up.
Or at least Ned Richter was!
Micah burst forward, phone out and in his hand. As he neared the mummy, he was already dialing 9-1-1.
“Get those bindings off her! Get them off her fast!” he commanded.
The mummy collapsed.
Micah barely managed to catch the wrapped body sagging to the floor.
As quickly as he could, he began to remove the wrappings.
He heard the sound of a siren.
Then Vivian Richter looked up at him, shuddered and closed her eyes.
The wrappings, Micah knew, had been doused in some kind of poison.
Chapter Two (#u897dea75-6954-58de-9bfb-b5fbc838cea1)
Chaos reigned.
Harley was stunned and horrified that Vivian Richter was so badly hurt—so close to death.
She was wrapped tightly. The outer wrappings were decayed and falling apart; they’d come from a historic mummy. The inner wrappings were contemporary linen, the kind the museum used in its demonstrations, made to look like the real deal.
Vivian was gasping and crying, completely incoherent. One woman in the room was a doctor—a podiatrist, but hey, she’d been to medical school. She was kneeling by Vivian, calling the shots, talking on the phone to the med techs who were on their way.
Special Agent Fox had already taken control of the room. No one was to leave; they were all in a lockdown.
She was incredibly glad that Craig was there. And, of course, he was with his girlfriend or fiancée—Harley wasn’t sure what Craig and Kieran called each other, but she was sure they were together for life. Kieran was standing near Harley, ready to comfort her, as the slightly older and very protective almost cousin-in-law. Harley appreciated that, even though she didn’t really need it. She worked with criminals all the time, as well as people who weren’t so bad but still wound up in the criminal justice system. She was calm and stoic; Micah and Craig were questioning people, grouping them, speaking to them, both digging for answers and assuring them all that they were safe.
“She’s going to die! She’s going to die!” Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece, cried out. Harley saw that Micah Fox hurried over to her, placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and led her to a chair.
By then, of course, museum security had arrived. So had the police—New York City and state police.
People were talking everywhere. Micah and Craig had herded everyone into groups, depending on their relationship to the museum. Some were employees of the museum; some were special guests. The people who’d been on the expedition were in a corner. Harley was with Belinda Gray, Joe Rosello, Roger Eastman and Jensen Morrow, as well as the Alchemy Egyptologist, Arlo Hampton.
Ned Richter was crouched on the floor, at his wife’s side.
All of this seemed to go on for a long time, yet it was a matter of minutes before more sirens screamed in the night and the EMTs were rushing in. Ned Richter was allowed to go with his wife; Arlo Hampton and others more closely associated with the exhibit were now gathered together in a new group. Guests who’d only recently made it through the doors were questioned and cleared.
Anyone who had anything to do with prep for the evening was in another group; every single person would be questioned before being permitted to leave for the night.
Officers and crime scene techs were crowding through the museum, heading to the Amenmose section—and to the staff office and prep chambers beyond.
“Too bad we couldn’t continue the celebration,” Joe said, hands locked behind his back, a look of disappointment on his face. “What a waste of great food and wine.”
“Joe! What’s the matter with you?” Belinda chastised.
“Come on! Vivian Richter’s a drama queen,” Joe said.
“She might die,” Roger said very softly.
“You mark my words. She will not die,” Joe insisted.
“They’re saying it’s poison,” Roger pointed out. “Some kind of poison on the wrappings.”
“She’s going to be very, very sick,” Jensen said. “Those wrappings decaying and falling all around her... Who the hell knows where they came from—or what might be on them?”
“Or if something was put on them,” Roger said. “That’s how she would have been poisoned.”
They were all silent for a minute.
“And then dead—like Henry Tomlinson,” Belinda said.
Again, they were silent.
“Great. But at least now, maybe someone besides me will start fighting to figure out what happened to Henry,” Harley said quietly.
She’d actually discovered that night that someone was on her side. The agent with the great voice. Craig’s friend. Micah Fox.
“Okay, okay,” Belinda said. “I didn’t push it a lot at the time. I mean, it didn’t make any difference, did it? The cause of death—two medical examiners said—was the fact that bacteria made him crazy and he killed himself.”
The reaction to her comment was yet another bout of silence.
“What were we going to do?” Belinda wailed. “We had no power. Insurgents were bearing down on the camp, and everyone wanted us out! So, what could we do? Henry was dead,” Belinda said.
“And back then, none of us believed he killed himself,” Jensen said at last.
“But we all let it go.” Roger sounded sorrowful as he spoke. “Except Harley, and we all kind of shut her down,” he added apologetically. “But, seriously, what were we going to do? There were some whacked-out insurrectionists coming our way. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to admit I didn’t want to die. I really didn’t care if anyone was collecting evidence properly—all I wanted was out of there! And in the end, I guess we bought into the official—” he made air quotes with his fingers “—version. It was just easier and—”
“Ms. Frasier!”
Harley was being summoned. She saw that it was the plainclothes detective who had apparently been assigned to the case. He was lean and hard-looking; his partner was broader and had almost a baby face and a great smile. They were McGrady and Rydell, Rydell being the guy with the smile.
She wasn’t going anywhere alone. She was never sure how Craig could home in on her problems so quickly, and tonight he was with Micah Fox, the agent who had called her before—and approached her at the beginning of the evening. What if she had talked to him when he’d wanted to?
Could tonight’s disaster have been avoided?
Did it have anything to do with what had happened before?
She was led into one of the museum offices that had been taken over by the police. She felt, rather than saw, her cousin Craig and the enigmatic Micah Fox come in.
They didn’t sit; they took up stances behind her.
McGrady took the seat behind the desk and asked her sternly, “Ms. Frasier, what exactly is your association with the museum, the expedition—and the injured woman?”
“I was on the expedition. I don’t really have an association with Vivian. It’s not like we have coffee or hang around together and do girls’ night,” Harley said. “Vivian is married to Ned Richter, the CEO of Alchemy. Alchemy financed the expedition. Alchemy is the largest sponsor for this exhibition. We were all pretty close in the Sahara—not that we had much choice.”
“So you did know her well!”
“I didn’t say I knew her well. We were...colleagues.”
“But you like mummies, right? All things ancient Egyptian?” McGrady asked.
“Yes, of course. I find the culture fascinating.”
“And it would be a great prank to attack someone and lace her up in poisoned linen. Like a mummy?”
“What?” Harley exploded.
McGrady leaned forward, wagging a pencil at her. “You were the one who discovered Henry Tomlinson—dead. Correct?”
Harley had never thought of herself as particularly strong, but his words, coming out like an accusation, were too much.
She heard a guttural exclamation from behind her. Craig or Micah Fox, she wasn’t sure which.
But it didn’t matter. She could—and would—fend for herself. She leaned forward, too.
“Yes. I found Henry. A beloved friend and mentor. I found him, and I raised an outcry you wouldn’t believe. And no one in a position of power or authority gave a damn. First, it was oh, the insurgents were coming! Saving our lives was more important—and yes, of course, that was true—than learning the truth about the death of a good man. I could buy that! It’s an obvious decision. But then, no decent autopsy, and his niece, bereft, had him cremated. And now you’re asking me about Henry—and about Vivian Richter. You have nerve. I was here tonight in honor of Henry. I didn’t see the exhibit before tonight. I haven’t been associated with Alchemy since we returned. I suggest you speak with the people who were involved there and worked on the exhibit.”
McGrady actually sat back.
Everyone in the room was silent.
Then Harley thought she heard a softly spoken “Bravo.”
McGrady cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Frasier, but you do realize that Vivian Richter is dangerously close to... Well, we might have a murder on our hands.”
“You do have a murder on your hands. Dr. Henry Tomlinson was murdered. Now we have to pray that Vivian comes out of this, but still, you’ve got a killer here. Do you have anything more to ask me?” Harley demanded. They did need to hope and pray for Vivian, but by now, surely they had to recognize the truth of what had happened to Henry!
“Did you see Vivian this evening?”
“No.”
“But you arrived early, didn’t you?”
“Only by a few minutes. I walked out to the temple area.”
“Which is off-limits until after the exhibit officially opens tomorrow.”
“I was allowed to go back there because I’d been on the expedition.”
“And you were close to the backstage area where exhibits are prepared?”
“Yes.”
“Where Vivian would have been?”
“Possibly.”
“But you didn’t see her. Who did you see?”
“Just Jensen. Jensen Morrow. He’s working here, with the exhibit. This is actually his field of work. I saw Jensen—oh, and Special Agent Fox.” She glanced back at him. He and Craig were flanked behind her like a pair of ancient Egyptian god-sentinels. They almost made her smile. Not quite. She couldn’t believe that this detective was quizzing her—when she couldn’t get any help before, no matter how she’d begged and pleaded!
“Special Agent Fox?” McGrady said.
“I arrived within minutes of Ms. Frasier. I was told she’d just headed for the temple. I wanted to speak to her about the death of Henry Tomlinson. I went straight there. We were speaking when her colleague Jensen Morrow appeared. Exactly as she indicated,” Micah Fox said.
McGrady stood up. “Fine. Ms. Frasier, you’re free to go.”
Harley stood up and glared at him. “I’m delighted to leave. But perhaps first you’d be kind enough to let me know how Vivian’s doing. We might not be close, but we were serious associates.”
McGrady sighed. “She’s holding her own. The doctors are combatting the effects of the poisoning.”
“What was the poison?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation. That’s information we can’t give out right now, even if we had it.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Craig opened the door; she marched out. He and Micah followed. She thought she heard McGrady mutter, “And take your Feds with you.”
“Not the usual helpful attitude, at least not in my association with the NYPD,” Craig said. “Usually, we have an excellent working rapport.”
“Maybe he’s resentful because he’s not sure what this is yet. It’s impossible at this time to say what happened,” Micah said.
Harley spun around to stare at him. “What are you, a fool?” she snapped. “We both know—not suspect, but know—that Henry Tomlinson was murdered. Then Vivian Richter comes out wrapped in mummy linens, screaming and poisoned with some kind of skin toxin, and we don’t know what happened? Obviously, someone tried to kill her!”
Craig grabbed her by the shoulders. “Harley! Stop. Micah’s on your side. What are you?” he asked. “A fool?”
She flushed uneasily. They were just outside the door. The nicer cop, the quiet one with the baby face, Rydell, came out and approached Jensen Morrow. He was next on the block, Harley thought. And how stupid of the cops. Jensen had been with her, away from the camp, when Henry Tomlinson was killed. They just didn’t seem bright enough to realize that there was a far bigger picture here. They needed to see it—before someone else died.
But Craig was right. She shouldn’t be taking it out on Micah Fox.
Why was she being so hostile, so defensive?
Pushing him away on purpose.
He was trying to help her. He was...
He was a promise she was afraid to accept. He claimed he wanted the truth, and he seemed to have all the assets needed to get at that truth. He was too damned good to be true, and she didn’t dare depend on someone like that when the very concept of an ally, someone to depend on, was still so...
Foreign to her! He was law enforcement—and on her side. It was good. After all this time, it felt rather amazing.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
She’d barely spoken when Kieran Finnegan came hurrying up next to her. “I have a car outside. Come on, I’ll get you home.”
“But—”
“There’s nothing else you can do here tonight, Harley,” Micah said.
“Remember, you came to me.”
“Yes. And there’s nothing else you can do here tonight,” he repeated.
Harley stiffened.
“Let’s go,” Kieran said gently.
So she nodded. “Thank you,” she said to Craig and Micah, and then she allowed Kieran to lead her out the door, to the front of the museum.
A light-colored sedan was waiting, just as Kieran had promised. Kieran wasn’t driving; Harley assumed the driver was FBI and that Micah or Craig had made the arrangements.
Once in the car beside Kieran, Harley regretted the fact that she’d already left. “I should still be there. I should be back with the exhibits. I should see the prep rooms. I was with them on that expedition and I know what we discovered. I saw the tomb when it was opened. And I... Lord, yes, I’m the one who found Henry.”
“Logically, there isn’t a damned thing you could’ve done tonight. They won’t let anyone back by the exhibits, the prep rooms, the offices—anywhere!—until the crime scene people have gone through it all. Naturally, everyone’s hoping that Vivian Richter pulls through. If she does, maybe she’ll be able to remember something that will help. For now, well...”
“McGrady is NYPD. He isn’t letting Craig and that Agent Fox in on anything.”
“They’ll get in on it. Trust me. Craig will talk to his director. His director will call the chief of police or the mayor or someone, but they’ll get in on it,” Kieran said with assurance.
Harley leaned back for a moment, suddenly very tired. She closed her eyes and then opened them again, looking over at Kieran. She liked her cousin’s girlfriend. Really liked her. She wasn’t sure why they weren’t engaged or married yet, but...
Kieran, of course, knew all about what had gone on during and after the expedition out to the Sahara in the search for Amenmose’s tomb. Considering what she did for a living—a psychologist who worked with law enforcement—nothing much surprised her or rattled her. Besides, she’d met Craig during a period when the city was under siege with a spate of diamond heists.
“So tell me—what’s your take on this?” Harley asked Kieran. “Who would kill Henry Tomlinson? Or rather, who’d dress up as a mummy to kill him, and then dress Vivian Richter like a mummy to try and kill her?”
“The incidents might not be related,” Kieran said.
“Oh, please! Don’t tell me Henry wasn’t murdered! Don’t tell me I want that to be the case because I don’t want to believe he went crazy and committed suicide.”
“I’m not saying that at all. Here’s the thing. You were in the desert, so it had to be someone there. Henry’s dead and maybe this would-be killer is playing on that. Or maybe the two are related. The problem is, I don’t know anyone involved. It’s hard enough to make judgment calls when you’ve had a chance to speak with people and question them.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry.”
“That said...”
“Yes?”
Kieran smiled and shrugged. “You’ve had as much education as me, if not more.”
“Ah, but in different courses! I need more in psychology.”
“Specifically in human emotions. Like jealousy.”
“Jealousy? As in...someone who wanted to be a famed Egyptologist?”
“Possibly. Some people kill because they’re deranged. They’re psychotic, or they’re sociopaths. Then, of course, you have the usual motives. Love, greed, hatred...jealousy. Think about everyone involved if you’re convinced that the two situations are related. The rest of us weren’t there. Only you know the dynamics among all the people who were on that expedition.”
“I can’t imagine anyone who would’ve wanted Henry dead. I just can’t.”
“It’s not that you can’t. It’s that you don’t want to,” Kieran told her.
They’d reached Rector Street and the old warehouse apartment that legally belonged to Harley’s uncle, who was mostly out of state now and had generously given the large, rent-controlled space to Harley while she finished her degree and decided on her permanent vocation.
The driver hopped out of the car, opening the door for Harley. Kieran leaned out to say goodbye and thank the man.
“Get on home, get into bed, go to sleep,” Kieran said. “Much better to start fresh in the morning.”
Harley gave her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Thanks. Thanks for getting me here. But... I’ll be back on it in the morning.”
Kieran grinned. “We’d expect no less.” She leaned back in the car and the driver shut the door. He offered Harley a grave nod, and waited until she was safely at the door to her building.

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