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Adam dropped Jinks off at the station to follow up on her research into other women Wallace Ryall might have attacked. Next, he headed for a place where he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome.
He stood outside the door, with his hand on the knob, debating with himself whether this was a good idea or not. When a customer behind him cleared her throat, he opened the door for her to enter and followed on in.
Prospero greeted the customer, then waved toward the back office when he saw Adam. Of course, Harlan was in. Where else could he be? The court had settled that with the restrictions on his travel, hadn’t it? Adam popped his head inside the office and had a twinge of guilt when he noticed Harlan rubbing his ankle.
Adam walked in and pointed at it. “That monitor causing a rash? I can request a new one for you if that one’s too tight.”
“Naw, it’s winter eczema. Get it all the time.” Harlan reached into his desk and pulled out a tube of hydrocortisone cream. “See?”
Adam cleared his throat. “Ah. Well. I came to take a look at those swords again, the ones from Reuben Ryall’s estate.”
Harlan hopped up, and Adam said, “You don’t have to bother showing me. That is if they’re in the same place as before.”
“I may have eczema, but I’m not a cripple. And Prospero and I did move some of the Ryall pieces around yesterday.”
Adam followed him to a wall of display cases and pointed to a free-standing sword rack. “All the swords on that right there are Ryall’s. I haven’t sold any.”
“Sword market not big right now?”
“I decided not to sell any Ryall pieces until. . .well, until after. You know.”
“You’re not legally bound to do that, Harlan.”
“Felt like the right thing to do.”
Since Adam knew Joe Brimm had dusted these weapons for prints, too, he didn’t think anything of picking up the top sword. “This is a falchion, right?”
Harlan chuckled. “Didn’t know you were an enthusiast.”
“Prospero gave me a Swords 101 lecture.” Adam turned the sword over and studied the handle. “Huh. This one doesn’t have Ryall’s monogram on it. Like the murder weapon.”
“Don’t think any of these others do, you see. Don’t know why the man would engrave only the one.”
“In the original display, the Tritonia was the fourth sword down, not the one on top.”
“So it was. Better for slicing and dicing?”
Adam gave a sharp look at Harlan, who was grinning at him. Good to know his humor was still intact. “If I were looking to frame someone for a murder, I’d want the evidence to be pretty blatant. Say, a sword with a traceable monogram on it.”
“Then said murderer would have to know such a piece existed, right? Since he didn’t go for the one on top?”
“How long were these swords on display prior to the murder?”
“A day or so. Still got some boxes with estate pieces in ‘em we’re just now getting around to.”
“There’s a good likelihood our killer was inside Ryall’s home at some point. Legally or otherwise.” Adam replaced the falchion in its holder. “Those boxes you mentioned. Where are they now?”
“In the storeroom. You wanna see ‘em?”
Adam nodded, and once again, he followed along behind Harlan, feeling like a puppy currying favor from his master. Harlan showed him about a half-dozen boxes, and Adam bent down to take a closer look. “Have you opened these yet?”
“Haven’t had a chance.” Harlan poked his head out into the store and yelled out, “Prospero, you opened any of these last Ryall boxes yet?”
Adam heard the assistant yell back, “Not yet. It’s on my list, I swear.”
“No probs, just checking.”
Harlan rejoined Adam as he stooped down and pulled a glove from his pocket that he put on. “What’s that for, Adam?”
“You say neither you nor Prospero has opened these boxes. But someone else has.”
“Why do you say that?”
Adam ran a finger along the edges. “Someone removed the tape recently. Then re-taped to make it look more-or-less like it was originally.”
“Why would somebody do that? Thieves aren’t usually that neat.”
“Looking for something. And didn’t want to draw attention to it.” Adam stood back up. “I’ll have the guys come and dust these. Is there any way of knowing what’s supposed to be in them?”
“Reuben Ryall’s estate only came with a partial packing list. Sorry to say the answer to that question is likely no.”
Adam removed the glove and stuffed it back in his pockets. He started to exit the storeroom, then stopped. “Duane Sher been in contact with you?”
“Checks in once a day. He’s a bang-up attorney, Adam.”
Adam smiled briefly. “That’s good. Glad to hear he’s doing right by you.” Adam cleared his throat. “Guess I better run. Jinks’ll drink all the coffee before I get back.”
Harlan gave Adam a knowing look. “You didn’t really come here to check on those swords, did you?”
“Turns out, it was a good idea.” Adam shifted his feet. “You’re looking well. Eating enough?”
“Prospero’s a big mother hen. Who knew? And Beverly and Agnes Flamm have dropped by a few times each.”
“Agnes?”
“She was ‘checking on my antiques,’ too. Like you. I’m fortunate to have so many people who care about my. . .antiques.”
“Well, we’re all worried about those. . .antiques.”
“I’ve been around a long time. Done just fine. Reckon I’ll go on doing just fine. So don’t you worry.”
A nice thought, but Adam wasn’t as far along in the investigation as he’d hoped to be. And the theories rolling around him were all filled with crater-sized holes. Time to head for the bar, but not to drink. He had an appointment with a giant.
§ § §
Adam made his way through the bar that was as empty as a church on Monday. But being early afternoon, this particular bar didn’t have an array of television screens like the fancier bars, with every flavor of sports broadcast from Vermont to Vladivostok.
The room in the rear of the place had barely enough room for one six-five, three-hundred-pound private eye and a narrow table that doubled as a desk. Adam squeezed himself into a corner and stayed standing. As if there’d be any place to sit down.
“Since you’re back in the private eye biz, Cray, why are you keeping the bouncer gig, too?”
“The only thing I’m bouncing is the occasional check. I did a favor for the owner of this place. So, he let me keep this little office here.”
Adam gauged the size of the room. Eight-by-eight, if you were generous. “Where do you put your clients, in a hammock strung from the ceiling?”
“Funny man. I meet them elsewhere. This shoebox is to have an address that isn’t my house.”
“Why aren’t we meeting elsewhere?”
“Wanted to see you brought down to size. For a change.”
“You still haven’t forgiven me for that case where you almost ended up in an orange jumpsuit?”
Cray shrugged. “I let by-grudges be by-grudges.” He grabbed his cellphone and snapped a photo of Adam. “You look quite miserable, all squished up in that corner. That’s a keeper.”
“When you’re finished being cute, I’d love to hear where you stand on your investigation. Those missing rare-earths shipments.”
“Why are you so suddenly interested?”
“Harlan’s case. One of the suspects is a prof. He teaches this eco-design stuff now, but I found out this morning from some online research the guy used to teach chemistry. Since he’s a regular sleazebag, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’s somehow involved in your pot of poison.”
“Seems a bit of a stretch.”
“Perhaps. Have you run across the name Vernon Atkinson or even Nyssa Atkinson?”
Cray pulled out his phone again and opened a notepad app. “How do you spell that guy’s first name? Is it short for something?”
“Might as well be. The man has a rather high opinion of his attractiveness to the fairer sex. But it’s V-E-R-N-O-N.” Adam waited for Cray to finish typing in the names. “You said those rare earths are used in wind turbines. What else?”
“Dysprosium and neodymium are the main elements. Dysprosium is known as the ‘Kryptonite’ of heavy rare earth elements.’ It’s a bitch getting it out of the ground.” Cray paused to ask, “How much you remember from your chem class?”
“Bits. Probably enough.”
“Dysprosium has two paired electrons. Helps in working with radiation, batteries, lasers, digital storage. Added to neodymium-iron-boron magnets, it’s used in hybrid and electric cars. And neodymium’s got similar uses.”
“Who hired you?”
“It’s classified.”
“Military?”
“Like I said, it’s classified.”
Adam studied his friend’s face. “Atkinson doesn’t appear to be the cloak and dagger type. Skirts and daggers, sure.”
“Don’t see how any of this would tie in with Harlan’s case. But thanks for the tip on this professor guy. If I hear of anything—”
“I’ll be the last to know.”
Cray put a hand over his heart. “If it were just for you, maybe. But since it’s Harlan we’re talking about. I swear I’ll give you a call.”
“Thanks, Cray.”
“Be sure and wipe your feet on the way out, will ya?” Cray grinned. “Otherwise, it’ll take the cleaning lady five minutes to clean this place. She gets cranky if it takes over three.”
Adam managed to unwedge himself from the corner and shoehorn himself out of there. The rare earths angle was likely a dead end, but a part of him wanted to nail something on Atkinson. Outside of a jealous marshal-wannabe, a vengeful brother, and some potential assaults, he was running on empty in the motive department.
When his cellphone rang, he didn’t recognize the number but answered it. It was one very agitated Agnes Flamm. He held the phone away from his ear, wincing. He wanted to tell her he didn’t have time for this, but then he remembered the property bond. He hung up with a promise to stop by the wine shop and found himself hoping one particular raven-haired beauty might be there, too.
But then his phone rang again. Sometimes, he wished he could turn the damn thing off. Half-expecting Agnes again, he was in for a surprise when he heard the familiar smooth monotone of Mr. X. “Detective Dutton, my condolences for the forced redecorating of your home. However, if you’d like the name of the decorator, I might be able to help.”
“Oh, really? We don’t have any witnesses. And the lab struck out on prints.”
“This particular gentleman, and I use the term loosely, is someone you’ve nicknamed Redbeard.”
Adam’s ears perked up. “I’m listening.”
“His real name is Darnell Warner. A rather slick operative who’s frequently in the employ—off the books, mind you—of Ivon Kozak.”
“Kozak? That’s a new one.”
“He and Reggie Forsythe are cut from the same cloth. And both NAL ‘kingpins.’ With Forsythe out of action, Kozak pretty much has a corner on the dirty dealings market in the Northeast antiques world.”
“Do you have proof this Darnell Warner was behind the bomb at my house?”
“I’m afraid that’s your department, Detective. I see the big picture. You get to tear it apart pixel by pixel.”
“Gee, thanks.” Adam wanted to follow up right away, but he’d promised Agnes. “If this pans out, I owe you one, Xenakis.”
“Oh, it will. But I’ll wait and cash in on my winnings some other time.”
Adam was also going to thank him for looking out for Beverly, but the man had hung up. He was one of the strangest informants Adam ever had. But right now, he’d take a tip from a magic elf, if it would help.
