Last Breath

8

T he main road leading to Centerville, Delaware, was tree-lined and cool, even under the August sun. Many of the houses Connor drove past were set on wide lawns, the air of wealth and privilege more pervasive than the humidity. Here and there, private lanes led over gently rolling hills that hid handsome homes from curious eyes. Large estates, their boundaries marked by the ubiquitous split-rail fences, sat quietly in the distance.

“I’ve been through this area before,” Daria noted, “when I was younger. One of my aunts took Iona and me.”

She pointed to a sign on the left side of the road.

“That’s Winterthur, down that lane. It’s a museum. It was the home of one of the DuPonts, but I don’t know which one,” she told him. “It houses a world-famous collection of American art and furniture. The grounds are magnificent.”

“Open to the public?”

“Yes.” She turned in her seat as they passed what seemed to be endless fields surrounding the old estate, which wasn’t visible from the road. “I’d like to go back while I’m in the area. I’d like to see it through adult eyes. I imagine I’ll have a different sort of appreciation for their displays. I remember being so impressed with the house, the one time I was there. I must have been nine or so, and we’d just come back from a summer trekking around some ruins somewhere in the Mediterranean, I can’t even remember which ones. So when our aunt told us she was taking us to see a famous old American house, well, of course, we were expecting something completely different.”

“You expected to find ruins.” Connor’s mouth tilted in a smile.

“Exactly.” Daria grinned. “Imagine our surprise when we arrived at this very elegant, gracious manor house, surrounded by beautiful gardens and woods. And inside, the loveliest furniture, paintings, china. My sister and I felt like total bumpkins.”

“Maybe we’ll get to go sometime soon. You can take me on a tour.” Connor glanced at the GPS monitor. “We take the next left.”

“Amazing little device, isn’t it?” Daria stared at the small screen. “Like having a tiny person in your car who always knows exactly where you’re supposed to go.”

“That’s the idea.” Connor put on his turn signal and waited for a truck to pass.

“This is one zippy little car, isn’t it?”

He smiled. “Would you like to drive home?’

“Uh-uh. My most recent driving machines have been a centuries-old Honda and that little Ford I got from the rental place. Very basic transportation. Nothing at all like this.” She touched the dash appreciatively. “I’ve never driven a Porsche before.”

“Then you should take the opportunity while you have it.”

“Maybe another day.” She pointed to the monitor. “If I’m reading this correctly, Damian Cross’s house should be right up there on the left.”

“I believe you’re right.” Connor slowed and turned onto a cobbled drive. He parked in front of a stand-alone garage and turned off the ignition. “Let’s see if Mr. Cross is around.”

“There’s no car, but he has”-she counted-“four, five garage bays to park in. He must own a lot of cars.”

Connor inspected the outside wall of the garage.

“A lot of cars or a lot of something he likes to keep at a controlled temperature.” He pointed to the gauges. “Looks like it’s air-conditioned and heated. Must have something good in there.”

“Too bad the windows have those pesky shades, otherwise we could see.” Daria looked around. “And he sure does like these cobbley stones. Not just the driveway, but the walkway, and it looks like a patio out back and that area around the pool are all made of the same stones.”

Connor followed her gaze. “He’s got quite a place. Old restored farmhouse set nicely off a narrow country road, pretty gardens out back, looks like fruit trees on the other side of the house. Mr. Cross seems to have his own little Eden here.”

“I can’t wait to see the inside of the house.” Daria smiled and tugged on Connor’s arm. “As beautifully restored as the exterior is, I bet the inside is just gorgeous.”

They walked around to the front of the house.

Daria pointed to the foundation plantings. “The landscaping is impeccable. I’d say Damian Cross is a man of some means. Probably has lots of really nice antiques in there.”

“We’ll know in a minute,” Connor said as he rang the doorbell. Immediately, a dog began barking wildly on the other side of the door.

When no one answered the door, Connor rang the bell again.

“I don’t think anyone is home, Connor,” Daria told him. “Between the doorbell and the dog, I think anyone inside would know we’re here.”

The dog continued to bark and scratch at the door.

“Dog doesn’t sound too friendly.” Connor noted. “Think I should leave a card?”

“I think coming home and finding a business card from the FBI might spook him. He might not call. Why don’t we just drive up to Gladwyne and see if the Blumes are home, then check again on our way back?”

“Cross could be at work at this hour. Let’s see how far we are from the Blumes.”

They walked back to the car and got in. Connor turned on the engine, then entered the Gladwyne address into the GPS system.

“A little over an hour,” he said. “It’s almost three. Want to give it a try?”

“Sure.”

He started back the way they’d come, and Daria said, “I guess the new security people should be arriving at the museum right about now.”

“Were you supposed to be there?”

“No. Louise and Stefano Korban, the only archaeology professor on campus this summer, will be meeting them. Louise thought my time was better spent tracking down the artifacts at this point, and I totally agree.”

“Have you met Korban?”

“No. I’m sure I will soon, though. Louise thinks highly of him.” She watched out the window as the scenery changed from country fields and quaint antiques shops to restaurants and gas stations. Up ahead was the Brandywine Battlefield, and farther still, several more restaurants and a small strip mall. Connor swung into the left lane to turn onto a highway that led northwest.

“It’s interesting that for a small school with no money and no real reputation to speak of, Howe has several people on staff who are well-known in the field of archaeology.”

“This Korban guy?”

“Yes. He and the head of the department, Sabina Bokhari. You’d expect to find professors with their credentials at places like Penn or Yale. Not Howe.”

“Why do you suppose they’re here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could probably ask them.”

“Maybe I will.” She smiled and leaned back against the seat.

Forty minutes later, Connor pulled up in front of a large colonial-style home situated on a wide, grassy lot in a very upscale neighborhood. A for sale sign spelled out the name of a real-estate company in red letters, above which a likeness of the realtor, Nancy Keenan, beamed. A phone number ran across the bottom of the sign.

“Well, at least we caught them before they moved,” Daria said as they got out of the car and started across the lawn.

“I’m not so sure of that,” Connor replied. “The house looks vacant. You can see through the front windows clear to the back of the house.”

They walked up to the front door and peered through the side lights.

“You’re right, I spoke too soon,” Daria said. “The house is totally cleaned out.”

“Let’s walk around back.” Connor gestured for her to follow him.

The Blumes’ backyard was a peaceful oasis consisting of a stone patio with a wall on three sides and a koi pond at one end, and quiet, lush gardens in shades of cool greens.

“It’s lovely,” Daria said. “I’d sure be hard-pressed to leave a house like this.”

Before Connor could comment, a car pulled into the driveway at the house next door.

“Let’s see if the neighbor knows anything,” Connor said as he took off across the lawn.

Daria caught up to him just as he was introducing himself to the neighbor, a petite blond woman wearing a short denim skirt and a coral T-shirt. Her face was mostly hidden by very large dark glasses, and she wore sandals of braided leather.

The woman placed a shopping bag bearing the name of a tony-sounding store on the ground next to her car. “I’m happy to see someone looking at the house. We’d love to have new neighbors. With the houses spread out the way they are here, and us being one in from the corner, it’s gotten a bit lonely. We’d love to see the house inhabited again.”

“Did you know the previous owners well?” Connor asked.

“I’d say we knew them fairly well,” the neighbor seemed to choose her words carefully. “They were about twenty years older than we are, so we didn’t socialize a whole lot, except for holidays. Someone in the neighborhood always had a big open house, so we’d see them then. And sometimes I’d see her out on the patio and she’d invite me over for a cup of coffee or something, and we’d chat. So we were friendly, but not the best of friends, if you follow. Still, we really do miss them. They were lovely people.”

“How long ago did they move?” he asked.

“They didn’t exactly move,” she said with some apparent discomfort.

“What do you mean?” Connor frowned.

“Look, the realtor said we shouldn’t talk about it to anyone, that we should just direct potential buyers to her. That’s probably what I should do.”

“We’re not potential buyers,” Connor told her. “We’re trying to track down the Blumes. Do you know how we can contact them?”

“Really, you need to talk to the realtor. Her name and number are on the sign.” She picked up her shopping bag and went through a service door into her house.

“Well, that was odd,” Daria said. “What do you suppose that was all about?”

“Maybe there was some scandal, maybe the Blumes went bankrupt and the bank took the house.” Connor found his phone in his pocket and walked toward the sign. When he got close enough to read it, he punched in the numbers for the real-estate office, and hoped that Nancy Keenan was around.

He was in luck. She was not only there, but willing to show the house right away if Connor could wait five minutes for her.

The realtor drove up the driveway in a brand-new sedan and parked at the end of the drive. She was very fashionably dressed in a short black linen dress and sandals with kitten heels. Her dark hair was expertly cut-a fact that did not go unnoticed by Daria-and she carried a large black bag of pebbled leather. All in all, her appearance was very upscale, as befitted the neighborhood.

“Thanks for waiting, Mr. Shields.” She extended a well-manicured hand. She turned her attention to Daria. “And Mrs. Shields. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, I’m not-”

“We appreciate you dropping everything and coming over to show us the house,” Connor said smoothly, placing a hand on the back of Daria’s neck and giving it a very gentle squeeze. “We were just passing through and saw the sign.”

“It’s a wonderful neighborhood, isn’t it? Did you look around the outside while you waited, as I suggested?”

“We did, yes. Very nice.” Connor nodded.

Fishing her keys from her shoulder bag, Nancy waved them on to the front door, which she unlocked and held open so that Daria and Connor could enter.

“Don’t you love the chandelier here in the foyer?” She stepped past them and went straight to the kitchen. “Let me turn on the air and cool the house down. I usually try to do this before buyers arrive. Would you prefer to wait outside until it cools off a bit?”

“No, we’re fine,” Daria said and winked at Connor. If Nancy thinks this is hot, she’s obviously never been in the Sahara in summer. He got it, and winked back.

“Then let me show you around the first floor. As you can see, the foyer floor is marble-that’s Italian marble, by the way, hand-selected by the previous owners.”

“Really?” Daria said, feigning interest.

“Oh, yes. They oversaw every bit of the renovation, just three years ago,” Nancy assured them. “Everything was replaced, and I mean everything.”

“I noticed the living room has a lot of niches built into the walls,” Connor said.

“The people who lived here were collectors. They had a very valuable collection of ancient pottery and things of that nature.”

Connor went up the steps ahead of Nancy and Daria, looking through every room until he found the master bedroom.

“This is a wonderful space,” Nancy said, coming into the room a few minutes behind him. “Large bedroom, sitting room with a fireplace, two dressing rooms, baths, and walk-in closets.”

“It looks like the carpet in here is brand-new,” Connor noted. “Here in the bedroom, and in the hallway.”

“Yes, it was replaced before the house went on the market.”

“Funny,” he said, “you’d expect the downstairs carpet to have more wear, and require replacing before the bedroom carpet. Especially since everything in the house was replaced within the past three years. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes.” She shifted her gaze to the pull shade in the front window and pretended to fuss with it. “It was an odd color.”

“Was it red?” he asked.

She turned to him and, all the charm now gone, asked flatly, “Who are you?”

He held out his badge. “We’re looking for the Blumes.”

“If you’re really with the FBI, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding out what happened to them. I’m sure you can get the reports-”

“Let’s say we want to hear your version.”

“The Blumes were murdered in this house a few months ago. It’s made it a real hard sell.”

“What can you tell me about it?” Connor asked.

“Very little. Just what was in the papers, actually. The son listed the house, and he didn’t want to talk about it, so I didn’t pump him for information. All I know is what everyone else knows. The Blumes were at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia on a Saturday night, they came home and apparently caught someone in the act of burglarizing their home. They were both killed.”

“The killers ever caught?”

“Not as far as I know. It really cast a pall over the neighborhood, though,” Nancy told them. “Everyone was very nervous for months afterward, though the police said the Blumes were most likely targeted because they had a lot of valuable things in their house and never made any effort to hide that fact.”

“Things from their collection?” Daria asked.

“Yes. They often loaned things to the museum in Philadelphia, that’s how important some of their items were. There was a big article about them in Philadelphia Magazine about a year ago.”

“You mentioned a son…”

“Yes, Martin Blume.” Nancy took a card from her purse and a small notebook. “I can give you his number if you give me a minute, Agent Shields.”

“Take your time.”

“Here we go.” Nancy wrote on the back of the card and handed it to Connor.

“Thanks, Nancy,” he said as he pocketed the card. “We appreciate it.”

“How did you know?” Nancy asked as they started down the steps. “About the blood on the carpet?”

“I could smell it,” he told her when they reached the bottom.

“Great.” She grimaced. “No wonder the house isn’t selling…”

“Who’s next on the list?” Connor asked when he and Daria were back in the car.

“Elena Sevrenson.” Daria’s seat belt closed with a click. She read off the Philadelphia address to him. “Could you really smell blood in that bedroom?” she asked as he programmed the address into the system and started the car.

“Nah. But I could smell the chemicals they used to remove it. That smell lingering in the room for so long, well, that says blood-soaked carpet and the floor underneath to me.”

“Guess that wasn’t such a good idea, having a magazine feature your collection of valuable antiques and artwork,” Daria said. “You think that’s what happened? Someone read about it and decided to rob them while they were out?”

“I think that’s probably how the thief or thieves found out about their collection, but I doubt the robbery took place while the Blumes were gone. They would have had a killer security system in place. As a matter of fact, I recognized the name of the company on the keypad by the front door. They handle a lot of specialty security on the East Coast. I doubt your local burglar could have gotten around it. I think it’s more likely someone was waiting for the Blumes when they returned home that night, made the Blumes unlock the house, robbed them, then killed them.”

“I wonder what they took-and how the Blumes died.”

“We’re about to find out.” Connor speed-dialed a number and waited for the call to be answered. “Will. Connor. How’s it going? Good, good. Listen, I need you to put those legendary computer skills to work for me. Here’s what I need…”

Elena Sevrenson’s eighteenth-century town house was located on the fringe of Philadelphia ’s Society Hill. Like the Blumes’ neighborhood, it was strictly upscale. Connor made several trips around the block before he found a parking space on the narrow city street.

“This is so pretty here. All the houses are so tidy, and so colonial-looking.” Daria’s admiring eyes went from one house to the next.

“These are some of the oldest continuously inhabited streets in America. They’ve been lived in since the 1700s,” he told her.

“I feel as if I should be giving you the history lesson. After all, I’m supposed to be the expert.”

“But probably not in American history.” He smiled. “Which was one of my minors.”

“What was the other one?”

“Political science and English lit.” He checked the address and pointed to the house two doors down. “That’s the place.”

“You had three minors?” She frowned. “What did you major in?”

“Statistics.”

“How the hell did you end up in the FBI?”

“It was sort of the family business,” he said as he rang the doorbell.

The door was answered promptly by a tall, willowy woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

“Yes?”

“Are you Elena Sevrenson?” Connor asked.

She surprised them by asking in return, “Who are you?”

Connor showed her his credentials and repeated the question.

“No. I’m Lily DiPietro, her niece. My aunt died four months ago.”

“Ms. DiPietro, I’m so sorry,” Connor told her. “May we come in for a moment?”

“Sure.” She stepped back. “Agent…Shields was it?” She turned to Daria. “And you’re?”

“Daria McGowan.”

“Please, come in.” Lily DiPietro led them into a living room that was perfectly furnished in a style consistent with the architecture. “May I ask why you’re looking for my aunt?”

“We have reason to believe she owns an artifact that may have been stolen from a museum,” Connor told her.

“That’s impossible.” Their hostess’s stare went cold. “My aunt would never have purchased anything that had been stolen. She was very careful who she bought from, and she had very strong feelings about the black market.”

“She wouldn’t have known the piece was stolen, and the piece did not come into this country illegally,” Daria assured her. “And depending on when she bought it, the piece was probably presented to her with credible provenance. The dealer may not have known.”

“What piece are we talking about?” Lily asked. “Although it hardly matters, since everything was sold after Aunt Elena’s death.”

“May I ask how she died?” Connor ignored her question for the time being.

“She was murdered, Agent Shields. Right here in this house.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Was it a robbery?” asked Daria.

Lily nodded her head and lowered herself to the sofa.

“What was stolen?” Daria sat next to her.

“Just two objects.”

“Would you happen to know what those pieces were?” Daria asked.

“A pair of gold griffins. Turkish, I think they were.”

Daria’s heart jumped in her chest.

“The funny thing was,” Lily continued, “she always had something on display in three cases in the dining room. I’ve been telling her forever that wasn’t smart, that she was asking to be robbed, but she was very stubborn. Her attitude was that she didn’t collect these things to keep them locked away. She wanted to look at them, enjoy them, every day.”

“May we see the display case the items were stolen from?” Connor asked.

“I can show you the cases,” Lily told him, “but the items that were stolen weren’t on display at the time. That’s what’s so strange. My aunt rotated the items every six months. The griffins hadn’t been out of the vault for over a year.”

She led them into the dining room and pointed to glass cases, all of which now held china birds.

Connor stood in front of the first case. There was no lock on the glass door, and he couldn’t help but wonder what a person could have been thinking, keeping something valuable in so seemingly careless a manner.

“There were objects in these cases, but nothing was touched. Just the griffins from the vault. Why they took them and nothing else…”

“Where was the vault?” Connor asked.

“In the basement. She had it built years ago. It was even supposed to be bombproof.” Lily shook her head in disbelief. “Can you imagine going to the expense of building such a thing, and then just putting things on display in your dining room? If I told her once, I told her a million times, Aunt Elena, put it all in the vault or in the bank or give it all away.”

“What pieces did she have on display at the time of the theft?” asked Daria.

“Some pottery jars, I think. But the police have a full report. You can get all this information from them.”

She looked across the room to where Connor stood. “Why were you looking for her anyway? What brought you here?”

“There was a theft from Howe University,” Connor explained, “and though we don’t know exactly when it occurred, we do know what items are missing. We identified your aunt as the owner of two of those pieces-the gold griffins-and we wanted to talk to her about how they came to be in her collection.”

“The griffins were stolen?” Lily frowned. “But I’m sure my aunt had no idea…”

“We’re equally sure,” Connor assured her. “We believe she most likely purchased them from a dealer who could have acquired them from another dealer. That’s one of the things we’re trying to find out.”

“For the past thirty or so years, she-and my uncle, when he was alive-bought from Cavanaugh and Sons on Rittenhouse exclusively. I can’t imagine her acquiring any objects through anyone else. As a matter of fact, they bought the pieces I sold after her death.” Lily walked them back to the living room.

“You sold her entire collection?” Daria asked.

“Except for several Egyptian items she had previously placed on permanent loan to the museum at Penn, yes. I called Mr. Cavanaugh and asked him if he was interested in helping me sell the collection, and of course he was. He sold every single piece. I couldn’t bear to look at any of it. I know that’s what attracted those bastards who killed her.”

“How would anyone have known what she had?”

“The Philadelphia Inquirer ran an article last year about something she’d loaned to the art museum. When they interviewed her, they asked about her collection, and she told them. I said at the time that it wasn’t a smart thing to do, but…” She raised both hands, palms up.

“Would you happen to have a receipt from the dealer you sold to, Ms. DiPietro?”

“Yes, Agent Shields. Would you like to see it?”

“Please.”

When Lily DiPietro left the room, Connor turned to Daria. “Is there a pattern here, or have I been in this business too long?”

“The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up when she said her aunt had been murdered,” Daria whispered. “Connor, who would be-”

“Here.” Lily handed a sheaf of papers to Connor. He glanced at it, then passed it on to Daria. “Take a look.”

Daria studied it page by page. When she reached the end, she looked up at Connor and said, “Mrs. Sevrenson had a most impressive collection. Any one of these pieces would bring a small fortune at auction. It’s hard to believe that thieves would come in, ignore all this, and only take two items.”

“That’s what I told the police,” Lily said, “but they didn’t know what to make of it, either.”

“Ms. DiPietro, are you absolutely certain that the griffins were stolen? Are you positive she hadn’t disposed of them some other way? Could she have sold them and not mentioned it to you? Could she have sold to a different dealer?”

“No, Agent Shields, there would have been paper on a sale.” Lily shook her head emphatically. “There was nothing in her desk about a sale of the griffins.”

“The pieces she loaned to Penn-are you certain they were all Egyptian?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure she didn’t loan anything to any other museums or galleries?” He continued to question her.

“I’m absolutely positive. My aunt was meticulous in her record keeping. Even at seventy-nine, she kept all her books in order.”

“In that case, maybe she left a record of where the griffins came from?” Daria asked hopefully.

“I’m afraid not. My uncle began the collection many years ago. Many of the pieces were purchased by him. He was apparently a very astute collector, but unfortunately, he didn’t keep records very well.”

Lily dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “This whole thing has been so terrible. She was an old woman. Defenseless. They didn’t have to kill her, torture her the way they did. They should have just taken whatever it was they came for and left her alone.”

“May I ask exactly what happened to her?” Connor asked gently.

“It’s in the police report, so I’m sure you can get a copy, but they never did make it public, it was just too grisly.” Lily was openly crying. “The bastards cut off her hands.” She sat on the nearest chair, as if her legs had given out. “And then they cut out her tongue, and left her to bleed to death.”