We all stared up at the oversized man who loomed over us. His shadow blocked Tucker's face, but as I gazed up at him, I noticed a red spot on his left jaw, near the temporomandibular joint.
"Hello, Mr. Becker," said Tucker evenly. "So glad you could make it. Yes, we were talking about pestilence." Tucker reached into the breast pocket of his borrowed suit jacket and opened up a small white box, revealing the 24-carat gold fly.
"Luke," the man said gruffly, dropping into the last seat of the table, between Tucker and Gizelda and across from me. Luke, too, wore a suit jacket, although his was soft grey wool and looked tailored to minimize his bulk. He poured himself a glass of wine from the new bottle, tasted it, and gritted his teeth. "What is this shit? Bring me your beer."
"Right away, sir," said the closest waiter.
I cradled the fly broach in my left hand like I'd never seen it before. "That's wild."
"Can I see that?" Luke reached for the fly broach, but I cupped it in my left hand, swinging it toward Gizelda, who leaned away from it.
"Where did you get that?" Luke beckoned me with his hand as he followed the broach with his eyes. That gave me a better look at the red spot on his cheek. It was more like a swelling. A dental abscess.
I raised my eyebrows at Tucker and slid the fly to the right, to my guy, who tucked it back into his jacket pocket with practiced ease. "Hang on. Did I ever tell you that I do magic tricks?"
Luke harrumphed and tossed back some of the Sakara Gold beer newly placed in front of him. "No."
"Yeah. I used to perform at schools and restaurants. The kids would clap their hands and tell me how awesome I was. I never made four million dollars, though."
Luke swivelled his bulk to face Tucker. "What are you saying?"
"The Paris art dealer sold the coffin of Nedjemankh to the Met in July 2017 for 3.5 million euros, or very close to four million U.S. dollars," I told him. "Now, we realize that you and your father wouldn't have made four million. You'd have to pay off the looters and the guards and Abdallah Hussein, or whoever else falsified the documents, plus the art dealer. Still. Four million U.S."
"You're insane." Luke stood, his massive knees knocking the table and rattling the wine glasses. "Let's go, Gizelda."
She stared up at him before she waved an index finger at the wine bottle label. "Luke, look. This wine is from 2017."
He sighed and reached for her elbow to help her up. "What of it?"
She evaded his grasp. "That's the year our family suddenly came into more money."
He shrugged. "Lots of things happened in 2017. Let's go."
She tucked her elbows against her chest. "You and Father flew to Paris at the end of June and stayed through to July. I remember that. Quite soon after, Father started building the home museum for his mineral collection."
Luke snorted. "He loved those rocks."
"He loved history. He loved art. And most of all, he loved our mother. Mother was our company accountant until July 2017, when you said we should hire an outside firm. As soon as she died, you hired the books out to Krygers."
"Yes, yes, water under the bridge. Let's go, or I'll leave without you."
The waiter reappeared with another beer on a white-napkined tray.
Luke towered over him. "Get out of my way!"
I stood up, too, drawing his eye. "Yes, so sad that your accountant mother died after coming to your house. Did you sabotage her car? Or drug her so much that she couldn't remember how to put on her seatbelt? Or both?"
"Hope!" Tucker bounded to his feet.
Luke shoved his red face in mine, across the table. "You're lucky you're a woman in a public place."
I stared right back into his crazy eyes. "Why, are you going to kill me like you killed your mother and Abdallah Hussein when they asked you too many questions about your artifacts? Plus the kids dying to dig them up? You can just say yes. The real question is how you engineered the IED that killed your father. So interesting that the last bomb that killed tourists in Egypt took place in 2017. The year of your giant payout."
Luke reached under his suit jacket and seized a gun from his shoulder holster.
I hit the ground, bashing both knees before I landed on my stomach, hollering, "Tucker!"
He landed a split second after me, as police officers stampeded the room and Karima Mansour's majestic voice cut through the air.
"Luke Becker, a murderer unmasked! Broadcasting live from the Egyptian Classic Continental!"