Magdalena blanched. “No. As I said, nothing’s been damaged or stolen. There’s nothing to tell.”
“Well, I expect both of you to keep it that way.” The mayor jabbed a finger accusingly at the police chief and museum director in turn. “For now, this stays within these four walls. But I want the police presence doubled at the museum and surrounding areas and I want staff on duty at the exhibition around the clock. Are we clear?”
“Clear,” said Magdalena Prieto.
“Clear,” said Comisario Dmitri. “Just as long as city hall’s prepared to pay for it.”
DAYS PASSED. NOTHING HAPPENED.
Jeff Stevens began to grow anxious.
Perhaps Daniel Cooper wasn’t in Seville after all? None of Jeff’s contacts had managed to track him down, and neither, it seemed, had the police. Perhaps the Roman-looking fellow posing as a cop wasn’t Cooper’s accomplice but was acting alone, on behalf of the shady Iranian sheikh? Since Jeff’s little stunt with the letter (a simple matter of tripping the main fuse had disabled all the alarms, while leaving the temperature controls intact), police had been crawling over the Plaza de la Encarnación like flies on shit. Maybe the Roman had thought better of it and left town? Jeff hoped so, but he wasn’t convinced.
It was too dangerous to go back to the exhibition himself. He might be recognized as the electrician who’d arrived to do some “maintenance” the day of the security breach. He really ought to leave Seville, but until he was certain that the Shroud was safe, he couldn’t tear himself away. Instead he hunkered down in his luxury suite at the Alfonso, sightseeing and shopping and trying—without success—to relax.
It was a full six days after Jeff’s letter stunt that he received a letter himself. It was delivered to him by a waiter over at breakfast at the Alfonso. Opening it, he almost choked on his croissant.
“Where did you get this? Who gave this to you?”
The elderly waiter was shocked by the panic in Jeff’s voice. “A gentleman left it at reception, sir.”
“When?”
“A few minutes ago. He didn’t give any indication that it was urgent, although . . .”
Jeff was already running. Erupting out of the hotel’s grand front door, he sprinted down the steps and out of the cobbled driveway into the Calle San Fernando. The streets were relatively empty, but there was no sign of Daniel Cooper.
Five minutes later, Jeff was back at his breakfast table, out of breath, his heart pounding as he read the letter again.
Dear Mr. Stevens,
I was impressed by your efforts at the Antiquarium last week. I see that you are aware of some of my plans regarding a certain object, although I fear you have been gravely misinformed as to my intentions. It would be my pleasure to enlighten you, and possibly even to work with you in this endeavor. The money involved in a successful acquisition of this object would be substantial. I would be prepared to split any fee equally, should you do me the honor of becoming my partner.
Jeff thought, So he thinks I’m greedy. He thinks I’d steal the Shroud for money. I guess he isn’t such a shrewd judge of character after all.
But it was the final paragraph of the letter that really aroused Jeff’s excitement.
I suggest we meet. There’s a little church across the river, San Buenaventura. I trust you not to alert the police but to meet me privately and hear me out. You will not regret it. I will be there on Wednesday night at eleven P.M. Naturally, if you do attempt to contact the authorities, I will not be at the rendezvous and you will not hear from me again.
Respectfully, D.C.
Jeff’s mind raced. He was intrigued by Cooper’s claim that he had misunderstood his intentions. Was the Iranian not involved? Was Cooper double-crossing him perhaps, or in competition with him somehow? Either way, it was hard to imagine any good reason someone might have for wanting to steal the Shroud of Turin. Stealing it for money was better than burning it, but it was still outrageous and flat-out wrong.
Talking to the police was out of the question. Jeff had no doubt that Cooper would find out if he tried anything. He knew him too well to imagine otherwise. Besides which, involving the moronic Dmitri, or the smart but complacent Señora Prieto, had done him precious little good so far.
Perhaps if I meet Cooper, I can talk him out of it? Or string him along, pretend to be interested in the money for long enough to sabotage his plan in some way?
To go or not to go.
That was the only real choice Jeff had to make.
CHAPTER 22
JEAN RIZZO PULLED HIS bag off the carousel and looked around wearily for a cab.
He ought to be feeling elated, or at least excited. The call from Magdalena Prieto at the Antiquarium museum in Seville was the first break he’d had in his search for Daniel Cooper in months. Elizabeth Kennedy’s arrest in New York had felt like a coup at the time. But Elizabeth had promised much and delivered little. Like everyone else who’d worked with Daniel Cooper, she knew shockingly little about the man. Cooper’s motivations, impulses and private life were all closed books. After Lori Hansen’s murder in New York, the trail had gone completely cold. Not even Tracy Whitney could help Jean Rizzo now.
It had been a tough few months for Jean Rizzo in other ways too. His ex-wife, Sylvie, whom he still loved deeply, had met someone. Evidently it was serious.
“Claude’s a good man, Jean.”
“I’m sure he is.”
They were going for a walk in the park en famille the week after Christmas. Jean had missed the day itself, unable to tear himself away from New York in the wake of Lori Hansen’s murder, and was trying to make up for it now. Clémence and Luc had forgiven him on sight, as young children do. For Sylvie, it was harder. Making excuses for Jean’s broken promises had been bad enough when they were married, but was even more of an imposition now.
“He’s a teacher,” Sylvie went on. “He’s thoughtful and reliable.”
Jean frowned. Was this last word a dig at him?
“The kids adore him.”
“That’s great.” Jean tried to be gracious and hide the fact that every word Sylvie said felt like a thorn in his eyeball. “I hope I get to meet him someday.”
“How about Thursday? I thought we could all have dinner.”
Dinner was even worse than Jean imagined. Claude, the bastard, turned out to be one of the nicest people he had ever met: cultured, unassuming, kind and obviously besotted with Sylvie. As well he might be.
And I opened the door, Jean thought miserably. I let him in. If I hadn’t neglected her, if I hadn’t been so obsessed with work, we’d still be together.
Perhaps if he had something to show for his work obsession, he’d have felt better. If Lori Hansen were still alive. Or Alissa Armand, or Sandra Whitmore, or any of Daniel Cooper’s victims. But they weren’t. And Cooper was still out there. Jean was failing at his job, just like he’d failed at his marriage.
He longed to unburden himself to Tracy Whitney. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he felt Tracy Whitney would have understood. She too had made sacrifices in the name of her profession. She had lost in love, seen her family disintegrate around her not once but twice. But unlike Jean, Tracy kept moving, kept looking forward, not back.
Unfortunately, Tracy had stopped returning his calls the day she left New York. Her silence wasn’t hostile but its message was clear: I’ve done all I can, told you all I know. I kept my side of the bargain. Now keep yours and leave me be.
As much as it frustrated him, Jean admired Tracy for returning to her new life in the mountains, and for clinging to her new identity as Tracy Schmidt, philanthropist and mother, quiet private citizen. Was she bored? Probably, sometimes. But boredom was a small price to pay for peace of mind.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Jean walked out of the airport and hopped into a cab.
“Avenida Emilio Lemos, por favor.”
“¿Comisaría?”
“Sí.”
Jean didn’t even have time to go to his hotel and change before today’s meeting, but that was okay. If he wound up finding Daniel Cooper here—if Señora Prieto was right—it would all have been worth it.
“YOU WILL NOT FIND Daniel Cooper in Seville, Inspector.”
Comisario Alessandro Dmitri was angry. Jean Rizzo recognized the expression on the Spanish policeman’s face all too well. It was a combination of anger, resentment and arrogance. Interpol agents got it a lot, especially from disgruntled regional police chiefs.
“Señora Prieto seemed convinced that—”
“Señora Prieto is misinformed. She had no business contacting your agency directly. I’m afraid she has brought you here on a . . . what is the English expression? You are chasing wild geese.”