Last Breath

4

C onnor dove into the pool and made barely a ripple. He emerged at the opposite end, then began a methodical series of laps. He’d been here at his home in Maryland, surrounded by woods and little else, for the past week. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since last Thursday-which was, for the most part, fine with him-but this morning he’d gone into the nearest town and spent nearly an hour in the supermarket. The variety of foods never failed to amaze him. He’d spent nearly thirty minutes in the produce section alone, marveling at all the offerings from all over the world. His last few trips to the Middle East had taken him to places where you had to buy your food every day, since there was no refrigeration where he stayed, and where the selection was limited to what the merchants had for sale that day.

He wandered through the store and was pleased to discover an entire aisle dedicated to organic food where he stocked up on cereals and other goods. At the meat counter, he picked up a few steaks, some chicken, ground beef, pork chops. What a luxury to have such choices, he was thinking as he went through the checkout line. Not to mention a refrigerator with a freezer.

He’d stopped on the way home at the local fish market and treated himself to some blue claws, then stopped again at a local produce stand for tomatoes, corn, zucchini, and hot peppers. When he got home, he put everything away, made himself some salsa, and put it in the refrigerator to chill. Then he stripped down, grabbed a towel from the laundry room, and headed out to the pool.

Unaccustomed to being in one place for any length of time, he’d grown restless. He ran every morning-eight to ten miles, regardless of the heat and humidity-and swam for at least thirty minutes after his run, and again later in the afternoon. Bored, he’d called his boss the previous morning and asked when he’d be getting a new assignment.

“I don’t have anything that’s quite right for you,” John Mancini had told him. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a little down time.”

“I’ve had over a week of down time. I’m ready to go back to work. I’m bored.”

“So find a hobby. Take up knitting.”

Connor wasn’t looking for a hobby. He’d already caught up on his reading and taken care of things around the house that needed to be done. He’d had all the time off he felt he could take. Too much time off meant too much time to think about things he didn’t want to think about. Like his dead brother, Dylan, and how he got that way.

He swam his last lap, then drifted on his back to the side of the pool where he hoisted himself up. As he rose from the water, he realized he was not alone. He hesitated for less than a second, then held out a hand and asked, “Would you toss me that towel?”

“And me without my camera phone.”

“Very funny.”

Connor caught the towel in one hand and wrapped it around his waist as he walked toward the lounge where his boss sat. Connor asked, “So, to what do I owe the visit?”

“I was in the neighborhood and just thought I’d stop by.”

“Buddy, there’s no one in my neighborhood.” Connor dropped onto the chair next to John.

“True enough. Tough place to find.” John sat upright, one leg on either side of the lounge. “How did you find it?”

“Realtor. I told him I wanted something secluded and quiet. I think he had me pegged for a serial killer, but he found it for me anyway.”

“Well, secluded you got. I’ll have to stop back with Genna one of these days.”

“You and your wife are welcome any time.” Connor studied John’s face, looking for clues to the reason for his unannounced visit. Finally, he asked, “So what’s up, John?”

“You got a phone call last night at the office. Woman asked for you, wouldn’t speak with anyone but you. She finally left a message for you on my voice mail.”

“And?”

“And I called her back this morning.” John paused. “You know a woman named Daria McGowan?”

Connor nodded. “Yeah. She called?” He frowned. “And you couldn’t have just called me with her number because…?”

“Because she has a problem, one that doesn’t fall into your normal field of expertise. But she insisted that she only wanted to talk to you.”

“Something happen to her?” Connor sat upright, aware that John would not be oblivious to his interest. “Is she all right? Did she say where she was?”

“She’s fine, it’s nothing like that. But she’s in a place called Howeville, Pennsylvania, and she-”

“Shit. She’s in the States?”

“Where is she usually?”

“ Iran, Turkey, Syria…but go on. Why is she in Pennsylvania?”

“She was contacted by the president of Howe University, who asked her to take over a project at their museum. Short version-they want her to set up some displays, exhibits, whatever, in time for the hundredth anniversary of an archaeological expedition that her great-grandfather led sometime after the turn of the century. He apparently found some lost civilization in Turkey and brought back everything he could get his hands on.”

“Cool. Good for her.” Connor smiled. And good for me. She’s within driving distance. “So where’s the problem?”

“The problem is that when she opened the vault where her great-granddaddy’s stash has been kept for the past hundred years and started cataloging the artifacts, she discovered that some of the more important pieces were missing.”

“Stolen?”

“She thinks so.”

“So she called the FBI, that’s good. We have a whole department dedicated to-”

“I told her all that. But she didn’t call the Bureau, Connor. She called you. She doesn’t want anyone else. She doesn’t want the publicity-feels it will look really bad for the university at a time when things apparently aren’t going real well.”

“Okay, I’ll drive up there, I’ll look things over, see if I can confirm that there really was a theft. If these items have been stored away for almost a century, there’s a chance that over the years, a piece was removed to go on display here or there.”

“That’s what I told her, but the president of the college says the last curator of the museum was a real stickler. There’s no notation of that vault ever being opened. She doubts anyone presently at the school-including most of the trustees-would even recall that these items were in storage there.” John shook his head. “She needs the art-theft team, is what I think. I can have that coordinated, but right now she just wants to talk to you.”

“Did she leave a number?”

John took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and passed it to Connor.

“I’ll just give her a call, take a drive up there in the morning, see what’s what. We can always hand off the case if necessary.”

“Connor, you don’t play well with others. If there’s something there, you’re not going to want to turn it over to someone else and walk away. I know you.” John rested his arms behind his head and leaned back. “What I don’t know is why you’d be so interested in a quiet little antiquities theft case. I admit I’m surprised.”

Connor shrugged. “Change of pace. Maybe I’m tired of running all over the globe, chasing down informants.”

“Nice try.” John closed his eyes. “Next.”

“Maybe I like art. Antiquities. Archaeology. Indiana Jones. All that stuff.”

“Who is Daria McGowan, Connor?”

“She’s an archaeologist.”

“That much I know. I’ve got her background. Education, publications. Important digs. She’s very well known on an international level. The Iranians invited her in as a consultant on a big dig. American and female. A very big deal. Not their SOP.”

“Like you said, she’s very well known internationally.”

“How do you know her?”

“I met her in Morocco. Last fall.”

“You’re involved with her?”

Connor smiled. “I only met her once.”

“You met her one time, in Morocco, and you told her you were an FBI agent?” John sat up, frowning. “A bit risky, don’t you think? In that part of the world?”

“Nah. She’s an old friend of Magda’s.” Connor smiled again. “Magda’s been trying to fix me up with her for about two years. We finally met in November.”

“And?”

“And what? We met the one time, and we clicked. It’d be nice to see her again.”

The two men sat in silence for a minute. Finally, John said, “Okay. You drive up there, you check it out. Help her look around for these artifacts; maybe they’re misplaced. Mislabeled. Maybe there’s been no theft.”

“That’s what I just said.” Connor nodded. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

“And if you determine this is really an art-theft case, we’ll turn it over to NSAF.” The FBI’s National Stolen Art Files unit. “They know the best way to track stolen antiquities, they’re the experts.”

“Sounds good.” Connor stood. “You feel like taking a dip, John? I have some extra trunks.”

“No, thanks. I need to be getting back. Genna’s been out of town on a job and should be in soon. I’d like to be there when she gets home.” He got off the lounge and stretched. “Next time, maybe.”

“Sure.”

John followed Connor up the steps and into the house. “I’ll take a bottle of water for the road, though, if you have one.”

“In the fridge,” Connor told him and began to pull on a pair of khaki shorts he’d left on a chair in the sun porch. “Help yourself.”

“Thanks. You want one?”

“Sure.”

Connor joined John in the kitchen a few minutes later.

“I’ll call you as soon as I have a handle on this case,” Connor told him as he twisted the cap off the bottle John had left for him on the counter. “I don’t expect we’re talking about anything the art guys can’t handle, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in seeing Daria again.”

“Fine. Take a drive, check it out, give me a call. With any luck, you’ll be able to turn the case over to NSAF within forty-eight hours and you’ll still have time to take the lady to dinner.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Connor grinned. “I mean, how complicated can it be to figure out if a few old statues or pieces of pottery or whatever have been stolen?”

Connor finished his meal just as the sun drifted behind the trees. He sat alone on the patio that surrounded his pool, at a table with four chairs. He tried to remember whether there’d ever been four people sitting at this table at the same time, and couldn’t remember that there had been. The most people who’d visited had been a whopping three: his cousins Mia, Andrew, and Belinda. Which would have made four at the table, if they’d been sitting outside. Which in December, they had not been.

He settled back to finish off the beer he’d had with dinner and watch the sun set. When it was almost dark, he took the chairs into the garage where he stored them, and since sudden thunderstorms darkened many an afternoon this time of the year, he folded the table’s umbrella. He watched the fireflies dance across the pool, and thought about seeing Daria again.

He’d been truthful with John when he’d said he’d only met Daria McGowan one time. What he hadn’t told John was that after that one meeting, he’d dreamed about this woman over and over. This, he smiled to himself, after months of dodging the efforts of their mutual friend, Magda, to introduce them. It wasn’t that he’d been avoiding her. It was simply that life was such these days that he’d rarely had the time to say more than hello to any woman who might have caught his eye. Which was just fine with him. Connor had an agenda, and he hadn’t penciled in find woman. Maybe someday, but not now. Then again, maybe never. Life was too complicated.

He’d seen Daria from his balcony once before the night they’d actually met. She’d looked pretty and fragile and he’d been intrigued. He’d been on his way to the courtyard to meet her when he was called from the Villa to attend a meeting, and had returned after midnight. By the next morning, she had gone. His loss, Magda reminded him at every subsequent visit.

Then, last November, he’d arrived in Essaouira on a Wednesday morning, tired and dusty and craving a hot shower, a soft bed, and a meal such as Magda’s chef delighted in preparing for the guests. He thought that Magda had smirked when he arrived at the front desk, but there was a group of French tourists behind him waiting to check in, and he let it go. He’d gone to his room and stripped off his clothes and went directly to the shower. A phone call brought a meal fit for a king, and he ate at the table on the balcony and watched the windsurfers out in the harbor. He fell asleep in his chair, and when he awoke, the tray was gone, his back was stiff, and his head hurt. He’d crashed on the bed, fully clothed, and slept straight through until the next morning.

He’d ordered an American breakfast-eggs, toast, potatoes-and a pot of coffee, and once again sat on the balcony to eat. After weeks traveling from desert to mountain and to desert once again, the view of the Atlantic had been as welcome as an oasis. He thought about borrowing a boat from Cyrus. He’d drop anchor in one of the coves and dive in and swim until his arms and legs wore out, then he’d climb onto the boat and return to the marina.

His eyes had strayed to the courtyard, and to the flash of white that moved to the corner table. He’d recognized the hat, white and flowing like the dress she’d worn the day they’d almost met. Smiling, he’d put down his coffee cup and leaned over the railing.

“Please be you,” he’d said aloud. “Take off that silly hat so I can see if it’s you.”

The hat remained on her head, so he grabbed his sunglasses and headed for the door. On his way across the lobby, he ran into a Jordanian he’d once worked with, one of his old field contacts. Trapped, he’d chatted politely, even while he watched a swoop of white move from the courtyard to the gate and disappear beyond the Villa’s outer wall.

He’d caught Magda’s eye, and from the gleam he saw there, he knew that the woman in white was the woman he’d sought, and he knew, too, that she would be back.

“You win, Magda,” he’d said as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. “What time is dinner?”

“The corner table in the courtyard at seven-thirty. Perhaps you will have company.” She poked him in the ribs. “Then again, perhaps not.”

She was already there at the table when he arrived, sipping water with a slice of lemon, looking as fresh as a flower after a gentle rain. She’d looked up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers when he approached the table, and all he could think of to say was a most unoriginal “Hi.”

She’d extended a hand to him, and he’d smiled as he took it. Her appearance was very feminine and soft, despite her casual attire-khakis and a cotton shirt-and total lack of makeup. Her hands were hands that worked in the field, tough and calloused, the nails short and devoid of polish and she was deeply tanned from months in the desert. Images of every other woman he’d ever known flashed through his brain, but none were like her. She appeared to face the world without thought of fashion or embellishment, or even-he couldn’t help but notice-a professional haircut. Hers looked as if she’d cut it herself.

Later, he’d been hard-pressed to recall much of the conversation, except that they’d talked about their families. He’d been surprised to learn that she, too, had lost a brother, but other than that, for the most part, he only remembered her eyes and the sound of her laughter.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, he’d been trying to think of a way to make the evening last beyond the meal when they’d been interrupted. A message had been left for him at the front desk: a meeting he’d expected to attend the following day had been moved forward and would take place in one hour. He’d have to leave the Villa immediately in order to make it on time. There was no question that he’d keep the appointment; it was the reason he was in North Africa. He’d had to make his apologies to Daria and cut their evening short.

He’d given her his card before he left, and asked her to call him when she was back in the States, or when she was planning on coming back to the Villa.

“Call that number and leave a message, it will get to me,” he’d told her. “Anytime. Day or night. I’ll get the message.”

It had been with great reluctance that he’d left her there at the table, alone, on a beautiful Moroccan night.

He’d really expected that in order to see her again, he’d have to travel back to the Villa. But wonder of wonders, here she was, almost in his own backyard, just a little over an hour away. That she’d kept the card all these months, that she’d called him when she needed help, satisfied him deeply.

She remembered me, and she called.

He couldn’t remember the last time anything had pleased him more.