Conspiracy to Murder Page 12

  The street was filled with massive office buildings; there was also a massage place, a Chinese restaurant and somebody’s bar and grill.

  And there was no one on the street.

  It was New York! Where was everyone?

  But it was Sunday. Offices were closed. Whoever was getting a massage was already inside; any diners at the Chinese restaurant were already seated.

  Micah hurried along the street. The mummy couldn’t possibly have changed so quickly.

  Or maybe it had. Maybe the linens had been shed completely and the mummy was just a normal person now, enjoying a delicious bowl of lo mein.

  Micah moved on down the street.

  Yeah, by now, the mummy might be just a “normal” person.

  But Micah was sure it was going to be a normal person he knew. And he was determined to find that person. This time, he was chasing the damned mummy—person, whoever it was—to Jersey or Connecticut if he had to.

  There! Up ahead.

  The mummy was turning onto Fifth Avenue and heading north.

  Micah started to run.

  * * *

  “DO YOU KNOW who it was? Do you have any clue who it was?” Kieran asked Harley.

  It had been a ridiculous, uncomfortable day. She was still half-naked, feeling embarrassed and exposed. Just because one could go topless according to NYC’s equality laws, didn’t mean she had any desire to do so! She was running through the crowd, Kieran keeping pace beside her, anxious to get to a car so she could go home and have a shower.

  A taxi stopped for them when they made it over to Eighth Avenue. The driver grinned wolfishly at Harley, nodding when they gave him her address. A quick conversation with one of Craig’s ME friends had assured them that Harley’s going home for a shower would be fine; if the poison had touched only her clothing, there should be no problem, and of course, once the contaminated linen was analyzed, they’d know what they were looking at.

  “We aren’t even sure there is poison on the wrappings,” Harley said.

  “What do you want to bet?” Kieran asked her.

  Harley didn’t want to bet.

  The mummy had taken her completely by surprise. She’d wanted to knock the thing in the head and rip the linen wrappings from it.

  And instead…

  It had touched her, and only Micah’s arrival had kept her from contact with linen that was possibly doused in nicotine.

  “How the hell is that damned mummy wearing poison and not dropping dead?” she demanded. The driver was staring back at her in his rearview mirror, even more interested than he’d been earlier. She leaned forward, ready to snap at him—and then didn’t.

  What the hell. She dropped back against the seat.

  “Kieran, how is he or she doing it? All that poison?”

  “Wearing something underneath the wrapping, I guess. We don’t have anything analyzed yet, although I’m convinced that was actually an attempt on your life—or a warning for you to back off.”

  “Okay, so the mummy found me. But it looked as if the mummy was running through the crowd, touching anyone and everyone,” Harley said.

  “That was to stop the police or anyone in pursuit,” Kieran told her.

  “Hey!” Harley snapped. The taxi driver was grinning; he was about to take a roundabout route to her building. “No, go straight and then turn right!” she said.

  “One-way street,” the driver said in a singsong voice.

  “And it’s going the way we want it to!”

  They reached their destination and Kieran paid the cabbie as they stepped out; Harley realized she was being rude.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you pay that!”

  “Harley, that’s the least of our concerns at the moment,” Kieran said.

  “They haven’t called? Micah or Craig?”

  “Harley, Micah was in hot pursuit and Craig was headed in to get those wrappings to the lab. It takes time. We’re here. Listen, just smile at the clerk or security guy on duty,” Kieran advised. “He’s staring at you just like the taxi driver was. Now let’s get up to your place.”

  Harley did manage a nice smile for the security guard on duty. He was staring at her, as Kieran had said, but at the last minute sent her a confused smile in return.

  Upstairs, Harley told Kieran to make herself comfortable, and Kieran said she would. Harley showered.

  And showered, nearly scrubbing herself raw in the process.

  She emerged from the shower, wrapped in a robe, and hurried downstairs.

  Kieran was on the phone. She turned to look at Harley.

  “Good call on Micah’s part. Yes, those wrappings were soaked in nicotine.

  There was something odd about the way she was speaking.

  “What is it?”

  “Micah followed the mummy on foot—all the way up to Central Park and the museum.”

  “The New Museum of Antiquity?” Harley said.

  “Yes. And he found a mummy…half-dead.”

  “Mummies are dead.”

  “No, I mean… I’m sorry, Harley. Arlo Hampton is probably going to die. He was found on the floor, stretched out in wrappings, right in front of the Temple of Ra.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The same day Vivian Richter was released from the hospital, Arlo Hampton was rushed in, swiftly ripped out of torn swaths of mummy wrappings.

  This whole thing was his fault, or so it appeared.

  He was both the would-be killer—and his own victim, in the end.

  At least, Harley thought, that was how it appeared. Or how it was supposed to appear.

  It seemed evident that he’d dressed up as a mummy but carefully gloved his hands in plastic before soaking a number of loose and shredded strips of “decayed” linen in nicotine and then heading out to assault a “zombie” crowd. Afterward he’d returned to the museum, only to collapse there.

  Perhaps he had started back in the Sahara. Perhaps his jealousy, his determination to rise in his field, had caused him to attack Henry Tomlinson back at the expedition prep tent. He must have attacked Vivian as a mummy. She’d blacked out and he had dressed her up and when she came to, he’d sent her, crazed, into the crowd, where she’d been saved.

  Today…

  No one really knew his intent. Had he just meant to poison a bunch of random “zombies”? Had he known, perhaps, that Joe Rosello was going to be among the actors? Had he thought Joe knew something and needed to be silenced?

  He’d come up to Harley.

  He had touched her with his poisoned linen rags.

  But he couldn’t have known Harley would be there; Harley hadn’t even known that herself until the last minute. That seemed to make Joe the chosen target.

  Unless, of course, Arlo Hampton had just wanted to indiscriminately poison people in the crowd. None of them could determine the truth as yet. And if Arlo died, they might never find out.

  Arlo might be accused of killing Henry, or the attempted murder of Vivian—and intent to attack Joe Rosello and a number of innocent “zombies” in the crowd. But he’d calculated wrong; he hadn’t taken the right care. He had not been immune to the poison he’d been trying to administer to others.

  They knew this, because Craig gave them whatever information he could over the phone. He and Micah had managed to get to the museum quickly; in fact, Micah had reached it just minutes after everything happened. He’d pursued the mummy from Times Square!

  Harley insisted that she and Kieran needed to get to the museum.

  She didn’t know why; she just knew the whole thing simply didn’t feel right.

  They got there fairly fast. Officers in uniform were maintaining crowd control—the entire museum had been closed down—but someone on duty recognized Kiera
n. Craig was summoned, and the two of them were let through with Craig leading the way past more officers, spectators, and a sea of media at the entry.

  Arlo Hampton no longer there, of course; he’d been rushed to the hospital. Photographers and crime scene technicians were still at work. Apparently, Arlo had been discovered by a pair of teenage girls who remained in a corner of the room, huddled together. They were still in shock. According to them, Arlo had grunted and tried to reach for them when they’d first found him, nearly giving them joint heart attacks. They’d now told their story a few times and were waiting for their parents.

  Rydell and McGrady were there; it remained, after all, a joint investigation. They were with Craig and Micah, trying to create rational scenarios as to what might have happened.

  Micah was looking at crime scene photos on his phone, photos snapped by the security guard first on the scene.

  McGrady tried to stop Harley when she stepped forward to reach Micah.

  “Ms. Frasier, I’m sorry, but you’re in the way.”

  Micah immediately came to her defense. “She’s got more degrees in criminology than the rest of us put together. She knew Arlo. She was stalked by him earlier and he tried to get to her at the zombie walk. Ms. Frasier may have something useful to say.”

  “What’s there to say?” McGrady muttered. “He’s probably going to die. We weren’t there to get him to a hospital fast enough. Nicotine poisoning. Doc just said so—it’s all over the wrappings. Jerk dressed up as a mummy for that damned zombie walk, and now he’s dead by his own hand.”

  “It’s not him,” Harley said.

  “What?” McGrady spun on her.

  “That’s not him—”

  “Harley, it is Arlo Hampton,” Craig interrupted, his tone firm as he frowned at her.

  “Yes, Micah, I know Arlo’s the one who was found here, but that’s not the mummy who was at the zombie walk.”

  “Harley,” Micah said slowly, “trust me. I’ve been running after him. Olympic-style running. I saw him when he turned north on Fifth. I followed this mummy from the zombie walk, and then I followed him down a bunch of streets, and I saw him go through the tunnel entrance to the museum. By the time I got through the maze down there and back up to the exhibit, those two teenagers were screaming.” He was quiet for a minute. “Harley, it had to be him. We can’t find any other mummies in the museum.”

  Harley blinked, looking at him.

  “Yes, sorry, I know,” Craig said, sounding aggravated and weary. “The museum’s full of mummies. I mean living mummies. Living people dressed up as mummies. This place is crawling with security and we—”

  “You’re being an ass!”

  He winced, and quickly apologized. “Yeah, sorry. I just don’t see—”

  “There are so many rooms and tunnels, and I’m telling you, this isn’t the same mummy.”

  “What’s different?” Craig asked her.

  She didn’t know! She couldn’t tell. Judging by the photographs Craig and Micah had shown them, the wrappings appeared the same. True, the mummy walking through the crowd had been stripping off pieces of his wrapping, but that wasn’t what bothered her, since Arlo’s wrappings looked quite disheveled.

  Somehow, this mummy—the mummy in the pictures, the Arlo Hampton mummy—was different. Not the wrappings so much, but…something.

  “You think the cops are incompetent, Ms. Frasier?” McGrady turned his back on her.

  Rydell shrugged apologetically.

  “No, Detective, I think the cops are great. I’ve worked with lots of cops, including some of the ones here right now. Like I told you, I think they’re great. You’re not great. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder a mile wide.”

  “Harley,” Micah said quietly.

  “He’s not just being patronizing and rude, he’s jeopardizing an investigation!”

  “Yes, that’s true, but for the moment…”

  “We’re lead on this,” Craig said.

  “We need to start another search!” Micah announced, his voice booming.

  “This is going to be reported,” McGrady threatened.

  “You bet,” Micah promised him.

  “Rydell, you saw it all.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Rydell said.

  Furious, McGrady stomped off. He seemed to be heading for the exit.

  “Sorry,” Harley murmured.

  “No, you were in the right,” Micah assured her. “Someone find me a blueprint of this place. Let’s get on it. Every room, every display, every office. It’s going to be a long day, folks. We’re going to have to get down to the basement and below. Search everywhere.”

  A man in one of the crime scene jumpsuits approached Micah and Craig; they spoke for several minutes, and then a group of people in crime scene jumpsuits began to emerge from various corners of the exhibit. They were given instructions and dispersed, everyone going in a different direction.

  “Micah?” Harley asked. “May I go to the museum lab? I’d like to see what’s been going on there. I swear to you, I’m not sure how I know, but I’m convinced that the mummy who confronted me in the street didn’t look the same as those pictures of Arlo. Maybe I can find something in the lab.”

  “I’ll keep her company,” Kieran volunteered.

  “All right. I’ll inform the crime scene people,” Micah told them. “I’m going down below. Arlo was the one who showed us all the basement tunnels and entrances and exits.” He watched Harley as he spoke. She wondered if he believed her; he’d stood with her against McGrady, who was being such a jerk, but she had to wonder…

  Just how many mummies could there be running around?

  Living mummies, rather than the dead ones.

  Micah turned away and spoke with the crime scene people again. She noticed that Detective Rydell hadn’t gone with his partner; he was awaiting a discussion with Craig and Micah.

  “Come on through. We’re going to be searching the offices,” one of the crime scene women told Harley and Kieran. “Just follow us.”

  As they left the exhibit space behind and came into an employee hallway, Harley saw that Gordon Vincent, director of the museum, was arguing with the crime scene people. He looked at Harley with annoyance and then pointed at her. “This whole exhibit has turned into a disaster.”

  Harley looked back at him, startled. “Mr. Vincent, I’m sorry you feel that way. I don’t think the exhibit can be blamed for what this person’s doing. The artifacts that were discovered are amazing, sir, and law enforcement will get to the bottom of this.”

  Kieran stepped forward, offering Vincent a hand, “How do you do, sir? We haven’t actually met. I’m Kieran Finnegan, a psychologist with the offices of Fuller and Mira. They’re psychiatrists who spend a great deal of time working with law enforcement. From my field of study, I’d guess that—sad though it is—these horrible events won’t hurt your museum. On the contrary—this will cause an influx of membership and tourism. People love mummies…and mysteries. You’re receiving unbelievable media attention, and while these days may be hard to weather, I believe that in the end you’ll find that the museum itself is in an excellent position, no matter how discouraging a comment that might be on humanity.”

  Vincent turned to Kieran, blinking. “Fine. It’s all closed for the day. Make sure the powers that be within the FBI and NYPD let me know if I can or cannot open my museum in all or part tomorrow!”

  He strode on by them.

  Harley looked at Kieran and laughed. “I’m not even sure what you said myself!”

  “It worked, though. I guess that’s what matters.”

  “You were excellent.”

  “You can be more excellent in this situation. You’re so involved. You need to really think about the people who are connected to the exhibit, and how and why
they might be acting a certain way. You know all the players, Harley, and you have to think about every one of them.”

  “Well,” Harley said, “I guess we can let Joe Rosello off the hook. I’m almost positive that he was the intended victim today. But then I happened to be there. And who knows what was really planned, since—”

  “Harley, are you absolutely sure that Arlo Hampton wasn’t the ‘mummy’ who came up to you at the zombie walk?”

  “Kieran, I’m telling you, it wasn’t him. And remember, Vivian Richter said a mummy came to her, and then, apparently, that mummy dressed her up as a mummy, too, in poisoned linen.”

  “I know,” Kieran said. “But—”

  “But that’s the point, right? Vivian Richter was working in her office. A mummy came in and suddenly she’s a mummy. Isn’t it possible that the same thing happened today?”

  “Of course,” Kieran said. “But everyone’s been searching…and they haven’t found the stash of nicotine that’s being used.”

  They reached the lab and walked through the outer entry; there were paper gowns and caps and booties to be worn inside the room.

  “Really? Do we have to do all this?” Kieran muttered.

  Harley laughed. “Yes! It helps prevent the spread of anything, any bacteria, that might be on antique, long-buried objects from getting out into the world. And it keeps us from bringing in anything that might be harmful to very old stuff.”

  “Okay, makes sense,” Kieran said grudgingly.

  “What I really want to do is get to Arlo’s desk over there. The small one. See?”

  Kieran nodded and followed Harley’s actions as she suited up, donned gloves and booties, and then headed into the actual lab.

  “What bothers me about this is the lack of clear motive,” Kieran said. “It should be obvious, right in front of our faces. These people are dedicated to their work. It means as much to them as anything else in their lives. Maybe more. Most of us live for our mate, spouse, and so on, first—or our children. The instinct to protect a child is strong, except when you’re talking about a person who’s truly mentally impaired. But in our type of science, in psychiatry and criminology, you come across people who are more devoted to their work than to family or friends.”