The Collector Read online

  Erika looked over at Seven. He knew what she was thinking. The guy could be on the verge of a moment of sheer brilliance—something on the order of deciphering the Rosetta Stone.

  On the other hand…

  “Professor Murphy?” Seven did the mandatory flash of the badge. “My name is Detective Bushard. My partner, Detective Cabral, and I are here from the Westminster Police Department. It concerns a homicide.”

  He could have been talking about a new hairstyle for Malibu Barbie for all the attention the guy gave him.

  After another glance at his partner, Seven stepped forward and slapped his badge on the desk with a nice loud whack!

  Murphy stopped what he was doing, looking startled. He stared up at Seven as if seeing him there for the first time. “I’m terribly sorry. I was in the zone.”

  Looking at the guy, Seven realized he was a good ten years younger than he’d first assumed. The glasses and the receding hairline didn’t help, nor did the paunch. Apparently, the professor wasn’t the fieldwork type. Still, looks could be deceiving. According to what Erika said on the ride over, the Professor was tops in his field. How that was supposed to help with the Tran murder was still a mystery to Seven.

  “No problem.” He gave the man a smile. “But we’re on a bit of a time crunch. It concerns the death of Mimi Tran—”

  “Of course, of course.” Murphy pushed himself away from his computer and stood. He held his hand out, suddenly Mr. Amicable, giving both Seven and Erika a hardy shake. “The Vietnamese fortune-teller. I read about the murder in the papers. But how can I help you, Detectives? I understand this is a contemporary death.” He gestured over to the pots and bones on the table. “My bodies are usually hundreds, possibly thousands, of years old. Not to mention the fact that my forensic work is a bit shoddy. Not my area, really.”

  Erika showed him the photograph of the bead. “But this might be?”

  The professor’s eyes lit up like a Vegas slot machine. He practically ripped it out of Erika’s hand. He took his time examining it, at one point fumbling through his desk drawer to retrieve a magnifying glass for a better look.

  “Where did you find this?”

  It was almost an accusation.

  “I’m sorry, Professor,” Erika said, “but that’s confidential. Part of the ongoing murder investigation.” She moved in, working her magic. Not many men, whatever their age or sexual preference, could pass up her smile.

  “But judging from your reaction?” She tapped the photograph. “I’d say we came to the right place to ask about this little item.”

  Murphy looked up from his magnifying glass. “If it’s what I think it is, this would be a formidable find. Do you actually have the artifact?”

  She sat down in front of the desk, crossing her legs, getting comfortable. Seven did the same.

  “We have the object in the photograph, yes.”

  “The stone changes color.” Murphy remained standing, a sudden urgency in his voice. “Red to blue, blue to red. Nothing gradual. No murky shift into green. Just like, pow, it’s a different stone.”

  Seven glanced at Erika. “So you do recognize the piece?”

  “Oh, yes.” The professor couldn’t have looked more pleased. “Well, this is interesting.” He shook his head, almost as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “The sacred object this came from is the stuff of legends.” He nodded, almost to himself. “You have, indeed, come to the right place, Detectives. Things that aren’t supposed to exist are a bit of a specialty of mine.”

  “We’re all ears,” Seven said.

  Murphy sat down behind his desk. “Ever heard of Agamemnon’s Mask? It was found by Heinrich Schliemann, a renowned archaeologist with a special interest in Homeric Troy. He made several key finds, including Mycenae and Troy,” the professor said, not waiting for an answer. “Greece,” he added, in case that needed clarification. “He found the mask in 1876.”

  “I’ve read about it,” Erika said, surprising Seven. “It was supposed to be the burial mask of the great Greek king Agamemnon. Only it turned out to be a fake.”

  “Not a fake, no…although it is not Agamemnon’s burial mask, as Schliemann claimed.” Murphy propped his fingertips together, the image of a professor ready to lecture. “Of course, questions have been raised about its authenticity. But most in the field consider it to be a legitimate find, most likely from an older tomb. Circa 1500 B.C. While Schliemann has been accused of profound dishonesty in his archaeological reporting, no one has ever proved that he manufactured a fake or tampered with an authentic find.”

  Murphy pushed against his desk with his feet, causing his chair to roll across the wood floor to the bookshelf behind him. Despite what looked like complete disorder, he grabbed one volume from the jumble like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

  “Schliemann popularized archaeology, bringing in gobs of money. His critics, of course, suggest at too high a price. Great treasures were spirited away by the aristocracy of foreign powers to display in their gardens and museums. The Greek government is still at odds with Great Britain over the Elgin Marbles, pieces taken from the Acropolis.”

  He rolled the chair back to his desk and dropped the book in front of Erika and Seven. It was The Iliad.

  “Homer writes about a rocky place called Pytho. It’s the name given Delphi in ancient times. There you can still see the rock where the Sibyl, the prophetess of Gaia, interpreted the rumblings of Mother Earth. Apparently, the area was prone to volcanic activity.”

  “Gaia?” Erika asked. This with a sharp look to Seven.

  Seven nodded, getting a sick feeling in his gut, watching the coincidences piling on thick.

  “What exactly is this?” She again tapped on the photograph of the bead.

  “See the distinctive design inside the stone itself? Like a eye? The artifact in the photograph dates back to the time of Gaia and her Sibyl, and is inseparable from Homer’s Mycenae,” he said, picking up The Iliad, and waving it like a prop. “Mycenae is a city shrouded in myth and legend. It was the center of power during the Archaic period. According to tradition, it was founded by Perseus, the very hero who killed the Gorgon, Medusa. A Cyclops presumably built the city walls. Like most Greek history, the story of Mycenae is a cocktail of fact and fiction.”

  “Difficult to tell when myth takes over?” Erika suggested.

  “Exactly. Homer tells us of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae, hero of the Trojan War. According to myth, Agamemnon insulted the goddess Artemis, sister of Apollo, by killing one of her sacred animals. Not only plague ensued, but a disastrous lack of wind kept his army from setting sail for Troy. He later sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia, to appease the goddess, who then allowed him to avenge beautiful Helen’s abduction.”

  “Nice guy,” Seven said.

  “Don’t worry. He got his just desserts. He was killed by his wife, Clytemnestra, in his bath. Revenge for sacrificing their daughter and for taking as his mistress Cassandra, the Trojan princess and prophetess he enslaved. Although some say the curse that followed Agamemnon stemmed back to his father’s crimes. Fearing his own brother’s bid for the throne,” Murphy continued, “he killed his brother’s children and served them to the poor man for dinner.”

  “Jesus, those Greeks,” Seven said, earning a kick from Erika under the table.

  “One of the reasons the authenticity of Schliemann’s find was called into question was the discovery of the Beehive Tomb, what was believed to be Agamemnon and his father’s true burial chamber. His death mask would have been found there. The tomb itself is a fantastic piece of artistry. Shaped like a beehive, it was buried under the earth, a style originating from the Mycenae shaft tombs—although there is certainly a heavy influence from the Minoan tombs of Crete. Unfortunately, Agamemnon’s true burial chamber was found looted by grave robbers, probably in ancient times. This—” he raised the photograph “—would have been part of that treasure.”

  “You said it was part of a larger pi
ece?” Erika asked. “Something worth killing for?”

  The professor suddenly fell silent, looking uneasy.

  “Professor?”

  “I can’t say for certain—I can only postulate without examining the actual piece.”

  Erika knew exactly where he was going. “Perhaps that could be arranged. At our offices, of course, under strict supervision.”

  Murphy seemed to think about it, weighing his options. “Everything I know about this particular artifact was postulated by Professor Estelle Fegaris of Harvard, one of archaeology’s more colorful characters. Estelle herself was a bit of a Cassandra.”

  “Meaning she was a psychic?” Erika asked.

  “Goodness, yes. Her family claimed to trace its ancestry back to the original Sibyls of Gaia. She made some amazing finds, bringing tons of attention and money to the program at Harvard…until she revealed her involvement in psychic archaeology.”

  “Psychic archaeology?” Seven asked.

  “It’s quite an interesting field, actually. Not as ‘out there’ as you might expect,” Murphy explained. “There’s a pretty famous case, the Glastonbury Abbey. Frederick Bligh Bond, an architect, was hired by the Church of England to find the remains of the chapel in the early 1900s. The Church, of course, didn’t know that Bond was an occultist. He sought out the services of a friend, an automatic writer—a psychic writing while in an altered state of consciousness. Through his friend, Bond petitioned spirits associated with the Abbey to help him find the chapel ruins. During the excavation, Bond found everything exactly as the spirits had foretold.”

  “Weird,” Seven said.

  “Fascinating, actually. In many ways, archaeology is a field that requires intuition. People like Bond and Estelle Fegaris just take it to another level. But it was her connection to Dr. Morgan Tyrell and his research in parapsychology that finally did her in at Harvard.”

  “Who’s Tyrell?” Seven asked.

  “Dr. Morgan Tyrell, a maverick in the field of parapsychology. He studies psychic ability and its effect on the brain. Of course, he’s since left the university as well, ousted for his controversial methodology…as well as his love for the ladies, some rumored to be students. Very frowned upon by the Trustees.”

  “Imagine that,” Erika said.

  “Not that it hurt Morgan. He set up his own institute, privately funded. The Institute for Dynamic Studies of Parapsychology and the Brain in San Diego.”

  “So how is Estelle Fegaris connected to the artifact?” Seven asked.

  “It was basically her life’s goal to find the necklace called the Eye of Athena. This bead would have been part of that necklace,” Murphy said.

  Thinking they might be able to go to the horse’s mouth, Seven asked, “How can we get ahold of Fegaris?”

  “You can’t. She died some years ago, unfortunately. Killed, presumably, by the very underworld figures she dealt with in order to find the lost treasures of the Beehive Tomb. Although no one was ever prosecuted, there was some suspicion surrounding a student. He was subsequently cleared of all wrongdoing and sent home by the Greek authorities.”

  “So tell us about this necklace,” Erika said. “This Eye of Athena?”

  “According to Estelle, it was a necklace worn by Athena herself—an amazing object of power that was first used by the Sybil, then later, by the Oracle at Delphi. Somehow, it found its way into Agamemnon’s hands.”

  “What kind of power are we talking about here, Professor?” Erika asked.

  He looked at them both as if he was talking to someone slow-witted.

  “Why, the power to tell the future, of course.”

  “We found it in a parrot’s beak,” Erika said. “The bird was decapitated and stuffed in the victim’s mouth. Does that mean something to you?”

  Murphy shook his head. “Nothing at all.”

  The first short answer of the day, Seven thought.

  “Thank you for your time, Professor.” Erika stood and handed Murphy her card. “One of us will call to talk about the possibility of a physical inspection of the artifact.”

  “May I keep this?” he asked, holding the photograph of the bead.

  Erika paused a moment. “Of course.”

  “I look forward to your call, Detective.”

  Once outside the office, Erika and Seven walked briskly back to the car. It wasn’t until they were both inside, that Erika asked, “What do you think?”

  “A dead Vietnamese psychic and now tomb raiders?” He dropped his head back against the headrest. “The whole thing gives me a headache.”

  Erika put the car into Reverse and backed out of the parking slot. “And here I thought things were just getting interesting.”

  Back in his office, Professor Murphy flipped open his copy of The Iliad and slipped out a folded sheet of paper. He smiled, seeing that his hands actually shook.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, trying to catch his breath.

  The paper was old enough that the edges had yellowed. How many years had it been since he’d even looked at this?

  He picked up the phone, dialing the number on the sheet of paper. He had never really thought he’d have an opportunity to call this number.

  His pulse revved up the instant he heard the woman’s voice on the other end.

  “I may have something for you,” he said.

  12

  Terrence McGee stared at the tall blonde standing at his office door. To be precise, she wasn’t standing at his door, or even in his office, for that matter. Terrence didn’t have an office or a door. He had a cubical. Still, being the head honcho of the ragtag team of ten that made up the National Institute for Strategic Artifacts, NISA, Terrence had a rather nice cubical.

  NISA had a distinguished history—something along the lines of Roswell and Area 51. It was an offshoot of the famed STARGATE program, the collective name given to a group of intelligence programs initiated when the military perceived a possible “psy-gap” with the Soviet Union. Most of the research involved intelligence gathering through remote viewing, the ability to train psychics to observe or control events from great distances.

  A lot of people pooh-poohed STARGATE as one of those paranoid military programs, but Terrence, an intelligence officer with the National Security Agency at the time, had been part of an oversight committee. He’d seen firsthand the results of one remote viewer by the code name 009. The things he’d witnessed still haunted him, making him wonder if there wasn’t this whole other dimension. Could psychic powers be something akin to when quantum physics first came on the scene, with its study of subatomic particles? It was there all along, we just didn’t know it?

  The FBI guys liked to joke that NISA was their X-Files, the agency’s purpose—to find artifacts of global importance—merely a cover for their true mandate: discover legendary objects of power that could have possible military significance. The NISA officers were buried in a basement of a nondescript federal building in D.C., understaffed and underfunded. Unfortunately, in an era of international terrorism, artifacts that might or might not exist got the short end of the stick when it came to national security issues.

  The young lady waiting at the entrance was Carin Barnes. Built like a pole-vaulter, Carin stood just over six feet. She’d been part of the NISA team for more than a year now. Terrence figured she was in his office maybe twice a week with a new “find.” At the moment, dressed in a black pullover and jeans, she was bouncing up and down on her toes in what looked like black ballet flats, her body language saying it all.

  Another find….

  Terrence didn’t discourage her. Quite the opposite. Enthusiasm was a gift down here in the rabbit hole.

  The problem was it never lasted. Typically, it took a mere ten to fifteen months before a new recruit gave in to total apathy or transferred out to something that actually mattered. The Holy Grail, the Spear of Destiny, the Ark of the Covenant—these things weren’t exactly falling out of the sky. And then there were the poor schmoes who g
ot demoted into Terrence’s able hands, NISA being a kind of FBI purgatory.

  In a way, Terrence himself had been sentenced here. A well-spoken black man with a degree in linguistics, he should have gone far within the military hierarchy—if only he’d been willing to play the game.

  Terrence used to be a vital part of the NSA, the National Security Agency. Like many young black men, he’d entered the military thinking to pay for his education. He’d grown up in Oakland, California, and found solace in the local library. He’d tested high enough that the military paid to put him through the prestigious Monterey Institute. Fluent in five languages, he’d been a rising star.

  But as is often the case, the faster you rise, the bigger the target. When he ended up running afoul of a top bureaucrat, he went from a corner office with a window to the basement in a nondescript building. It wasn’t a demotion per se. Terrence was top dog at NISA. But unlike his position at the National Security Agency, there was no possibility of promotion. From here, the next step was retirement.

  The curious part about his current situation was how much happier he was locked away in his basement cubical. He recalled toasting his aborted career with a bottle of Springbank single malt when his wife had pried him out of his funk with a few choice words. Even now, he smiled, remembering he was married to a saint of a woman who had the impossible gift of looking at the glass as always half-full.

  Whenever he pointed out this cliché in her personality, she would only smile and say, “Some people are just born with the happy gene, Terry. Luckily, I gave mine to Kelly.”

  Their daughter, Kelly. Now a budding assistant professor of math at NYU.

  “You never know, Terry,” she’d said with a quick kiss. “This could be your dream job. No one to tell you what to do…?”

  Which was the point. He’d never been very good at taking orders, despite his military background. It’s what got him that basement cubicle in the first place.

  And now, with more white than black in his closely cropped hair, he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t become a bit complacent.