Chapter 18

An eerie glow from the screen gave enough light to see each other as silhouettes.

“Don’t worry,” Tamarind said. “That’s just to convince the students to take us seriously that we’re closing. The lights will come on again in a few seconds. Um. I think.”

“Do we really need to leave?” I asked.

“I’m supposed to be doing a sweep for lingering patrons right now, so we’ve got five minutes at most.”

“I only need two. I need to finish reading this one article about the Durants. I saw something in there.”

The lights came on.

“Here it is,” I said. “The Durants made their fortunes when France was a protectorate of Cambodia, not in India. Rick’s shoddy research—” I broke off and gasped so dramatically it would have done justice to Gabriela Glass. “That’s what was wrong with Rick’s research for the book! He was talking about Cambodia the whole time, not India.”

“Wait,” Tamarind said. “I read the pages. He clearly said India.”

“I expect it was to get me interested because he wanted my help. And if he planned on publishing the book, he wouldn’t want to get sued by the Durants. India and Cambodia have so much of a connection that his misdirection worked. And the Serpent King statue—I should have seen it. Naga are much more prominent in Cambodia than India. Where Rick set Empire of Glass.”

I examined the few grainy photos of the art the family had collected. Two other statues from Asia. Numerous paintings by artists I didn’t recognize. A small collection of ostentatious antique jewelry the family claimed was from a noble French family in the Middle Ages from whom they were descended. Nothing was officially catalogued, and there was no mention of the Serpent King by name, which is why I hadn’t found it in my initial search, but the family had proudly displayed their art collection in the fortress-like library.

The sandstone Naga King sculpture was larger than I’d imagined from Rick’s novel. More than a foot high, carved as a slab with bas-relief snake heads that looked as if they were crawling out of the stone. The central cobra figure—presumably the king—was larger and fiercer than the rest. It spoke to the skill of the artist that Rick hadn’t taken dramatic license when he said there was a regal quality to the king. The poise of the serpentine head and the baring of its sharp fangs conveyed strength, not malice.

There was something else about the small image of the seven-headed naga. The shape was odd. Had a portion of the stone been chipped off toward the bottom? No, I didn’t think that was it. I zoomed in.

“Tamarind!”

“I’m right here. And now I’m deaf.”

“The naga is a guardian, either watching over Buddha or guarding a treasure. And look at this.” I pointed at the flat lower portion of the sculpture. “This is similar to what Gabriela Glass described, but not quite. Gabriela wondered if the sculpture was incomplete because of a flat portion on the bottom. But look, the base of the stone juts out several inches and has been smoothed.”

Tamarind leaned over my shoulder. “Like a pedestal to set something else?”

“Exactly. The naga is a guardian of treasure. The treasure our naga king was guarding isn’t here.”

“Shut. Up.” Tamarind whispered.

“The Serpent King statue itself is a treasure, but it also points to something more important. Something it was guarding. Seven years ago, Rick Coronado realized the significance of the stolen statue. He knew Cambodia intimately from his research for his most ambitious novel. This all started with Empire of Glass.”

“Wasn’t he found in Thailand at the end of his missing six weeks?” Tamarind asked. “Not Cambodia.”

“The countries share a border. A disputed border. And there are undeveloped areas with thick jungle canopies.”

Lost for six weeks. Found in Thailand, a country that not only bordered Cambodia, but controlled access to one of Cambodia’s temples because of land routes. Fifteen pounds thinner, as if he’d been in the jungle searching for the treasure the Serpent King was meant to guard.

“His amnesia was a sham,” Tamarind said.

I nodded. “That explains the reason he publicly feigned amnesia. He knew someone had killed Marc Durant and stolen the Serpent King—a family heirloom looted from Cambodia that was meant to be guarding another treasure that was still out there, waiting to be found. Rick’s editor told me how he was unfulfilled by success and wanted to kill off Gabriela to be something more.”

“A real-life treasure hunter. A hero. But look where it got him—”

“Excuse me,” a voice said. “The library is now closed. Tamarind? Are you still helping a student? Do I need to remind you of the library policies?”

“Sorry, Betsy,” Tamarind said in a saccharine sweet voice. “We’re leaving.” She clicked off my screen and hoisted me up by the elbow.

We stayed arm in arm as she led me to the locked front doors. “God, I hate that woman,” she hissed. “My apartment. Two hours. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid in the meantime.”

“I promise.”

  

I really had meant the words at the time.

But when I returned to my apartment, Nadia was sitting on the porch swing with a martini in her hand.

“Shall I make you one?” she asked, raising her glass. Her Russian accent was stronger than usual, so I suspected she’d had a couple already. “You look as if you have aged five years in the three days since I have seen you.”

“Bad week. Sorry I didn’t make it to your weekly brunch on Sunday.”

“Ah, that explains the untouched food. You did not see my note on the table to help yourself to food in the fridge. Jack and I took a last-minute trip to Guerneville. That reminds me.”

She eased herself out of the porch swing more elegantly than I would have thought possible in the awkward swing and slipped into the house. She returned a minute later not with a martini for me, but a stack of mail.

“Your mail since Saturday.”

Poking out from the bottom was a rush delivery from Rick Coronado.