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I awoke, groggy and sore. Josh had provided me with an ibuprofen PM, which helped get me through the night, but was probably the reason for the cobwebs. The vodka probably didn’t help either. Scratching my belly, I realized I’d never changed into pajamas and was still wearing the same tank top and shorts I’d put on after showering.
Something went thunk beyond my door, and I wondered if Josh had fallen off the couch. The clock read half past six in the morning. Considering we hadn’t gone to bed until well past one in the morning, I rolled over, pulling the covers up to my chin, and closed my eyes, intent on getting another few hours of shut eye.
Crash!
Moving slower than planned, I staggered out of bed and opened the door. “Everything all right, J—”
Josh was on his knees with his hands laced behind his head, while a man pointed a gun at him. A woman, dressed in black like her partner, turned and pointed her gun at me. The man, of average height with a wide, crooked nose, kept blinking, and his right eye started purpling.
“Well, shit,” I sighed. “Really, Josh, I expected more from you.”
Josh grimaced, and I think if he could, he would have strangled me.
“You! Go sit by your friend.” The woman indicated with her weapon.
I yawned. I should have been wigging out, but I just didn’t have it in me. I think all my adrenaline got used up the previous night. Or the PM in the night-night pills were still at work, keeping the freak out at bay.
Across the living room, Mrs. T. opened her door. “Is everything okay? I heard . . .” She took in the tableau.
The woman whipped her gun back and forth between Mrs. T. and I, unsure at which person to point the deadly weapon. In the end, she must have decided I was the bigger threat. “Both of you. On your knees next to the big fella. And tell me where Craig is.” Her enunciation held a slight European accent—Dutch or perhaps German.
I shuffled slowly toward Josh and noticed Mrs. T. staring hard at the side table, which held a pretty bronze figurine of a lizard, and a stun gun behind it. A knock at the door startled everyone. Mrs. T. moaned and promptly fainted to the floor, distracting both of our visitors. Josh moved more swiftly than I, disarming the man, but for once my aim flew true. The lizard sailed through the air and beaned the woman on her right temple. She went down like a felled tree, and there seemed to be no need to engage the stun gun.
“Nice job, dearie.” Mrs. T. jumped up and snatched the gun from the woman’s limp hand.
Josh held the man to the ground with his knee jammed into his spine and growled, “There are plasticuffs in my bag.”
Of course there are.
While I scurried over and dug through Josh’s duffle, dumping most of the contents on the floor, there was another knock at the door, accompanied by the doorbell. “I don’t see them,” I said.
“Check the outside pockets,” Josh told me, never taking his eyes off the assailant.
“Found them.” I tossed one pair to him and then went over to help Mrs. T. roll the woman over so we could zip tie her hands behind her back. A large red welt rose on her forehead. “She’s still alive, right?”
Mrs. T. placed a pair of fingers to her neck. “Yes, her pulse is steady.”
The woman groaned, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I couldn’t imagine the red tape I’d have to go through if I’d been responsible for the death of a stranger . . . in my suite . . . in Mexico. Lord, that sounded bad.
The knocking turned into an incessant banging, and I jogged over to check through the peephole to see who was on the other side. Before he could knock again, I had the door open. “Mike? What are you doing here?”
“Surprise!” he said jubilantly, scooping me into his arms and swinging me in a circle. “The case closed quicker than we expected. I took a red eye here! And I can spend the rest of the week!” He showed me his wrist with a band that matched mine.
“Yay,” I said faintly.
Putting me down, he stepped back. “What happened to you? What are all these bandages?” He turned my hands over. “Your palms are all scraped up.”
“Karina, bring him in here,” Josh called. “I need him to watch these two while I go check on Rodrigo and Craig.”
Mike’s brows knit together and he walked past me.
“Rodrigo!” I’d completely forgotten my coworker. At the mention of his name, the adrenaline spike I’d been waiting for finally kicked in. Slipping into a pair of flip-flops I’d left under the foyer table, I grabbed the keycards— one for my room and one for Rodrigo’s—and bolted out the door.
One disadvantage of being on the upper floors—the elevator took forever. Like an impatient child, I kept pressing the button, as though it would bring the car faster. My suite door slammed shut, and Mike strode down the hall toward me.
“So I guess you won the coin toss,” I remarked as we entered the car together.
He didn’t respond to my quip. A chilly silence reigned as we watched the elevator floors count down. Once we hit the fifth floor, I didn’t exactly run, but shuffled as quickly as my injuries would allow. The thwacka-thwacka of my sandals were the only sounds in the quiet hallway.
I stopped in front of Rodrigo’s door and lifted my hand to knock, but Mike stayed me and shook his head. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out a gun.
“Where did you get that?” I whispered. “You didn’t bring your service weapon to Mexico, did you?”
He shook his head. “It’s being shipped back to the home office. Joshua gave me this. On the count of three, open the door, and stay behind me.” He counted down with his fingers.
At three, I slipped the card into the slot. Mike pushed the handle down and entered first, his gun at the ready. Nothing moved in the darkness.
“Rodrigo? Craig?” I flicked on the lights.
Rodrigo blinked, covering his eyes, and rasped, “Karina? What’s going on?”
Mike swiftly returned the gun from whence it came. “Are you two okay?”
Craig snored.
“We’re fine. Mike, is that you?” Rodrigo asked through the slits of his fingers. “When did you get here?”
“He just arrived. Get dressed. We have visitors.” I picked up Craig’s shoe and beaned him with it. Wow, twice in one day.
“Hey,” Craig grumbled, putting a hand to his head. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
“Time to get up. We have visitors this morning, and they are asking for you. Get dressed. Quickly,” I snapped. “Mike and I will wait outside.”
They took no more than five minutes, but it was the most uncomfortable five minutes I’ve ever spent with Mike.
“So your case wrapped faster than expected. How did that happen?”
“Local police arrested our suspect during a routine traffic stop,” he said without inflection. We both leaned against the wall next to Rodrigo’s door. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Well, it’s a win for the good guys. Right?” I tried to infuse some enthusiasm into my voice.
“Yup.”
That single syllable pretty much shut me down. I coughed, said no more, and silently thanked the heavens when Rodrigo opened the door. “Ready? Good. Let’s go.”
Once in the elevator, my colleague turned to Mike. “Hey, man, I thought you were working a big case. What happened?”
“We got an unexpected break and my services were no longer needed,” Mike replied, then stuck his hand out toward Craig. “I’m Mike, by the way, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Craig.” They shook.
“So, are you an innocent bystander that got dragged into one of K.C.’s messes?” he asked, and I sucked wind.
Craig coughed.
Rodrigo filled the awkward silence, clarifying, “No, he’s not. Craig, the crap weasel here, is the reason for this mess. Aren’t you?” Rodrigo slung his arm over Craig’s shoulder. “Why don’t you tell Karina’s boyfriend all about your shenanigans? Oh, and did I mention, he’s an FBI agent?”
Craig visibly blanched.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. “All right, that’s enough. Mike, we’ll read you in as soon as we get back to the room. And, Craig, you better get ready because you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.” The elevator doors opened, and I stomped down the hall, leading the rest of the pack.
Mrs. Thundermuffin and Josh had gotten our intruders off the floor and were securing them to a pair of dining chairs with a roll of duct tape—another handy item from Josh’s duffle bag. The woman was conscious again, and her eyes spit daggers at me as we entered the living room.
“Craig, meet Intruder A and Intruder B.” I pointed to the man first, then the woman. “They jumped Josh this morning and seem to be intent on finding you.”
Craig stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I’ve never seen them before in my life.”
“They aren’t friends of Nico and crew?” I put my hands on my hips.
He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
I looked to Josh. “Did we get any names yet?”
“No, they aren’t carrying any identification, and the serial numbers have been filed off their weapons.” He pointed to the gun sitting on the dining table as he finished securing the man’s bindings.
Mike went over to add his gun and check out the one Josh left there. Mrs. T. and Josh retreated to the kitchen area and started whispering, likely trying to decide upon our next move. Eventually, Mike joined them. Craig scrutinized the pair, as if searching his mind to figure out who they were. Rodrigo stood behind the couch, his arms crossed, observing the situation as it unfolded.
I trotted over to the woman and ripped the duct tape off her mouth. “Who are you? Who do you work for?” Subtlety was not in my bag of tricks this morning.
She was around my height, in excellent shape, with a dark brown pixie haircut, and she could deliver a whopper of hateful glare. Her cheekbones were so sharply honed, they looked like they could cut glass. And I had no doubt, if she weren’t strapped to the chair, she’d be able to kick my ass in under ten seconds. “Fuck you,” she spat at me.
“Good talk.” I replaced the tape and moved to her friend. “Ooo, that eye is not looking good. Though I doubt it’s your first. You look like quite the brawler,” I said, removing his muzzle. “What’s your name?” I waited while he ignored me. “No? You two were looking for Craig. Well, here he is.” I indicated our little crap weasel. “What do you have to say to him?” When more silence greeted me, I mused, “Hmm, maybe you’re not the interrogators. Was your purpose to capture him?”
The corner of the man’s mouth twitched.
“Capture. Okay. Alive or dead?” I prodded.
“Alive,” the perp grunted.
“So, you do work for Nico and Gaetan.”
“No.” He gave a sharp head shake.
“Well, you went to an awful lot of trouble to get into my room. Which, by the way, how did they get in?” I directed at Josh, who had rejoined me in the living room, along with the whispering posse.
“They pinched one of the maid’s keycards,” he replied.
“Of course, so easy. Why my room? Craig wasn’t staying here.”
The pair looked at each other and the man scowled.
“They must have seen him enter your room at some point,” Josh suggested.
“What do you want with Craig?” I waited for a response. “Nothing?”
Josh socked him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mike take a jerking step forward. The guy moved his jaw around, but it wasn’t bleeding or broken. Josh had pulled his punch.
“Is your employer going to be happy if you end up in a Mexican prison?” I tried again.
Nothing.
“Look,” I said conversationally as I picked up the stun gun, pulled my favorite slipper chair forward, and took a seat in front of our guest, “why don’t you just tell us what is going on—or I can have my big friend drag you into the bathroom for some waterboarding and shock therapy.” I would never do that, but they didn’t know it, and Josh looked particularly lethal this morning.
Our intruders remained mute, and I pressed the button on the stun gun, which, luckily for me, still had some juice in it. Zzztt. Frustrated, I zapped his shoulder, and he jerked. Overall, he took it in stride with his teeth clamped shut, but I noticed the woman’s leg began to shake and her eyes darted around in their sockets. I changed tactics and moved the stun gun slowly toward his private parts. He watched with big eyes and pushed back against the chair as far as he could. The stun gun was within millimeters of the family jewels, and he cursed fearfully in a foreign language.
The woman made noises, and I paused to rip off her tape again. “You have something to add to the conversation?”
She licked her lips. “We work for Victor Schaffhausen.”
That’s a new one. I glanced over my shoulder to see Craig’s reaction. He paled visibly, and blindly perched on the arm of the couch. “And what does Mr. Schaffhausen want with Craig?” I asked.
“To make sure the item he sold to Mr. Schaffhausen is genuine. There have been . . . rumors . . . the same item is available on the black market. Mr. Schaffhausen is not pleased. He does not like to be made the fool,” she replied silkily.
Craig drew an audible breath, and a bad premonition washed over me. “Everyone into my room. You two, wait here.” I muzzled our intruders and escorted everyone who wasn’t currently tied to a chair into my darkened bedroom.
Mike closed the door behind us. Mrs. T. swept open the curtains, and the morning light poured in. Craig stood in a corner between the dresser and the wall, looking pale, with his arms crossed. Josh texted madly on his phone. Everyone else took up random stations around the room, but all eyes were turned to Craig.
“Care to explain, nephew?” Mrs. T. asked, perching on the dresser.
He shrugged and seemed to squeeze himself tighter into the corner.
“Come now, Craig, don’t be shy.” Rodrigo took him by the arm and dragged him into the middle of the room. “Tell us all about your dealings with Mr. Schaffhausen. I’m sure it’s a fascinating story.” Rodrigo’s behavior throughout this trip continued to surprise me. Normally a man of happy and relatively passive nature, relying more on verbal persuasion, he’d shown himself to be quite forceful when necessary. Not a side I’d seen from him in the past. “If you don’t tell us, Mike or our Silverthorne contact here can get the information they need.”
Craig shoved Rodrigo away. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Josh’s phone rang and our attention diverted away from Craig. He answered, staring down at the floor. “What have you got for me . . . ? I see . . . uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . interesting. Text me that information.” He hung up, and his gaze swept the room. “Schaffhausen is a Swiss national. He has business interests all over North and South America, including a hotel in Bolivia, a restaurant in San Diego, one in San Francisco, he owns a vineyard in Sonoma, and a handful of bodegas in Bolivia and Peru. He has homes in at least three different countries. He has an affinity for fine wines and . . . art.” Everyone’s gaze swung back to Craig. Josh delivered the cherry on top. “He is also suspected of laundering money for the Bolivian drug cartel. Are you familiar with him?” he directed at Mike.
Mike shook his head. “Never heard of him, but drugs aren’t my wheelhouse.”
A distinct thunk outside my room drew our attention.
“Someone needs to check on our guests,” Mrs. T. suggested.
“I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of this. I’ll go,” Mike volunteered.
“I’ll help him.” As Rodrigo passed Craig, he shoved him hard enough to push the crap weasel onto my bed.
Josh closed the door behind them.
Craig righted himself. “Jeez, he sure woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Oh, Craig, what have you done?” Mrs. Thundermuffin uttered faintly.
“Yeah, Craig,” I said rather nastily, “what did you do? Is there another fake Egyptian death mask out there? Did you have Adolfo make more than one, and that’s what you sold to the man who sent the muscle that’s in my sitting room?”
But Craig wasn’t listening to me. His attention was riveted on his aunt, who had a hand to her mouth. “Oh, Craig, tell me you didn’t.”
He blinked but remained still as a statue.
“Didn’t what?” My eyes bounced back and forth between the pair. “Didn’t what?”
“But why did you keep the fake?” she whispered. “Are you responsible? Did you set the fire?”
“Fake? Fire? What are you—” I glanced back at Josh, who also watched the show with his brows drawn.
“God, no! I’m not responsible for that!” Craig thundered. “How could you think it? I have the utmost respect for those pieces. I certainly never wanted to see them burned.”
The lightbulb finally turned on. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” I held up my palm. “Do you mean to tell me—you actually stole the original Egyptian funerary mask from the Brazilian museum? And sold it to the drug cartel accountant?”
“Money launderer,” Josh clarified, coming to stand behind me.
Craig whipped his attention to me and drawled, “Welcome to the party, you dense halfwit. Yes, Schaffhausen hired me to retrieve the funerary mask.”
“And what about the fire?” Mrs. T. asked in a steely tone.
He stared off into space with a faraway look. “I was there—that night in September. I waited until closing and hid myself in the drop ceiling of the men’s room. When I realized there was a fire, I knew I couldn’t wait until midnight, as I’d planned. The smolder turned into a conflagration in only minutes. I worked my way to the Egyptian exhibit. Smoke poured out of the ventilation system. I could barely breathe, and, at one point, I wondered if I’d make it out alive.”
“Why didn’t you just leave it? Flee? Run away?” I asked.
He shook his head and pressed a hand over his eyes as if trying to blot out the memory. “I’d gone too far to turn back. The smoke got so thick, I had to crawl along the floor to find my way out. I didn’t leave the fake. There wasn’t time. Besides, I figured the fire would cause enough of a distraction. I knew I’d be able to get the funerary mask, and myself, out of the country unnoticed.” He pulled his hand away and met my gaze. “I know what you’re thinking. I couldn’t. I’d already spent Schaffhausen’s deposit. I didn’t have the money to repay him if I didn’t retrieve the artifact. He’s not the type of man one wants to owe a debt to.”
“After your dirty deeds, you left the building to burn?” his aunt accused.
“The fire engines were already on the way. I had no idea the entire exhibit would go up in flames.” His hands flew up in the air. “Had I known, I would have taken . . .” he tapered off.
Crack! Craig’s head recoiled. I have to give Mrs. Thundermuffin props, she could deliver a hell of a smack for such a tiny little woman. “You will make this right, Craig Beaufort Mettler, or the next time you see your mother, it will be behind bars. That I can promise!”
“What do you expect me to do, Aunt Milly? The man’s house is an armed fortress, there is no way I can steal it back without getting killed,” he whined, holding his cheek.
“Well, you’re going to have to try,” she declared.
“I’m telling you, Schaffhausen has his own private army, and better security than the museum I stole it from. Besides, the piece is clearly safer with Schaffhausen than it ever was with the Brazilians.”
“What an arrogant assertion. That artifact belongs to the people of Brazil!” I declared.
Craig snorted and replied sarcastically, “Technically, it belongs to the Egyptians. And let’s not ignore the fact, if I hadn’t stolen it, the damn thing would have burned along with every other piece in there.” A red welt in the shape of his aunt’s hand spread across his face. “You’ve read the articles. That fire started because the air conditioning systems were so old. There wasn’t appropriate fire suppression to save those treasures. If it weren’t for me, that mask would be another pile of ash in the rubble left behind.”
“I see, and now you’re the artifact savior?” I snarled, realizing we were bickering like siblings, and I longed to give Craig a walloping. “Should we give you a medal?”
“Maybe you should.” He stuck out his chest and delivered a snotty little smile.
“Why, you conceited ass—”
Josh grabbed my arm as I raised my fist to sock him. “Whoa, there, Karina. That’s not going to help anyone.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Mrs. Thundermuffin said in a tone sharp enough to cut through our spat. “Let’s all take a breath.”
I stopped fighting Josh’s hold. He released me, and I paced away to cool off.
“Why the death mask?” Josh asked, with arms folded and feet shoulder width apart.
“Schaffhausen’s got a hard-on for Egyptian artifacts, and the Ptolemaic period in particular. He believes he is a descendent of Cleopatra. The artifact is small and relatively easy to obtain.”
“So, this little acquisition isn’t the first piece of illegal artwork Schaffhausen has hiding in his fortress, is it?” I gave Craig the squint-eye, daring him to lie to me.
He didn’t deny the accusation.
I paced in a small circle as the pistons in my head cranked up. I doubted this theft was Craig’s first. Schaffhausen’s collection likely held other “small” items acquired by Craig. I wondered how many museums held Adolfo’s fakes. “Do you know where the artwork is kept? Does he display his dirty deeds out in the open? Or does he hide it?”
“He hides the stolen ones. He’s built a vault for them. Fire resistant. Proper lighting, climate controlled to maintain appropriate humidity levels, and pressure plates beneath the art pieces. Not to mention the foot-thick vault door. That’s after you’ve managed to get past the half a dozen armed guards, dogs, and surveillance cameras surrounding the place.”
“Where is this fortress? In Bolivia or the US?” Josh asked.
Craig paused as if debating whether it would be in his best interests to answer; the little hamsters were running the wheels in his head. “Let’s say I know where the vault is located . . . and I could be more helpful . . . if there was a deal on the table.” Good old Craig—only concerned for himself.
“Fine. What’s the plan, and what do we do about the Hansel and Gretel out there?” I pointed toward the door.
“I’m not sure. Let’s have a conversation with them,” Josh suggested.
Back into the living room we went. Mike and Rodrigo were whispering in the kitchen, while our guests were in the same place we’d left them.
“Any problems?” I asked.
Mike didn’t respond, giving me the silent treatment.
Rodrigo looked over his shoulder. “The woman had fallen over. Probably an attempt to get loose. We took care of it. I was just bringing Mike up to speed on our vacation adventures.”
“Great,” I deadpanned.
Josh and Mrs. T. assessed our two guests. “I’d try the woman, she seems more willing to talk,” she suggested.
Rip. Off came the tape. Josh loomed above the woman. “Why does your boss want Craig? Didn’t he have the item properly assessed?”
She stretched her mouth for a moment before speaking, “He wants Craig to provide his personal assurance that the item is not a forgery.”
“In other words, you plan to beat the crap out of him until he confesses, or until you feel as though he’s telling the truth,” I commented.
“Certainly not. Mr. Schaffhausen simply wishes to speak with Craig.” Her denial wasn’t very convincing, and I rolled my eyes.
“Let’s say, there is a . . . reproduction floating around,” Josh said.
“Not a very good one either,” I added.
“What I can do is send the reproduction home with you,” Josh asserted. “Mr. Schaffhausen can compare the two and be assured that he, indeed, possesses the original.”
The woman glanced at her partner. He didn’t make any sort of response. “You would let us go? And send us home with this . . . copy you speak of?”
Josh put his hands on his hips. “There are conditions.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“Mr. Schaffhausen would be severing all ties with Craig, and we’d need assurances that no harm would come to him or his family.”
“If he possesses the original, as you say, I think that is a reasonable request,” she replied.
I glanced over to Mike, who stood like a statue, wearing the unreadable expression I’d come to know as his FBI interrogation face. He was letting this play out, but I didn’t doubt if we crossed a line, he’d shut down this little drama.
“Okay.” Josh replaced the tape. “Mike and Craig, would you please join me in the bedroom? Rodrigo, Mrs. Thundermuffin, stay out here and keep an eye on Frick and Frack. You know what to do if anyone gets feisty,” he directed at Mrs. T.
I followed the men, but was stopped at the door by Josh. “I think you should stay out here with Rodrigo,” he murmured.
“I don’t think so,” I whispered. “I’m a part of this mission too.”
He drew in a breath. “I don’t think Mike is happy with you right now. I’m walking a fine line, and I need his cooperation.”
“I know he’s not happy. He’ll have to suck it up. After all, this is my hotel room.” My whisper turned into an angry hiss.
“Fine. You can join us. But keep your mouth shut,” he warned.