For a man who had just confessed to and been arrested for murder, Haddon Gould didn't look in the least bit guilty, or self-righteous, or worried about the consequences. In fact, if anything, he looked like he'd just been paid a great compliment and was trying very hard not to show how pleased he was.
Sam couldn't work out whether Gould was a cold-hearted bastard, a sociopath or just plain mad. She watched him run his hand through his blonde hair and adjust the collar of his shirt. There was no nervous tension in either gesture; the man was simply making sure he was presentable.
In Sam's experience most people, even witnesses and certainly suspects - whether guilty or not - displayed a discernible and understandable amount of fear, trepidation or bravado when facing two Homicide detectives across an official interview table. But not Haddon Gould.
There is something seriously wrong with this picture, Sam thought. She pressed the pause button and rewound the interview tape. If Gould was a murderer, he was the strangest one Sam had ever come across. He hadn't given even the slightest hint of an 'uh-oh I've been sprung, I'd better come clean'. He had simply and calmly admitted to the murder of Professor Marsden.
"So, now what do you think?" Rigby asked from the doorway.
Sam pressed the pause button again. "I think you'll be laughed out of court, if it gets that far."
"What's with you Sam? The man confessed."
Sam shrugged. "I think he was improvising," she said, pressing the play button.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"He didn't tell you anything, Jack. He just agreed with you," Sam said. "You watch his face."
"You really think I murdered Lloyd, don't you?" Gould gave a fascinated smile, as if the fact that the police seriously regarded him as a suspect was an idea that appealed to him. He shifted slightly in his seat and then lifted his shoulders. "Okay, I admit I did strike Lloyd."
"You hit him in the face?" Rigby asked, obviously taken aback by the sudden admission.
"Yes, I hit him in the face."
"And in the throat?" Rigby prompted.
"Probably," Gould said. "Heat of the moment, you know, I don't remember the specifics."
"But the poison wasn't heat of the moment, was it?"
"The poison," Gould repeated. He blinked several times but otherwise did not move a muscle. "The poison was poetic justice," he said and smiled. "I think I would like a lawyer now please."
"It still sounds like a confession to me, Sam," Rigby stated.
"Jack, prior to this part of the interview you did not mention that Marsden had been struck or poisoned. Now, most people - not that I think Gould fits into that category at all - but most people would say 'yes I hit him, or I slapped or punched him' but Gould used my words from our initial interview. I asked him, and I quote, 'did you strike the Professor?' Can you see what I'm getting at here, Jack?"
"No, Sam, I can't."
"You fed him the lines, Jack. You said 'you hit him in the face', he agreed; you said 'and in the throat', he agreed. But when you mentioned the poison, he repeated your words, as if it was a question, took a second to process the information and then called it 'poetic justice'. What the hell does that mean?"
"I don't know," Jack admitted. "You expect a sensible answer? The guy's obviously a loon."
"He is that," Sam agreed. "There was no fear, no remorse, no sense that he'd been caught out. The man was flattered, Jack. Flattered that you thought he might have done what he's probably always wanted to do. But I bet you a year's salary that he didn't."
"You're on," Rigby stated. "We've got motive, a confession and the ring we found in his office."
"Which anyone could have planted," Sam said. "When is his lawyer expected?"
"Not until tomorrow morning, unfortunately. He was in Adelaide."
"May I sit in on the second interview?"
Rigby scowled at her. "I suppose. Yeah, why not. It might be interesting."
Maggie Tremaine laughed until she had tears running down her face. "You have got to be kidding."
"That's pretty much what I said," Sam smiled. "Realistically, however, Jack can't ignore the confession or the fact that the murder weapon was found in Gould's office."
Maggie shook her head. "Haddon is not a devious man, Sam. He's more your brawling, knock 'em down and sit on 'em sort of bloke. His imagination only works when it's in paranoid mode and I doubt it could have come up with the idea of using a poison ring to kill Lloyd. But if he killed him, he wouldn't have left the weapon in his own office. Haddon might be a nutter but even he is not that stupid."
"He seemed quite taken by the idea that he was the prime suspect. But why would he confess?"
"Maybe he's scoring one last point against Lloyd by helping the real murderer escape justice."
"By going to jail himself?"
Maggie shrugged. "But he's not likely to is he? And he does so love to be the centre of attention. We should talk to his wife Anna to see if we can find out why he hated Lloyd so much."
The door to Maggie's suite opened just enough to allow Pavel to slip inside. He was still wearing his Panama hat and a version of his happy tourist clothes but the man himself looked miserable.
"Terrible news. A whisky please, dear Maggie." He slumped onto the couch. "I have just spoken to a friend in San Francisco who told me Barbara Stone died from a stroke in June of last year."
"Bloody hell," said Sam.
Maggie downed Pavel's whisky herself and then poured three glasses and handed them out.
Pavel waved his glass under his nose and inhaled deeply. "This is not fair. Poor Barbara, she never had much happiness in her life. But my friend said she'd just started a new business in Venice Beach, one of those New Age shops, and she had fallen in love. She was happy, and then this bastard that we are hunting kills her. And for what? For gold? I will make him pay when we catch him."
Sam knew it was pointless to comment on Pavel's last statement so she decided to change the subject. "I called into my office after I'd seen Jack and asked my partner Ben to do a background check on Enrico Vasquez who, by the way, allegedly returned to Peru to visit his poor sick mother.
"Ben has also been running the surveillance on Barstoc, and he said that during the three days that our friend Andy 'disappeared' he was in Sydney doing business with a couple of antique dealers. These 'business associates' apparently just scrape through on the right side of legitimate but only, Ben says, because nothing has ever been proven against them."
"What sort of antiques?" Maggie asked.
"I don't know. I didn't think to ask," Sam said, checking her watch. It was 5.30 pm. "I intend to interview Barstoc again tomorrow, however, so I'll add that question to my list, right under the one about why he was pretending to be a crime fiction buff in Cairo."
"Phineas, ever the show pony, is throwing a pre-Conference party in the hotel from eight tonight," Maggie said, raising her eyebrows. "Why not join me and get Barstoc in a corner somewhere?"
"Good idea," Sam said. "Speaking of the Conference, I also spoke to Prescott and asked him to check for any late registrations. It seems news of the mysterious Henri Schliemann's discovery may have resulted in as many as 15 last-minute delegates - including one Pablo Escobar."
"I knew he wouldn't be able to resist," Maggie smiled. "I think he lost his purpose in life when the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet was stolen in Paris. When he sees the Hand he'll have a whole new cause."
"If he doesn't already know all about it," Sam reminded her. "Your friend Louis Ducruet is also on the list," Sam said, pulling a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and handing it to Maggie.
"Yes, I have spoken with Louis," Pavel said. "He went home to Montreal from Istanbul to collect the middle finger, and he arrives here tonight. He will come straight to my room where we will rehearse our little performance for the official welcoming reception tomorrow night."
"Did you ask if he'd been approached by someone from the Life and Death show or by anyone else about the Hand?" Sam asked.
"I did. And he said no, not that he was aware of."
"I've been thinking about the show's itinerary," Sam said. "It started in New York, then headed west to San Francisco, north to Anchorage and east to London, bypassing Montreal all together. Wouldn't it have been economically sensible to do Montreal after New York, seeing it's just over the border, rather than after New Zealand at the very end of the tour?"
"Montreal may not have been able to host the exhibition at that time," Maggie explained.
"It is more likely that the tour date had to coincide with Louis being in Montreal," Pavel said. "He has been working in Turkey since mid 1996. But it was common knowledge even then that he was taking a permanent University post in Montreal when Dan Geiger retires at the end of this year."
"Well," Sam announced, getting to her feet. "I'm going home to shower and change into something that hasn't been squashed into a backpack for two weeks. I will meet you here at 7.45."
"Good idea," Maggie said. "But Sam, whatever you do, don't get tempted to have a quick nap to combat the jetlag. I did that once and didn't wake up for two days."
Two hours later, semi-refreshed but fighting an overwhelming tiredness, Sam was taking the lift back up to Maggie's suite when her mobile rang.
"Hey, Sammy," Ben Muldoon said.
"Hey yourself. By the way, I didn't want to mention this in the office earlier Ben, but I have to say that you were looking positively radiant, which happens to be an adjective I never thought could be applied to a guy, especially you."
"Please don't make fun of me, Sam," Ben requested.
"I'm not Ben. I'm very happy that you're happy. You are still happy, I gather."
"Oh I am. I am," he laughed. "We'll all have dinner soon, okay? But I'm in a rush right now, so let me fill you in. First of all, if Enrico Vasquez is a spy, agent or cop then his cover is way deep. I couldn't find anything on him that's not relevant to his job as a curator. Mind you I couldn't get any info at all on what he was doing from 1980 to 1983. That could mean he was telling the truth, and he was at spy school or something, or he just dropped out of circulation to harass tourists like you.
"I have also got the Boss's okay and have organised the surveillance team, led by me of course, to be at your disposal for this welcoming bash at the Exhibition Building tomorrow night. The guys, except for Sandra who's got herself a nice frock, have all hired tuxedos so they can blend in."
"You're my hero, Ben," Sam said emerging from the lift.
"Yeah, well that's all the good news. The bad news is that the Boss expects to be fully briefed by you tomorrow and he wants to meet your friends Maggie and Pavel so he knows what to expect."
"Oh, joy," Sam moaned. "I'll call him in the morning. He's obviously working Saturday as usual."
"What else would he do with his day off?" Ben laughed.
Maggie opened the door to her suite just as Sam was about to knock, and ushered her out into the hall. "I hate being late for parties," she said. "I spoke to Anna Gould by the way."
"Good. Did you find out why her husband hated the Professor enough to confess to a murder he didn't commit?" Sam asked.
"Anna was beside herself," Maggie said. "She swears if Haddon is not found guilty and hanged, she'll kill him herself."
"Does she believe he did it?"
"No, not at all," Maggie laughed, as they entered the lift. "But she does think he's completely lost his mind and she's very annoyed with him. She adores Haddon, god only knows why; he's possessive, jealous, irrational and childish. According to Anna, the rivalry between him and Lloyd began in 1977 when Haddon spent most of the year away on field trips. Lloyd used to socialise with both of them and continued to do so with Anna while Lloyd was away. They were just friends who went out to dinner, or to the theatre or art gallery but Haddon decided they were having an affair and that Lloyd was trying to take Anna away from him. That's how it started, but at the same time it seemed to Haddon that he was always losing out to Lloyd at work as well, which wasn't true either."
"So Marsden and Mrs Gould were not having an affair," Sam said.
"No, in fact Lloyd wasn't…" Maggie hesitated as the lift came to a stop and the doors opened.
"Maggie!" exclaimed a short, broad-chested American man who launched himself into the lift.
"Eugene, how are you?" Maggie asked, through a clenched smile.
"Terrific as always. Have you heard the news?"
"What news, Eugene?"
"About the discovery of an Inca city bigger than Machu Picchu."
"No, I haven't," Maggie said, feigning interest. "Where did you hear this?"
"It's been all over the internet apparently. Someone told Bob Esterhauser who told me all about it on the flight from New Zealand this morning."
"Who discovered it?"
"Bob wasn't sure, but he heard from someone else that a very wealthy retired German professor named Schreiber has been funding a team of amateurs in the jungle south-west of Machu Picchu."
"South-west?" Maggie repeated.
The lift stopped again and a well-dressed English couple joined them and the conversation.
"What do you think of the rumours about Vilcabamba, Maggie?" the man asked.
"I've just heard, Hugh. But this German can't be claiming he's found Vilcabamba. It's not lost."
"He's saying he's found the real Vilcabamba," Hugh stated. "But I heard he was American. Isn't that right, Sophie?"
"No Hugh, you've mixed your stories up again," Sophie said patiently. "And you wonder how that rumour started about you trying to sell a collection of skulls you never had."
The lift stopped again but a family surrounded by luggage decided to wait for an empty lift.
"So what are the real stories, Sophie?" Maggie resisted the urge to glance at Sam who remained unnoticed in the corner.
"A rich English industrialist and amateur archaeologist named Henry Steedman organised an expedition, comprised of American students, to explore the area west of Machu Picchu. He found a small but significant ceremonial centre and some quite astounding artefacts."
"That's…a lot of detail," Maggie said, stifling a laugh. "Where did you hear all that?"
"Jennifer Pertwee's brother has just come back from Peru. He actually met this Steedman fellow but was sworn to secrecy until the find is officially announced. Now I heard that Steedman might be coming here to the Conference to do just that. But that is a rumour."
"But everything else is fact?" Maggie asked.
"Oh yes, I have it on the best authority," Sophie pronounced.
Sam wondered whether the rumour of Hugh and his skull collection had been started by Sophie.
"No," Eugene disagreed. "The guy's a German named Schreiber, and he found a big city south-west of Machu Picchu. That's what Esterhauser told me, and he got it straight off the internet."
Sam rolled her eyes in astonishment. The two 'someones' who, not two minutes before, had been the source of Esterhauser's information were now forgotten links in this incredible chain of bullshit.
"You must have him mixed up with the American that Hugh mentioned," Sophie stated, obviously delighted that she could sort out this mess for everyone. "His name is Harry Steinberg and he found a priceless Inca statue in the basement of a house in Spain."
"In Spain?" Maggie laughed, as the doors opened on the third floor.
"No," Eugene argued, "You've got him confused with the guy who found the Aztec statue. He is at the conference, I've met him already. Aren't you coming to Marcus's party, Maggie?"
"Yes," Maggie nodded. "I have to go downstairs for a minute."
A second after the doors had closed, leaving them alone, Sam and Maggie burst into laughter.
"Good grief!" Sam exclaimed.
"Now you see how Pavel was killed in the jungle by a poison arrow when in fact he'd caught glandular fever in New Orleans," Maggie said.
"We needn't have bothered with the internet," Sam grinned. "We could have told Sophie the truth, that Pavel Mercier was alive, had discovered Inticancha and was in Melbourne with the Hand of God and I'm sure her 'best authority' would still have devised Harry Steinberg, Henry Steedman and a fictitious basement in Spain."
"Not to mention Eugene's imaginary encounter with the non-existent finder of an Aztec statue," Maggie said. They had reached the foyer, so she stabbed the button for the third floor. "Shall we join the party now to see if anyone has actually heard that a Henri Schliemann has discovered Manco Capac's secret city and a legendary golden artefact?"
Sam was pleased to find that she had almost recovered from the Marcus Bridger virus and was barely affected by the sight of him holding court on the far side of the crowded function room. The fact that he looked at her most curiously when she smiled at him, as if he didn't recognise her, did nothing at all for her ego. His vague smile had suggested he knew he should know who she was, but couldn't place her in this context.
About 50 people were making the most of the open bar, courtesy of the Rites of Life and Death and, judging by the conversations that Sam could actually understand, a great many of them were talking about an amazing archaeological find in Peru. Or Mexico or Chile or Spain. One man, who kept switching rapidly between French, English and Russian, was trying to convince his little circle of listeners that a treasure-filled Mayan funerary temple had been discovered on the Yucatan Peninsula.
"I wish you-know-who was here to enjoy all this gossip," Maggie said. "There's Andrew, let's go interrogate the life out of him."
"We need to be a bit more subtle than that," Sam insisted, keeping pace with Maggie as she manoeuvred through the guests towards Barstoc who was standing alone near the bar.
"Don't worry Sam, I'll leave it all up to you. In this you are the expert."
"Good evening, Mr Barstoc," Sam said pleasantly, before asking the bartender for two beers.
"Detective Diamond, Dr Tremaine." Barstoc seemed oddly taken aback. "How was Egypt?"
"So-so," Maggie shrugged.
"Could I ask you a couple of questions, Mr Barstoc?" Sam asked. "Regarding my investigation."
Barstoc straightened his shoulders. "Now is hardly the time. This is a social occasion, Detective."
"Yes of course, I'm sorry. I just thought it would easier to chat here, rather than ask you down to the station tomorrow," Sam said, starting to turn away.
"In that case," Barstoc said hurriedly, "I'd be happy to talk to you. It will save us both time."
"Thanks. Firstly, could you refresh my memory about the exact nature of your other business interests."
"I run an import-export business. I deal mostly in rare precious stones," Barstoc said, as if he was talking to a forgetful child. "But what does this have to do with your case?"
"Maybe nothing, Mr Barstoc," Sam said. "You said mostly, what other things do you collect?"
"Anything that my clients, and I have many all over the world, express an interest in."
"Ah, that would explain why you met with the antique dealers in Sydney."
"I beg your pardon?" Barstoc barely managed to stay on the outraged side of angry. "Have you been following me?" he demanded.
"Me? No. I've been in Egypt," Sam smiled. "But you did leave town in the middle of a murder investigation, so my colleagues felt they had to, at least, find out where you went. Were you after anything in particular from these business acquaintances in Sydney?"
"Not that it is any of your business, Detective Diamond, but yes I was trying to track down an antique necklace for a client in London."
"Okay, fine," Sam shrugged. "That's all I needed."
Barstoc frowned but visibly relaxed and took a sip of his drink. "That was painless," he joked.
Sam smiled. "Oh, by the way, I believe we have something in common. I hear you're a bit of a crime fiction buff. You're even trying your hand at writing a mystery, I gather. How's it going?"
"What?" Barstoc snapped, exhibiting one of the telltale signs of the flight or fight response by squirming as if his clothes were suddenly very uncomfortable. "I don't know what…"
"Oh Andy," Maggie chimed in, "there's no need to be shy. Every writer has to start somewhere."
"I didn't mean to embarrass you, Mr Barstoc," Sam said, trying to look genuinely sorry. "It's just that we met an old friend of Maggie's in Cairo who said he met you briefly when you sought out his friend Noel Winslow to get some advice. 'Andy Baxter', is that your pen name?"
Barstoc was speechless although his mouth looked like it was trying to help him form an appropriate response. "How did you…"
"Put it together?" Sam asked. "I happened to have a copy of your Exhibition catalogue with me."
Barstoc raised his eyebrows. "Why?"
"Oh god, don't ask," Maggie butted in, with a laugh. "This was Sam's first overseas trip and you've no idea the junk she took with her. She purposefully took her car and office keys, would you believe, but we're still trying to work out how or why she packed a guide book to Japan."
"Maggie," Sam moaned, "do you have to tell everyone about the keys."
Barstoc smiled and ran his hand through his hair. "I can see I'd better come clean," he said. "I am not a writer. I am a freelance investigator, of sorts. I contacted Noel Winslow because I had been led to believe he knew the whereabouts of this antique necklace I am still seeking."
"An investigator?" Sam asked. "For whom?"
"As I said, for my clients. I sometimes use my own, quite legitimate business as a cover to try and reclaim stolen jewellery. The necklace I'm looking for was taken from a house in London a year ago. It's priceless, but only if it's intact. It can't be broken down and sold for parts, so to speak. A few dealers, not all legitimate, told me that Noel might know who was interested in buying it. I told him the truth about myself, when I realised his interest in jewellery of this kind was academic. He'd made the acquaintance of antique dealers all over the world while doing research for two of his books. Do you know Noel or just his friend…um," Barstoc snapped his fingers to help his memory, "Patrick?"
"I knew Noel very well, Andrew," Maggie admitted. "Do you know that he died the day you last saw him? He had a stroke."
Barstoc pressed his fingers to his lips. "Oh how terrible. He was a such a generous man."
"What do you do when you find these stolen goods?" Sam asked, wondering whether Barstoc and Vasquez had attended the same school of humbug.
"Um, it depends who has the item and who my client is. Sometimes I offer to buy it back, on other occasions I call in the local police. Detective Diamond, I do this work through word of mouth, and no one on the team knows about it. I would appreciate it you could keep it to yourself."
"Of course, Mr Barstoc. And I appreciate your candour."
Sam and Maggie watched Barstoc slither away into the crowd before turning to each other.
"Sounds plausible," Maggie noted.
"Explains absolutely everything quite nicely," Sam agreed.
"I think Andy and Enrico went to the Fairytale Academy together," Maggie observed.
"Yes, I think you could be right. And I'll be taking bets later that Haddon Gould will claim it was stress from his alien abduction that forced him to commit murder."
"Sam! You're back from Egypt."
"Yes, we are. Hi, Adrienne."
Maggie held up a finger. "Would you two excuse me, I've just spotted someone I need to berate."
"Speaking of berating," Sam said to Adrienne, "Daley Prescott had just spotted me, would you mind if we took a little stroll around the room?"
"Of course not," Adrienne laughed.
"So, how's the show going?" Sam asked, when they had relocated themselves out of Prescott's line of sight, and behind Marcus Bridger and a silver-haired man with a very proper British accent.
"Splendid," Adrienne replied, "considering Enrico had to dash home because is mother took a bad turn. But the grand opening was a great success and we've had big crowds every day."
Adrienne continued to talk about the show but when Sam noticed that Barstoc had joined Bridger she turned half her attention to their conversation.
"Andrew, dear boy," said the silver-haired gent, "I was just telling Marcus I played 18 at Sunningdale with your father last week."
"Really?" Barstoc asked, as if it was the least interesting thing he'd heard all night.
"Yes. He was telling me all about this new venture of his in Barbados."
"Really?" Barstoc said again. "I don't know anything about it, Edward. If you'll excuse me."
"I hope I didn't speak out of turn, Marcus," Edward said as Barstoc walked off.
"No, not at all Edward. Father still hasn't forgiven Andrew. I doubt he ever will."
Father? thought Sam. "Adrienne, could you excuse me a sec," she whispered, "I'll be right back." Sam made a beeline for Maggie who was on the other side of the room.
"Sam, dear, I'd like you to meet Athol Porter," Maggie began.
"Hi, Athol," Sam said, "I don't mean to be rude but I need to talk to Maggie, urgently."
"What is it?" Maggie asked when they had retreated to a quieter spot in the room.
"Marcus and Andrew are brothers."
"No, they're not," Maggie laughed.
"Yes, they are," Sam insisted, and repeated the conversation she'd overheard.
"How very odd," Maggie muttered. "Who was Marcus talking to?"
When Sam pointed at the man, who was now talking to someone else, Maggie said, "That's Edward Fisher. I'll have a word with him. You stay here."
Maggie was gone for five minutes during which Sam managed to avoid Daley Prescott again by joining a nearby conversation about the discovery of an Inca crown in Cuzco. No one missed her from the debate when she moved away to rejoin Maggie.
"Edward says that Andrew and Marcus are stepbrothers, Sam."
"Well, I'll be damned."
"Apparently Andrew had a falling out with his stepfather, Daniel Bridger, about 20 years ago. He was disowned and disinherited. Edward said he'd heard they'd recently reconciled, otherwise he wouldn't have mentioned Daniel in front of Andrew."
"What do you think this means?" Sam asked.
Maggie snorted. "I've no idea, Sam. It might mean nothing at all. Obviously the brothers are still close, at least close enough to work together, despite the father's opinion of Andrew. There could be any number of reasons why they don't acknowledge their relationship, although the most logical might be they don't want to risk Marcus being disinherited as well."
"I suppose," Sam agreed. "But if Andrew is 'the one', do you think Marcus knows about it?"
Maggie shrugged. "Andrew said no one on the team knows about this investigative work he allegedly does, but we know from Patrick that Marcus also met Noel Winslow, however briefly, in Cairo. So we can only guess at what Marcus does and doesn't know. His mind is a bit of a vacuum when it comes to other people's business and affairs anyway. If it doesn't directly concern him or, more importantly, make him 'look good' he pays little attention. I could tell him right now that I'd been nominated for a Nobel Prize, but he'd be surprised all over again if someone else told him the same thing about me five minutes later."
"That explains the odd, 'who the hell are you and why are you here' look that he gave me when I smiled at him earlier," Sam said.
"Anyway, considering what we went through in Cairo and Cuzco, I'm even more convinced Vasquez is 'the one'," Maggie stated, widening her eyes.
"But he's not…"
"Enrico dear," Maggie interrupted. "What a pleasant surprise."
Sam turned to find Vasquez and Adrienne approaching. "Señor Vasquez," she nodded.
"Enrico has only just arrived back," Adrienne explained.
"And how is your poor mother?" Maggie asked, all concern and no sincerity.
"My mother is recovering, thank you," Vasquez smiled knowingly. "But my time at home was plagued by disaster. My poor cousin broke his nose and collarbone when his car hit a stationary truck. We still can't imagine how he managed to have such a foolish accident in broad daylight."
"He must have been looking at something other than where he was going," Sam suggested.
"Perhaps," Vasquez agreed amicably. "Detective Diamond, I was wondering if I might have a word in private with you about that matter I raised the last time we spoke?"
"Of course, Señor Vasquez," Sam agreed. "How about we adjourn to the bar downstairs?"
"Good idea. You're welcome to join us Maggie," he added, as if it was an afterthought. "You may actually be able to help me out. Would you excuse us please, Adrienne?"
"Sure thing," Adrienne said, looking like she'd rather tag along to find out what the mystery was.
"Was he really your cousin?" Sam asked, once they were settled in a booth downstairs, having made sure none of the other customers nearby were Conference delegates.
"No," Vasquez smiled. "But you were quite right, he wasn't watching where he was going. But enough said about your clever escape." He pulled a folded but crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out on the table and turned it round so that Sam's handwriting was facing them. "I found this in your hotel room, after you had checked out."
"So?" Maggie said, as if the list of names from the Manco City dig meant nothing.
"Maggie," Vasquez sighed, "I know you do not believe I work for my government but please do not treat me like a fool. I recognised some of the names on this list so I made the assumption that the others had some kind of professional connection. Would you like me to tell you what I discovered?"
"If you wish Enrico, but I don't see the point," Maggie smiled.
"Then humour me," Vasquez requested. "Of the names I recognised, I knew that Pavel Mercier, Alistair Nash and, of course, Lloyd Marsden were deceased. So I began with Noel Winslow. Being a fan of his mystery novels I tried his publishers first and discovered he had died earlier this year. I then started trying to trace the other names and discovered that Jean McBride had been killed in a car accident. I began to think you had gone a little strange, Maggie, making this," Vasquez tapped the page, "this list of all your dead friends."
"You get to my age Enrico and it hits you one day that all your friends are dropping like flies," Maggie sighed. "It gets a bit disconcerting."
Vasquez shook his head. "I am sure it does but when I found out that Louis Ducruet was alive and working in Turkey and Sarah Croydon had recently opened an exhibition in Wellington I knew this was not a list of the dead. I admit I have found nothing about Jones, Sanchez or Rockly - yet - but I managed to find out a great deal about the late Barbara Stone, whom I had actually met once. And that's when I knew what this list was about."
"Because of Barbara Stone," Sam verified.
"Yes of course," Vasquez said. "When I discovered she and her ex-business partner had been investigated by the FBI for fencing stolen antiquities, I knew that despite your denials you were, are, in fact looking for the Paris hijackers."
"Enrico," Maggie said impatiently, "apart from the fact that I swear we knew nothing of Barbara and the FBI, how could a dead person help us find hijackers that we are not, in fact, looking for?"
Vasquez scowled at her. "I was hoping you would tell me," he said.
"Did the FBI charge her with anything?" Sam asked.
"No," Vasquez sighed. "The partner was jailed but there was no real evidence against her, which doesn't mean she wasn't involved, but then you know that already."
"We had no idea," Sam stated. "Really, none at all."
Vasquez looked deeply puzzled, as if he wanted to believe them but didn't want to relinquish his theory. "But why else would her name be on this list, with all these people who have had access over the years to the types of artefacts she was suspected of fencing? You can't really expect me to believe you are not on the trail of the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet."
"Señor Vasquez you have a very fertile imagination. You are on the trail of the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet; we are looking for a murderer," Sam pronounced.
Vasquez shrugged as if he was giving up. "Then I suppose you are not interested in Andrew Barstoc's connection to Ms Stone, and the affair she was having," he said, offhandedly.
Sam laughed. "Señor Vasquez, what is this thing you have about Barstoc? You have been throwing him in my face since we first met."
"We, my colleagues and I, have long suspected him to be a major player in the illegal trade of stolen cultural property," Vasquez confided.
"Well, if you really are a cop, or whatever it is you are, why don't you talk to him instead of us?"
Vasquez threw up his palms. "I thought we could help each other out in this matter."
"Honestly Enrico," Maggie snapped, "how do you expect us to believe anything you have to say when you can't give us any proof. It seems to me you are using your Masters in applied obfuscation to find out what we might know in order to conceal your own involvement in the hijacking."
"But…" Vasquez began.
"No buts, Enrico. I will say this one last time." Maggie tapped her finger on the table for emphasis. "We are not looking for hijackers and we don't care about the Tahuantinsuyu Bracelet. If we were, given the appalling behaviour of you and your henchmen in Cuzco, we would be coming after you, not trying to avoid you. What's more, having your accomplices shoot at us and our aircraft is not a sensible way to go about earning our trust and securing our assistance."
"Who shot at you?" Vasquez seemed genuinely appalled.
"The Turkish gentleman who you claim is a known dealer in stolen antiquities. It is clear to us that you are in cahoots with him," Maggie stated.
Vasquez slapped himself in the forehead. "Maggie, I am on your side," he insisted. "Mr Aydin is no accomplice of mine. He is probably, however, an acquaintance of Andrew Barstoc."
"Well of course, he would be wouldn't he," Sam said. "And what else were you trying to imply before? Something about Barstoc having an affair with Barbara Stone?"
"Oh, no Detective Diamond, that is not what I said. Ms Stone attended the opening of our exhibition in San Francisco. She knew the Director of the Museum and was introduced to the whole team. Andrew then visited her in her New Age shop on several occasions."
"That's it? That's your connection?" Sam asked. "You met this FBI suspect too."
"But I am not a suspected trader in stolen artefacts," Vasquez pointed out.
"You are in our book," Maggie reminded him. "So who was Barbara having the affair with? I hope you're not going to tell us that you saw Lloyd Marsden in San Francisco so you jumped to the most illogical conclusion yet."
"Of course not Maggie. Please be sensible," Vasquez pleaded. "I know for a fact, because I saw them together and it was common knowledge, that Barbara Stone was seeing our Ms Douglas."
My god, Sam thought, throw the works another spanner. "Well that's very interesting, I'm sure," she said calmly. "But what it has to do with anything, I don't know. I have an idea, Señor. Instead of following us around, making wild connections between unrelated things, devising bizarre theories, and spreading unsubstantiated gossip about your colleagues, why don't you come up with some way of proving you are who you say are. If you can do that, I promise when I have solved my murder case, I will give your request for assistance in your hijacking case some serious consideration."