Read Online The Keepsake: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
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hundred years. My plan was to go through these crates systematically and document everything.” He paused. “But then I discovered Madam X and the inventory came to a halt. Otherwise, we’d be further along by now.”
“Where did you find her crate?” asked Jane. “Which section?”
“Down this row, back against the wall.” He pointed to the far end of the storage area. “She was at the bottom of the stack.”
“You looked in the crates that were on top of hers?”
“Yes. They contained items acquired during the 1910s. Artifacts from the Ottoman Empire, plus a few Chinese scrolls and pottery.”
“The 1910s?” Jane thought of the mummy’s perfect dentition, the amalgam filling in her tooth. “Madam X was almost certainly more recent than that.”
“Then how did she end up underneath older crates?” asked Detective Crowe.
“Obviously someone rearranged things in here,” said Jane. “It would have made her less accessible.”
As Jane gazed around the cavernous space, she thought of the mausoleum in which her grandmother had been interred, a marble palace where every wall was etched with the names of those who rested within the crypts.
Is this what I’m looking at now? A mausoleum packed with nameless victims?
She walked toward the far end of the basement, where Madam X had been found. Two lightbulbs overhead had burned out in this area, throwing the corner into shadow.
“Let’s start our search here,” she said.
Together Frost and Crowe pulled the top crate off the stack and lowered it to the floor. On the lid was scrawled: MISCELLANEOUS. CONGO. Frost used a crowbar to pry up the lid, and at his first glimpse of what lay inside, he flinched back, bumping against Jane.
“What is it?” she asked.
Darren Crowe suddenly laughed. Reaching into the crate, he pulled out a wooden mask and held it over his face. “Boo!”
“Be careful with that!” said Robinson. “It’s valuable.”
“It’s also creepy as hell,” murmured Frost, staring at the mask’s grotesque features carved into wood.
Crowe set the mask aside and pulled out one of the crumpled newspapers used to cushion the crate’s contents. “London
Times,
1930. I’d say this crate predates our perp.”
“I really must protest,” said Robinson. “You’re touching things—contaminating things. You should all be wearing gloves.”
“Maybe you should wait outside, Dr. Robinson,” said Jane.
“No, I won’t. The safety of this collection is my responsibility.”
She turned to confront him. Mild-mannered though he appeared, he stubbornly stood his ground as she advanced, his eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. Outside this museum, if confronted by a police officer, Nicholas Robinson would probably respond deferentially. But here on his own territory, in defense of his precious collection, he appeared fully prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat.
“You’re rampaging through here like wild cattle,” he said.
“What makes you think there are more bodies down here? What kind of people do you think work in museums?”
“I don’t know, Dr. Robinson. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Then ask
me.
Talk to
me,
instead of tearing apart crates. I know this museum. I know the people who’ve worked here.”
“You’ve been curator here for only three years,” said Jane.
“I also worked here as a summer intern when I was in college. I knew Dr. Scott-Kerr, and he was utterly harmless.” He glared at Crowe, who had just fished a vase out of the open crate. “Hey! That’s at least four hundred years old! Treat it with respect!”
“Maybe it’s time for you and me to step outside,” said Jane.
“We need to talk.”
He shot a worried glance at the three detectives, who had started opening another crate. He reluctantly followed her out of the basement and up the stairs to the first-floor gallery. They stood by the Egyptian exhibit, its faux tomb entrance looming above them.
“Exactly when were
“Where did you find her crate?” asked Jane. “Which section?”
“Down this row, back against the wall.” He pointed to the far end of the storage area. “She was at the bottom of the stack.”
“You looked in the crates that were on top of hers?”
“Yes. They contained items acquired during the 1910s. Artifacts from the Ottoman Empire, plus a few Chinese scrolls and pottery.”
“The 1910s?” Jane thought of the mummy’s perfect dentition, the amalgam filling in her tooth. “Madam X was almost certainly more recent than that.”
“Then how did she end up underneath older crates?” asked Detective Crowe.
“Obviously someone rearranged things in here,” said Jane. “It would have made her less accessible.”
As Jane gazed around the cavernous space, she thought of the mausoleum in which her grandmother had been interred, a marble palace where every wall was etched with the names of those who rested within the crypts.
Is this what I’m looking at now? A mausoleum packed with nameless victims?
She walked toward the far end of the basement, where Madam X had been found. Two lightbulbs overhead had burned out in this area, throwing the corner into shadow.
“Let’s start our search here,” she said.
Together Frost and Crowe pulled the top crate off the stack and lowered it to the floor. On the lid was scrawled: MISCELLANEOUS. CONGO. Frost used a crowbar to pry up the lid, and at his first glimpse of what lay inside, he flinched back, bumping against Jane.
“What is it?” she asked.
Darren Crowe suddenly laughed. Reaching into the crate, he pulled out a wooden mask and held it over his face. “Boo!”
“Be careful with that!” said Robinson. “It’s valuable.”
“It’s also creepy as hell,” murmured Frost, staring at the mask’s grotesque features carved into wood.
Crowe set the mask aside and pulled out one of the crumpled newspapers used to cushion the crate’s contents. “London
Times,
1930. I’d say this crate predates our perp.”
“I really must protest,” said Robinson. “You’re touching things—contaminating things. You should all be wearing gloves.”
“Maybe you should wait outside, Dr. Robinson,” said Jane.
“No, I won’t. The safety of this collection is my responsibility.”
She turned to confront him. Mild-mannered though he appeared, he stubbornly stood his ground as she advanced, his eyes blinking furiously behind his glasses. Outside this museum, if confronted by a police officer, Nicholas Robinson would probably respond deferentially. But here on his own territory, in defense of his precious collection, he appeared fully prepared to engage in hand-to-hand combat.
“You’re rampaging through here like wild cattle,” he said.
“What makes you think there are more bodies down here? What kind of people do you think work in museums?”
“I don’t know, Dr. Robinson. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Then ask
me.
Talk to
me,
instead of tearing apart crates. I know this museum. I know the people who’ve worked here.”
“You’ve been curator here for only three years,” said Jane.
“I also worked here as a summer intern when I was in college. I knew Dr. Scott-Kerr, and he was utterly harmless.” He glared at Crowe, who had just fished a vase out of the open crate. “Hey! That’s at least four hundred years old! Treat it with respect!”
“Maybe it’s time for you and me to step outside,” said Jane.
“We need to talk.”
He shot a worried glance at the three detectives, who had started opening another crate. He reluctantly followed her out of the basement and up the stairs to the first-floor gallery. They stood by the Egyptian exhibit, its faux tomb entrance looming above them.
“Exactly when were
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