The Mask of Atreus by A. J. Hartley Read Free Book Online Page B

hoping you could answer a few questions."
    She nodded, mute. The bedroom was as she had left it, the hidden alcove behind the bookcase still open, its walls glowing with their strange treasures. Only the corpse was gone. The space on the floor where Richard's body had been was stained a dark and telling crimson in the curiously focused lights that shone down, forming a rectangle around that very spot. The entire alcove had been marked off with crime scene tape. Deborah felt like she was seeing it all through someone 44
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    else's eyes, or that she was experiencing some strange waking dream where the world seemed skewed and unreal.
    "Would you happen to know if the museum contains any ceremonial weapons?"
    Cerniga's voice brought her back to the moment. She blinked.
    "Ceremonial?" she said, momentarily baffled. "There's a tomahawk in one of the cases downstairs . . ."
    "No," he said. "I mean a weapon with a slim blade, like a dagger or a sword."
    She stood there for a second, her mouth slightly open, as she realized what he was talking about, then flushed.
    "Right," she said. "Of course. No. There's nothing like that here. Sorry."
    She didn't know why she said sorry . She could tell her hand was shaking slightly. Cerniga was checking his notes.
    "Rough night for old guys in the ATL," said the cop who had called himself Keene. He flashed a hard grin at Cerniga.
    "I'm sorry?" said Deborah.
    "Second homicide tonight," said Keene, shrugging. "The other was, like, a block away. Another old guy."
    He said it like he was commenting on a sandwich.
    "Are they connected?" said Deborah, still bemused as much by his glibness as by what he was saying.
    "Nah," he said. "Totally different MO."
    "You told the officer outside that you had never seen this room behind the bookcase before, is that right?" said Cerniga, looking up from his book.
    "Yes," said Deborah.
    "You just stumbled on it tonight," said Keene, "by chance?"
    There was something in his eyes she didn't like, something cocky and suspicious.
    "Not by chance," she said. "I had been looking for Richard--Mr. Dixon--and came in here. I picked up this piece of pottery, and I saw a trace of oil at the foot of the bookcase . . ."
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    She held out the fragment of ceramic she had been nursing absently since the whole nightmare had started, and caught herself as the two detectives stared.
    "Sorry," she said, feeling yet again like she had done something amazingly idiotic. "I should have given it to the first policeman who arrived. Or left it where it was maybe . . ."
    "Ya think?" said Keene with heavy sarcasm.
    "Where did you pick that up?" said Cerniga. He looked irritated.
    Deborah pointed.
    "Great!" Keene snarled. "So the crime scene is contaminated!"
    "What is it?" said Cerniga, brushing his colleague's indignation aside.
    "I'm sorry?" said Deborah.
    "The piece of pottery," he replied. "What is it?"
    "A fragment of a vase or pot," she said, turning away from Keene. "It looks old, but it could be fake. Maybe Greek. Mycenaean."
    "Greek?" said Cerniga. He sounded . . . what? Impressed?
    Intrigued? Something.
    "Where's the rest of it?" said Keene.
    "Over there. I think."
    She pointed into the corner of the room where the other fragments lay scattered.
    "Is it worth anything?" said Cerniga.
    "Depends whether it's real," Deborah answered. "Old, I mean. If it's fake, it's worthless. If it's real . . . different story."
    "Even though it would have to be stuck back together?"
    said Cerniga.
    "Everything this old has to be stuck back together. So long as it's done properly, it would still be valuable."
    "How much?" said Keene, cutting in like a dance partner in hobnail boots.
    "I really don't know."
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    "Take a shot."
    "I'd need to see it assembled. It would depend on the shape and size--"
    "I said 'take a shot.' What is this, the freaking Antiques Roadshow ?"
    "Thousands," she said, shrugging. "Tens of thousands. Maybe more."
    "For this?"