Read Online The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley - Free Book Online Page B
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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on Mr. Dixon?" said Bowers, still on the offensive.
"Not yet," said Cerniga. He was catching some of his colleague's surliness now. "We think it might be a burglary gone wrong but . . ." He faltered.
"Yes?" said Bowers, reeling him in.
"We don't know if there is anything missing."
"This, no doubt, has been the subject of your questioning of Miss Miller," said Bowers. "Presumably she has been going through the museum properties to determine if anything is unaccounted for."
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T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
"We haven't got to that yet, sir," said Cerniga. Bowers couldn't suppress the hint of a smile. Was it that
"sir" or just the ease with which he had pulled the rug out from under Cerniga's feet?
He turned to her, smiling.
"Miss Miller, might you have a complete inventory of the museum's contents?" he said. "It might aid the police in their inquiries and give them something other than you to scrutinize."
The two cops sat quite still as Deborah rose and unlocked a filing cabinet.
CHAPTER 13
Deborah sat with Calvin Bowers in the museum lobby, which now glowed with incongruous morning sunshine. Richard was dead, but the sun still shone. It was the way of things, she supposed, but it felt wrong, and she hated it. There was a uniformed officer standing by the locked front door, but the detectives were still in the office. Bowers, out of the police presence, was a different person: relaxed, open faced, amiably handsome. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, casual in the way a big cat is casual, elegant but poised for action. She didn't feel like making conversation, and his easy good looks made her awkward and unsure of herself, but he had helped her out, and it seemed churlish to just sit there.
"How long have you worked for Richard?" she asked.
"Less than a year. He has done business with our firm for a lot longer than that, of course. Since he bought this place, I think. But I only got involved a few months ago when he sent some paperwork our way. We spoke on the phone a few times and exchanged legal correspondence, but we'd never actually met."
Deborah was impressed. His righteous outrage in the office a few minutes ago had led her--and the police--to assume that Bowers was an old friend of Richard's, that he was personally affronted by the crime and its subsequent handling. But all that had been professional bluster to keep them off balance. His interest in the case was strictly professional.
"I can't believe he's gone," said Deborah. As soon as the words were out there in the sun, she regretted saying them, especially to this stranger. "Sorry," she added hastily. "That 61
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
was such a cliche. It doesn't begin to . . . God, there's so much work to be done."
Bowers rolled with her change of tack as if he hadn't noticed it.
"There are people who can help shoulder the burden, aren't there?" he said. "The museum board? I would be glad to help out. My relationship with Mr. Dixon was brief, but the firm's goes back a long way and is tied to the value of the property itself, so I'm sure they'll be glad to lend my aid."
Lend my aid. He sounded like a knight offering chivalric services to a damsel in distress.
"I can handle things here," she said with a touch of hauteur. It was a reflex. She didn't even know that she could handle things.
"I don't doubt it," he said, smiling so that she relented a little.
"Sorry," she said. "I'm not used to . . ."
. . . being anything other than utterly self-reliant?
". . . being looked after," she said. "Richard gave me free rein . . ."
She caught herself, sensing a tightening in her throat. She smiled and shrugged it off unconvincingly. He just nodded his sympathy, and for a moment she looked out over the lobby she and Richard had assembled piece by painstakingly selected piece . . .
"So you're an archaeologist," he said, peering at the Creek Indian exhibit critically.
"Not really," said Deborah. "I'm a museum director. That's what
"Not yet," said Cerniga. He was catching some of his colleague's surliness now. "We think it might be a burglary gone wrong but . . ." He faltered.
"Yes?" said Bowers, reeling him in.
"We don't know if there is anything missing."
"This, no doubt, has been the subject of your questioning of Miss Miller," said Bowers. "Presumably she has been going through the museum properties to determine if anything is unaccounted for."
59
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
"We haven't got to that yet, sir," said Cerniga. Bowers couldn't suppress the hint of a smile. Was it that
"sir" or just the ease with which he had pulled the rug out from under Cerniga's feet?
He turned to her, smiling.
"Miss Miller, might you have a complete inventory of the museum's contents?" he said. "It might aid the police in their inquiries and give them something other than you to scrutinize."
The two cops sat quite still as Deborah rose and unlocked a filing cabinet.
CHAPTER 13
Deborah sat with Calvin Bowers in the museum lobby, which now glowed with incongruous morning sunshine. Richard was dead, but the sun still shone. It was the way of things, she supposed, but it felt wrong, and she hated it. There was a uniformed officer standing by the locked front door, but the detectives were still in the office. Bowers, out of the police presence, was a different person: relaxed, open faced, amiably handsome. He sat with his legs stretched out in front of him, casual in the way a big cat is casual, elegant but poised for action. She didn't feel like making conversation, and his easy good looks made her awkward and unsure of herself, but he had helped her out, and it seemed churlish to just sit there.
"How long have you worked for Richard?" she asked.
"Less than a year. He has done business with our firm for a lot longer than that, of course. Since he bought this place, I think. But I only got involved a few months ago when he sent some paperwork our way. We spoke on the phone a few times and exchanged legal correspondence, but we'd never actually met."
Deborah was impressed. His righteous outrage in the office a few minutes ago had led her--and the police--to assume that Bowers was an old friend of Richard's, that he was personally affronted by the crime and its subsequent handling. But all that had been professional bluster to keep them off balance. His interest in the case was strictly professional.
"I can't believe he's gone," said Deborah. As soon as the words were out there in the sun, she regretted saying them, especially to this stranger. "Sorry," she added hastily. "That 61
T h e M a s k o f A t r e u s
was such a cliche. It doesn't begin to . . . God, there's so much work to be done."
Bowers rolled with her change of tack as if he hadn't noticed it.
"There are people who can help shoulder the burden, aren't there?" he said. "The museum board? I would be glad to help out. My relationship with Mr. Dixon was brief, but the firm's goes back a long way and is tied to the value of the property itself, so I'm sure they'll be glad to lend my aid."
Lend my aid. He sounded like a knight offering chivalric services to a damsel in distress.
"I can handle things here," she said with a touch of hauteur. It was a reflex. She didn't even know that she could handle things.
"I don't doubt it," he said, smiling so that she relented a little.
"Sorry," she said. "I'm not used to . . ."
. . . being anything other than utterly self-reliant?
". . . being looked after," she said. "Richard gave me free rein . . ."
She caught herself, sensing a tightening in her throat. She smiled and shrugged it off unconvincingly. He just nodded his sympathy, and for a moment she looked out over the lobby she and Richard had assembled piece by painstakingly selected piece . . .
"So you're an archaeologist," he said, peering at the Creek Indian exhibit critically.
"Not really," said Deborah. "I'm a museum director. That's what
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