45. Tulsa

45

"Thanks for your time."

Thanks for nothing. I dropped the phone onto the table in the dining room we'd co-opted as a base of operations. Opposite me, Dusk was click-click-clicking a pen, a habit of hers that annoyed everyone, and she wasn't having any more luck than I was. I glared at her, and at least she stopped the clicking.

We were working our way down the list of men Hebert had served with. There were common themes—he was secretive, he was a know-it-all, oh, and he had an unhealthy obsession with Cleopatra. Other grunts kept pictures of their girlfriends next to their beds. Hebert had a replica bust of an Egyptian queen, and he used to get pissed if anyone else picked it up.

Nobody had liked him much.

Speaking of unpleasant personalities, my phone rang, and I groaned when I saw the name on the screen. What the hell did Romeo want? A gold star for keeping our op quiet? Our involvement was still going unnoticed, although the cops were slowly catching up. They'd picked out Hebert as a possible suspect, and they were all over his apartment.

"What?"

"Are you always so delightful when you answer the phone?" he asked.

"Only when the biggest dick in Vegas is calling."

A pause. "I can't work out whether that's a compliment or not."

"Really? Then you're even dumber than I thought."

"So do you want me to bring Luna's earrings over? Or are you late for your appointment at the grooming salon?"

"My what?"

"Bitches need to get their claws clipped regularly."

"Fuck you."

"Any time, Juliet."

My blood boiled, and if he'd been standing in front of me, I would've bitten his admittedly impressive cock clean off. Which, okay, I might have regretted later, but he rubbed me the wrong way every time he opened his mouth. And he rubbed me the right way every time he slipped a hand into my panties. Why couldn't he have a less annoying twin?

"That will be never. What earrings?"

"Never? Sure." He chuckled, and I wanted to throttle him. "The costume technician for the show brought a pair of earrings in. Luna gave them to her, and her niece lost them, but then she found them again. They look pretty fancy. Aren't you missing a gift from Anton?"

Yes, we were, but whether the earrings would be useful was another question. The other pieces of jewellery had led nowhere.

"I'll send someone to pick them up."

Marcel could go. He'd been baking in the kitchen with Elene all morning while the rest of us worked. At least Caro hadn't tried to kill Miss Georgia again. We'd been keeping her busy hunting for background on Omnia Inc., the company that owned the house in Berkeley, and Amor Inc., which had sold the place in Elk River. Dan had come up with the second name half an hour ago. But Caro hadn't gotten very far. It looked as though both were shell companies registered in Panama.

"No need—I can bring them to you."

"No, you can't."

Romeo Serafini didn't know where I lived, and that was the way I wanted it to stay. After one of our trysts, he'd had an investigator try to follow me home—asshole—but I'd lost the douche near Desert Shores.

"I'm halfway there."

"Halfway where?"

"To the old porn mansion near Elk Ridge. Don't worry; I won't get lost. I've been there plenty of times before."

"What the fuck did you do? Send another PI after me?"

"No, I put a tracker on your car. Those lust-induced hazes can be distracting, can't they?"

"You know I carry a gun, right?"

"And I'm sure you know how to use it. But you won't."

"Why not?"

"Firstly, you like playing reverse cowgirl, and secondly, you might break a nail burying my body."

Unfortunately, he was right on both counts. Motherfucker.

"Hurry up, and try not to crash."

"Aw, I knew you cared."

"I like what you've done with the place." Romeo had abandoned his Jaguar by the front steps, and now he was roaming around the hallway. "Shame you took down the sex swing, though."

"I thought you were kidding when you said you'd been here before."

"Dick Steele and I are on first-name terms."

"Just give me the earrings."

He pulled a small dark-red velvet box out of his pocket. "The original bag is missing."

I took the box into the kitchen where there was better light. The fittings were white, the counters were grey, and the appliances were pink. Fucking pink. Floor-to-ceiling bifold doors led to the courtyard, plus there were a couple of skylights. Marcel beamed at Romeo.

"A guest? Nobody warned me we were having a guest. Would you like coffee? Herbal tea? A cold drink?"

"He isn't staying."

Romeo ignored me. "I'd love a coffee." He offered a hand to Marcel. "Romeo Serafini."

Marcel's smile turned into a scowl when he realised just who our guest was.

"Oh, I've heard all about you," he said, and I knew Romeo would be getting decaf. When Marcel headed for the pantry instead of the coffee machine, I smiled. Not only was Romeo getting decaf, he was getting the instant decaf Marcel saved for his least favourite people.

The earrings were unusual—curls of gold wire wrapped around dull reddish-orange beads that might have been glass or stone. I turned them over and squinted at the backs, but there was no sign of a maker's mark. The box bore no clues either.

Another dead end.

Marcel slammed a mug of coffee down on the counter beside Romeo. "Here. I added plenty of milk so you can drink it quickly."

"What did I do to him?" Romeo whispered as Marcel swished off back to his baking.

"You're still breathing."

Elene was staring between Marcel and Romeo, confused. So far, Marcel had been civil to her. Yes, she was a thief and a liar, but so were we when the need arose, and she'd only been trying to help her nephew. Her story checked out. Misho was in the hospital. So far, she was refusing to pay back the money because more medical bills were due soon, but that was Emmy's problem to deal with, not ours.

And Romeo was just an arrogant prick.

"Uh, do you want a cookie?" Elene asked, no doubt trying to defuse the tension that was thick in the air.

"I'd love a cookie, mia cara."

Was he flirting with her? In front of me? That dirty— Wait, no. This was good. Let her break his heart and steal his money. Romeo and his stupid pheromones deserved to suffer.

Elene came back with a plate piled high, and Marcel began clattering cookware the way he did when he was upset. I was also upset. If I'd thought about this in advance, I could have slipped prescription-strength laxatives into the passionfruit cream.

"These are yours?" she asked, picking up one of the earrings.

"They're evidence. You can't have them."

"I make my own earrings, but these are good ones. Gacia creates nice things."

Hold on a second… "You know who made these?"

"Gacia Zakaryan. She always works a G into the back of the design. See?"

A G? It didn't look that clear to me, but Elene seemed confident.

"Do you know how to get in touch with her?"

"If you give my phone back, her number is in there."

"Then I'll give her a call."

"She doesn't speak English."

"What language does she speak?"

"Armenian."

Great. "Do you speak Armenian?"

"My papa lives in Yerevan."

I made an executive decision. "Call her and find out where she sent that order." Perhaps we'd get lucky. Perhaps Hebert had the earrings mailed to his bolt-hole. "And if you breathe one word about this place, you're going home in a casket, understood?"

"Yes, I understand."

"That's a bit harsh," Romeo said.

"Butt out of things that don't concern you."

Elene jabbered away on the phone, and fifteen minutes later, we had our answer. The earrings had been sent to the Vegas apartment. Another fucking dead end, and worse, Romeo was taking his time with the cookies.

"Okay, give the phone back."

I held out a hand, and Elene handed it over reluctantly.

"How much longer do I have to stay here?" she asked.

"Until we resolve the Luna situation, we're not even thinking about your mess."

She pondered a moment. "Gacia did say there was a strange thing about this order."

"Which was?"

"She didn't choose the charms. The customer sent them. And he said they were very special and made her use an expensive delivery service to send the finished pieces back."

"Was there a different sender address with the charms?"

Elene shrugged. "That's all she remembers, but the charms look vintage. See? They don't even match exactly. These aren't mass-produced."

Romeo picked up the other earring. "How easy is it to buy genuine Ancient Egyptian charms?"

"How should I know?" I snapped out of habit, but maybe…maybe he had something. Another shot at getting an address for Hebert's hiding place?

"You should call Bradley's boyfriend," Marcel said.

"Bradley as in Emmy's assistant, Bradley?"

He and Marcel had met a year ago, and they mostly got along. Marcel thought Bradley drove way too slowly.

"How many other Bradleys do we know?"

"Why should I call Bradley's boyfriend?"

"Because he knows about Ancient Egyptian stuff. Don't you remember that treasure he found at the start of the year?"

Vaguely. If I recalled correctly, someone tried to steal the treasure, and Emmy had hotfooted it to Luxor before Bradley had a coronary.

"Can you get him on the phone?"

Because I didn't even know where to start with an internet search. "Old Egyptian glass blobs for sale"?

"I'll call Bradley as soon as the pineapple upside-down cake is done."

"Call him now."

Marcel's lips pressed together in a thin line. "No, because it will burn."

"It's only a fucking cake."

"A cake that I spent?—"

"I'll watch the cake," Elene said hurriedly. "When the stick comes out clean, it is cooked, yes?"

"Thank you, Elene," he said a little testily. We'd hired Marcel mainly for his cooking abilities, and he could be a thorn in everyone's side at times. At least we ate well.

It took the best part of an hour to track down Miles Bradley, probably because Egypt was ten hours ahead of Vegas and somebody had to roust him from his bed in the Sahara. We gathered in the control room, and by "we," I meant me, Marcel, Echo, and Dusk. Romeo had decided he was staying for pineapple cake with Elene, and I'd been too busy checking in with Dan and Emmy to dump him out on the sidewalk. Neither of the other teams was doing any better than we were.

"Evening, folks," Miles said, and although I'd only met Bradley a time or two, Miles was the last person I'd imagine him dating. Bradley was the love child of the Fremont Street light show and a glitter cannon, while Miles looked as if he'd recently escaped from a library. The space behind him was dark, but it appeared he was in a tent.

"Thanks for speaking with us."

"How can I help? Bradley said you're trying to identify some Egyptian antiquities?"

"A pair of small glass charms." I held one of the earrings up to the camera. "The gold squiggles are a recent addition. Basically, we need to find out if these are old, and if so, where someone might buy them."

"Small amulets like those can often be picked up at auction but that one… Can you hold it closer? Yes, it's a nice example of a heart amulet, also known as an ib. Almost too nice. Probably carnelian stone, not glass."

"What do you mean by ‘almost too nice'? It isn't genuine?"

"I can't say without examining it in person, but if it's genuine, a find of that quality would usually be in a museum or the hands of a collector. How did you come by it?"

"A suspect in the kidnapping case we're investigating sent it to the victim."

His brow creased. "Is that normal? For a suspect to send gifts like that?"

"No, but this particular arsehole is anything but normal. He seems to think he's Mark Antony and she's Cleopatra. Do you know much about them?"

"Not my area of expertise, I'm afraid. I deal mainly with the New Kingdom—the eighteenth, nineteenth, and twentieth dynasties. You're looking at the Ptolemaic dynasty."

"There's a big difference?"

He laughed heartily. "Roughly a thousand years. But if you need an expert on the Greco-Roman period, then I could certainly try to put you in touch with somebody."

"It might be useful to get a name just in case."

"Of course. Your best bet is probably Norman Allenby. I believe he's lecturing at Brown at the moment, but I'll have to double-check."

Dusk got there before me. "Have any Greco-Roman experts died recently?"

"Uh…" His gaze flicked upward for a second. "Yes, we lost Stefan Suchkov almost two years ago. He'd been sick for a while, but it was still a tragedy, especially for his family."

"I'm thinking last year. A woman."

Miles considered the question. "Well, there was Julia Strand, but I wouldn't have recommended you contact her. There were…" He sucked air through his teeth. "Let's just say there were some unusual circumstances surrounding her last expedition, and she withdrew from the public eye after that."

Julia Strand. We had a name. It had to be her, didn't it? How many other history-loving Julias had died in the past year? And what were the "unusual circumstances"?

"Did Julia Strand have money?"

"Oh, yes, at least she used to. She spent most of it on expeditions. The rest of us have to apply for grants for every dig, but she funded everything herself. Living the dream. Why do you ask?"

"We believe our suspect is Julia's heir. We've spent days trying to find out her identity, but all we had was a first name."

Miles's jaw dropped. "Julia wouldn't have gotten involved with anything criminal."

"I doubt she realised what our suspect was planning. He has a dissociative personality disorder, but he doesn't like taking his meds. Do you know where she lived? We're trying to track down any property she might have owned."

"I'm afraid I have no idea. As I said, we had different areas of study, and we only met a handful of times. But I could make some calls?"

"Please do that."

My first call went to Emmy.

"Tell me you have good news."

"Yes, I have good news. Her name is Julia Strand."