Read Online The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley - Free Book Online
Authors: A. J. Hartley
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Antiquities, greece, Theft from museums, Museum curators
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Keene.
"Tonya was here," said Deborah, "and a couple of our volunteers. The caterers had their own people."
"How many?"
"Three food servers, two barmen," said Deborah.
"What time did they leave?"
"Tonya left early," said Deborah. "Nine-ish, I think. She was just staying to see everything got under way properly. The volunteers were here another hour or so. The caterers left around eleven fifteen," she added. "All the guests were gone by midnight."
"And you were the last to leave?" said Keene.
"Yes."
There was a tap at the door, and Tonya poked her head around, smiling sheepishly. She had two mugs of coffee in her hands, which she raised as a request to come in. Cerniga waved her through and cleared spaces on the desk for the cups. She set them down and pushed them toward the cops. She did not meet Deborah's eyes or offer her anything. For a second Deborah considered requesting something, a full English breakfast, perhaps . . . It might be worth it just to see the look on Tonya's face.
Ah yes. Humor. Your usual hidey-hole . . . When Tonya had gone, Keene turned to Deborah and unfolded a piece of paper that looked like it had been sent by fax.
"You ever seen anything like this?" he said.
As Deborah swiveled to look at it, she caught a look on Cerniga's face, a flash of irritation and a moment of indecision. In the end he just frowned and looked quickly away, but she was sure he was angry with Keene for showing the picture. 55
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
It was a knife, she supposed, though it was long and slender like a sword, with a cruciform hilt that arced down slightly from the blade. Thrust deeply into a body, the ends of the hilt, what she thought were called quillons, would dig into the flesh on either side of the stab wound.
. . . leaving little symmetrical bruises . . . The knife in the picture was sheathed in what looked like black leather, the top and tip of the scabbard were trimmed with bright metal, and hung from a length of chain designed to suspend it at a belt. It was an elegant but lethal-looking weapon, though that wasn't all that made it remarkable. On top of the black handle was a metal disk engraved or stamped with a familiar symbol.
"Is that a swastika?" she said.
"I take it, it doesn't look familiar?" said Cerniga, turning back toward her and reaching for the fax. His face was blank.
"I've never seen anything like it," she said, frowning.
"Nothing like it in the collection?"
"No."
"The swastika isn't relevant," he added after a moment.
"It's just the shape of the weapon that we're trying to match."
It was Keene's turn to shoot his colleague a look, though Deborah wasn't sure what it contained. Puzzlement? Doubt?
Deborah opened her mouth to speak, but there was another tap on the door, brisker this time, followed by the appearance of one of the uniformed cops.
"There's a guy here to see Miss Miller," he said. "Says he's Dixon's lawyer."
Deborah stared. She didn't know any lawyer, didn't even know Richard had had one, though she supposed he must have.
"Dixon's dead," said Keene. "He don't need no damn lawyer."
There was something in his tone, something about the way he looked back to her.
"Am I a suspect?" said Deborah.
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A. J. Hartley
"Of course not," said Cerniga, cutting in. Keene looked at the floor.
"Also," said the uniform, "I've got word from the patrolmen who checked out her place. Nothing. No sign of forced entry or a search."
Keene regarded Deborah with interest.
"What?" said Deborah. "You think that means I imagined it?"
"It has been a very stressful evening for you," he said, too kindly. "But I didn't mean you imagined it, no."
He gave her a sly grin, and she felt her color rise.
"You think I made it up?" she said, baffled. "I thought I wasn't a suspect?"
"Lady," said Keene, "everyone's a suspect till someone's convicted."
"I don't think I understand," said Deborah, feeling that thickness again, that stupid slowness like she was drunk or sedated. "You
"Tonya was here," said Deborah, "and a couple of our volunteers. The caterers had their own people."
"How many?"
"Three food servers, two barmen," said Deborah.
"What time did they leave?"
"Tonya left early," said Deborah. "Nine-ish, I think. She was just staying to see everything got under way properly. The volunteers were here another hour or so. The caterers left around eleven fifteen," she added. "All the guests were gone by midnight."
"And you were the last to leave?" said Keene.
"Yes."
There was a tap at the door, and Tonya poked her head around, smiling sheepishly. She had two mugs of coffee in her hands, which she raised as a request to come in. Cerniga waved her through and cleared spaces on the desk for the cups. She set them down and pushed them toward the cops. She did not meet Deborah's eyes or offer her anything. For a second Deborah considered requesting something, a full English breakfast, perhaps . . . It might be worth it just to see the look on Tonya's face.
Ah yes. Humor. Your usual hidey-hole . . . When Tonya had gone, Keene turned to Deborah and unfolded a piece of paper that looked like it had been sent by fax.
"You ever seen anything like this?" he said.
As Deborah swiveled to look at it, she caught a look on Cerniga's face, a flash of irritation and a moment of indecision. In the end he just frowned and looked quickly away, but she was sure he was angry with Keene for showing the picture. 55
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
It was a knife, she supposed, though it was long and slender like a sword, with a cruciform hilt that arced down slightly from the blade. Thrust deeply into a body, the ends of the hilt, what she thought were called quillons, would dig into the flesh on either side of the stab wound.
. . . leaving little symmetrical bruises . . . The knife in the picture was sheathed in what looked like black leather, the top and tip of the scabbard were trimmed with bright metal, and hung from a length of chain designed to suspend it at a belt. It was an elegant but lethal-looking weapon, though that wasn't all that made it remarkable. On top of the black handle was a metal disk engraved or stamped with a familiar symbol.
"Is that a swastika?" she said.
"I take it, it doesn't look familiar?" said Cerniga, turning back toward her and reaching for the fax. His face was blank.
"I've never seen anything like it," she said, frowning.
"Nothing like it in the collection?"
"No."
"The swastika isn't relevant," he added after a moment.
"It's just the shape of the weapon that we're trying to match."
It was Keene's turn to shoot his colleague a look, though Deborah wasn't sure what it contained. Puzzlement? Doubt?
Deborah opened her mouth to speak, but there was another tap on the door, brisker this time, followed by the appearance of one of the uniformed cops.
"There's a guy here to see Miss Miller," he said. "Says he's Dixon's lawyer."
Deborah stared. She didn't know any lawyer, didn't even know Richard had had one, though she supposed he must have.
"Dixon's dead," said Keene. "He don't need no damn lawyer."
There was something in his tone, something about the way he looked back to her.
"Am I a suspect?" said Deborah.
56
A. J. Hartley
"Of course not," said Cerniga, cutting in. Keene looked at the floor.
"Also," said the uniform, "I've got word from the patrolmen who checked out her place. Nothing. No sign of forced entry or a search."
Keene regarded Deborah with interest.
"What?" said Deborah. "You think that means I imagined it?"
"It has been a very stressful evening for you," he said, too kindly. "But I didn't mean you imagined it, no."
He gave her a sly grin, and she felt her color rise.
"You think I made it up?" she said, baffled. "I thought I wasn't a suspect?"
"Lady," said Keene, "everyone's a suspect till someone's convicted."
"I don't think I understand," said Deborah, feeling that thickness again, that stupid slowness like she was drunk or sedated. "You
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