Heart Wounds (A Miranda and Parker Mystery) Page 4

  The party moved upstairs and reluctantly Sir Neville led them to a hidden elevator that went to the apartments on the third floor where some of the staff lived.

  George Eames’ rooms were a cramped little space with a tiny kitchen and bedroom. The rectangular-shaped living room had a small window overlooking a park, and its walls were crammed with musty old books on archaeology and ancient history.

  The inspector paced up and down the narrow space while Miranda and Parker looked it all over. “We’ve already gone through everything thoroughly, Mr. Parker.”

  Parker pulled a book from the shelf and examined it. “And did you find the dagger?”

  “Not a trace of it, sir,” said Officer Tadsworth.

  Miranda heard Wample wheeze out an exasperated breath. “He lived here alone?”

  “Why, yes,” Sir Neville said. “He never married. His mother lives in Devonshire. He goes to visit her on the weekend. Oh, dear. She’s going to be devastated.”

  Feeling sorry for both of them, she strolled over to the desk in the corner. Its surface was crowded with papers, pens, periodicals, open books. George Eames might not be neat but he was definitely studious.

  “George was working on the Battle of Actium. It was to be our next exhibit.”

  Must be what the chicken scratches on the notepads were. “Did you find any mysterious letters or notes about the dagger? A telegram? A diary?”

  This time the inspector replied. “No, nothing of the kind.”

  Didn’t sound like they had much of a case.

  Parker turned to another shelf where there was a photograph. He studied it. “Who’s this?”

  Miranda came over and gave it a look. Four young men stood in front of an old church dressed in—what was that, cricket uniforms? They all were grinning and had their arms around each other like the best of chums.

  Sir Neville peered over Parker’s shoulder. “Oh, that photo’s from Cambridge. The four of us all went to school together. We were good friends.” He pointed to the two figures on the left. “That’s George and myself. We, of course, were mad for archaeology.” He moved to the next young man, the tallest one. A sturdy, broad-shouldered fellow with dark hair and features. “That’s Trenton Jewell. He went on to be a barrister. He practices here in London.” He pointed to the last figure, a slight fellow with a hairline that was already receding. “That’s Cedric Swift. He’s on the faculty now. Teaches computers.” He smiled sadly. “Can you imagine? Back then we were inseparable, but now we’ve gone our separate ways.”

  “Except for you and Mr. Eames,” Parker pointed out.

  “Yes. Though I do see Trenton occasionally at social events. George was considering the academic life and did teach for a while. About ten years ago he came to me and said he wanted to work for the museum, so of course I hired him. He was eminently qualified.”

  “I see.” Parker put the photograph back on the shelf.

  His face was bland but Miranda could tell what he was thinking. The same thing she was. Could the motive behind the theft of the dagger have been professional jealousy?

  Parker turned to Inspector Wample. “We’d like to see where the dagger was received.”

  Back down the hall to the elevator the entourage went, Sir Neville at the lead. Then back across several rooms on the main floor to another elevator, down into a dungeon-like hall below the building.

  At the end of the hall stood aluminum double doors. Sir Neville punched numbers into a pad on the wall to disengage the security system and opened the doors.

  Inside, it was nothing like a dungeon. Bright with fluorescent overhead lighting, the huge space was almost friendly. Roomy tables and stools. Rows and rows of shelving units holding various shaped crates. Rows and rows of long drawers full of objects of antiquity, so Miranda supposed.

  It was cool and the dampness she’d felt everywhere else in the building was gone. A unit hummed in the background. Probably responsible for environmental control. Still, the faint smell of ancient things hung in the air.

  Sir Neville gestured to a small cart that stood about waist high. It was covered with a black velvet cloth and a narrow crate sat atop it. “That’s where the dagger was supposed to have been.”

  “It was delivered in that crate?” Miranda asked.

  “Yes. George received delivery at 17:55 two nights ago.” He strode over to a countertop where a computer screen sat and pressed a few buttons on the keyboard. “There. See for yourselves.”

  Miranda went over for a look with Parker beside her. They bent together to examine the data on the screen. “Looks like the barcode was scanned at the time you said, Sir Neville.”

  “Yes, of course it was.”

  Miranda ran her tongue over her teeth and thought a moment. “Any chance there was a breach in security in the delivery? Before the truck got here?”

  Sir Neville’s eyes grew round. “Certainly not. We’ve been using that company for years and have never once had an incident.”

  There’s always a first time. But she decided it was better not to voice her thought just now.

  Parker put his hands in his pockets and began to stroll around the room, giving it a once over, with a nonchalance Miranda knew was driving the cops nuts. She loved watching him twist the guts of people who took the easy way out of solving a crime.

  He turned back to the cart and studied it a moment. Then he reached into the front pocket of his jacket and drew out a small thin rod. He clicked the end of it and a beam appeared.

  Flashlight. How’d he get that through the airport? Miranda wondered.

  “We’ve printed everything already,” Wample said. That was obvious from the gray powder splotches everywhere. “Except the things that will be bagged and taken to the lab.”

  Parker bent down alongside the cart and lifted the black velvet to peer inside. Miranda joined him. Stainless steel, two wire shelves, wheels. Nothing on the shelves but more fingerprinting dust.

  Parker rose again and ran his flashlight over some of the crates on the shelving units along the walls.

  Wample danced fitfully from foot to foot. “Honestly, Mr. Parker. There’s nothing more you can do here. What on earth do you expect to find?”

  “Now I can’t tell you that until I find it, can I?”

  Miranda couldn’t resist grinning at the inspector. The truth was, as an ace investigator, Parker had found a lot of things the police had missed. And she had uncovered a few items herself, for that matter.

  “In my ’umble opinion, we should call it a day and all go ’ome.” The opinion came from the short, rotund Assistant Chief Officer Ives. It was the first words he’d spoken since they’d met and he sounded like a Cockney frog. A very tired Cockney frog.

  Miranda could empathize with him on that score. She’d hardly had any sleep and was battling a case of jet lag. But nothing energized her more than an unsolved case. Apparently even if there wasn’t a murder involved.

  Parker ambled around a little more, then looked up at the ceiling. “No security camera here.”

  “We use motion sensors in the storeroom itself,” Sir Neville explained.

  “Hmm.” He focused on a spot just over the cart. “Now that’s interesting.”

  Miranda followed his gaze. A large ceiling vent was suspended right above the crate. Someone with the right knowhow could climb onto the roof, crawl through the duct work, loosen the vent and…what? Shimmy down a rope to get the goods?

  “You say there are motion sensors when the system’s on?” Parker asked.

  “Yes, most assuredly.” Sir Neville gestured, drawing lines in the air. “They crisscross every meter. It was quite an expense but one we felt was necessary. Now it doesn’t seem as if it was enough. Perhaps we should have installed more cameras.”

  Cameras or not, with all those laser beams ready to sound an alarm at the slightest touch, getting in here would have been pretty tricky to pull off. You’d have to be a professional.

  Parker ran his beam along the l
ower portion of the shelves, then along the floor under the units. The light fell on empty flooring, and Miranda was about to agree with Ives when she saw a flash.

  “There.”

  Parker stopped. “Where?”

  “Right there.” She pointed. He was at a different angle and hadn’t seen it. She crouched down, got on her knees and peered under the two inches beneath the lowest shelf. “There’s something down there.”

  “Indeed there is.” Parker was right beside her. He switched his light to the other hand, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and reached underneath.

  “You should let us handle the evidence, Mr. Parker.” The inspector really sounded annoyed.

  Ignoring him, Parker rose again with the treasure in his hand. He held it out for examination.

  “What is it?” Ives wanted to know.

  “Looks like a button,” Miranda said. It was a round, silver bead, engraved with a cross and rose.

  Sir Neville came over to study it. “Why, that’s from the staff uniform. Someone must have lost it.”

  Wample reached out and took the handkerchief right out of Parker’s hand. “We’ll take that now. It’ll go into evidence.” Parker could have stopped him, of course, but he was going to turn it over anyway.

  “Evidence?” Sir Neville said, his blue eyes round. “Just because someone lost a button? What are you going to do, Inspector? Arrest my entire staff?”

  “Now, calm down, sir. It’s been a long day. This is just routine. I’m sure it’s nothing.” Wample shot Parker a nasty glance. “All right, Mr. Parker, Ms. Steele. I’m calling a halt to your ‘investigation’ here. It’s time for us to get back to the station.”

  “Excellent,” Parker grinned. “We’re finished here. And next we’d like to speak to your suspect, so that’s just where we’ll be heading.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Neville offered his car for transportation, complete with chauffeur, and they all piled into the nicely upholstered back seat.

  Parker eyed Miranda carefully as they took off. Since her injuries last fall, he’d vowed he would ensure his wife was well taken care of and here she was going on little sleep after a long flight. And she hadn’t eaten.

  “Would you prefer to go back to the hotel? You must be exhausted.” He spoke softly, knowing it was a sensitive point she wouldn’t want shared with strangers. But Sir Neville was staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts.

  Slowly she turned her head to him. Her lip started to curl in her tigress snarl that amused, aroused, and irritated him all at the same time. Then she thought better of it and simply shook her head. She stared past the driver and through the windshield.

  It wasn’t as if he had expected her to say yes. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  Her head snapped back, her eyes flashing a “lay off, buster” warning.

  “Never mind,” he murmured and stared out his own window. Apparently he was still having trouble finding the delicate balance between business partner and husband, he thought with irritation. Perhaps he never would.

  Gritting her teeth, Miranda focused on the sound of the second set of windshield wipers she’d watched today as they swept away the rain that had started up again. How could Parker even think of dropping her off at the hotel while he went on to question the first suspect? How could he cut her out like that?

  She drew in a breath, fighting with her temper. Okay, he had a point. She was tired. And hungry. And irritable. But so was he, although he didn’t show it. She could see the weariness in his eyes. Yet he was determined to help his friend. She respected that. Why couldn’t he respect the same determination in her?

  Well, he did. He’d told her often enough how much he thought of her talents, her dedication. He was just looking out for her the way he had ever since she’d met him. She guessed she should be glad she had a man who cared if she ate or not. Leon wouldn’t have cared if she’d had to eat dog food off the floor.

  Okay, maybe she was being a bitch. She reached over and squeezed Parker’s hand. “Maybe we can find a vending machine or something at the station.”

  He turned and studied her, both surprise and suspicion in his expression. At last, all he said was, “Good idea.”

  They zigzagged through the traffic, went through a roundabout, then onto a street called Whitehall, until they reached a tall glass building with a revolving sign labeled New Scotland Yard.

  The driver dropped them off at the front and they hurried through the glass doors into a labyrinth of halls and offices and reception desks.

  Currier and Ives, or rather Wample and Ives, were nowhere to be found. They managed to find a vending machine, and Miranda wolfed down some peanut butter chocolate thing that was supposed to be a candy bar but tasted like bland mud.

  Then they moved on to the next reception desk. And the next. And the next.

  After turning up the charm full blast and jumping though more hoops than a circus tiger, Parker finally got them in to see George Eames.

  A constable led them down a set of elevators, which they called “lifts,” descending into the lower bowels of the building where you could almost feel the weight of the massive structure pressing down on you, about to cut off your air.

  They were ushered into a dank little room and had to wait almost half an hour before the suspect was brought in.

  Miranda instantly recognized the figure in the photo she’d seen in his rooms, though he had aged several decades.

  George Eames was a large man. Taller than Sir Neville and huskier, older looking, too, with a belly that was round and somehow gave him a friendly but distinguished air. Miranda thought of the photo in his rooms. He might have been athletic once. Might have been a football player in his day. Or maybe rugby over here. But today, like Sir Neville, he looked broken and beaten and was still in the suit he must have put on yesterday. It was as rumpled as his worn face.

  And yet he broke out in a smile as soon as he caught sight of his friend. “Neville. You came at last.”

  “Of course, I did.”

  The two men embraced each other in a hug that seemed to light up the dreary room with the warmth of their longtime friendship. And then Sir Neville introduced Miranda and Parker and there was more handshaking.

  “How have they been treating you?” Sir Neville wanted to know as soon as everyone was settled around the tiny table and perched on rickety wooden chairs.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose, given they think I stole the dagger.”

  Miranda was silent, studying the man’s pear-shaped face with its heavy jowls sagging with sorrow. The emotion seemed genuine but maybe he was just sorry he got caught.

  He closed his large eyes and shook his head. “I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.”

  “I know. This is dreadful, George. Simply dreadful,” Sir Neville crooned.

  “But how are you holding up, old friend? How’s Davinia?”

  Sir Neville patted his hand. “We’re doing just that, George. Holding up. But it’s you I’m concerned for.”

  Miranda popped out of her chair, its legs scratching against the concrete floor as she pushed it back. It was too crowded around the table and she preferred standing when she interrogated people.

  She decided to cut to the chase and save Parker the distress of starting the uncomfortable questions. “Mr. Eames, why do the police suspect you?”

  He spread his large hands over the table, the corners of his wide mouth turning down. “Because I was the last one in the storeroom, m’um. I checked in the crate when it arrived. I set the alarms. Guess it’s reasonable to think I could have done it. But why would I do such a thing? The museum is my life. And I’d never betray Neville.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.” Parker gave him a comforting smile, but Miranda knew he was faking it. He wasn’t any more sure this man was innocent than she was. “Can you remember anything unusual you saw, Mr. Eames?” Parker asked. “Anything suspicious?”

  The collections manag
er’s thick, curly brown brows furrowed as he tried to think back. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. As I said, I had a late dinner in my rooms. The lorry came around ten o’clock. I received the package, set all the alarms—”

  “Wait.” Parker held up a hand. “Did you check what was in the crate?”

  Eames gave a Sir Neville an unsure look.

  “Go on, George. Tell them.”

  The man nodded. “It’s routine, you see. The crate has a metal brace on all four corners. They’re easy to loosen with a hammer or a crowbar, and then reuse.”

  Miranda folded her arms and resisted the urge to tap her foot. “And so?”

  “And so that’s what I did. I opened the crate to ensure what was delivered.”

  “And what did you find?”

  Eames swallowed and pulled at the neck of his shirt as if he wished he had a glass of water. “The dagger was there. It was encased in packing peanuts and bubble wrap. I saw it. I…touched it. With my own two hands.” He stared down at the table and the cramped little space became as quiet as a tomb.

  Parker broke the silence. “Did you open the bubble wrap?” It was a trick question. Designed to see if the suspect had to think before replying.

  But Eames answered without hesitation. “Oh, no, sir. I meant I could see it through the bubble wrap. That’s as far as I went.”

  Miranda strolled to the corner. Might as well ask the inevitable. “What happened then?”

  “Then? Why, I put the packing peanuts I had removed back, replaced the braces on the crate, and set the alarms as I said. I double-checked them, as I do every night, then went out for a walk.”

  “A walk?” Miranda kept her expression bland to hide her suspicion.

  “It’s my habit.” He closed his eyes wearily. “The inspector told me they have me on video leaving the building. Of course, they do. It’s one of our own cameras.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “Round to Princess Louise and back.”

  “It’s a pub in the vicinity,” Sir Neville explained.

  “It’s my exercise. My habit. There would be a video of me leaving the building about that time every night.”