their own belts in such a manner? She sure as hell hadn’t seen or read about any. And she was studying criminology.
Nope, never heard of it!
Her friends backed her up, at first. And then, one by one, it seemed, they all decided that the poor professor—so caught up in his love and enthusiasm for his work—had gone mad, even if only temporarily. No one could find a motive for murdering him. Henry Tomlinson had been respected and dearly loved by everyone. No one could find a clue.
The police assigned to them had been incompetent, to Harley’s mind. Authorities in Egypt and in the United States hadn’t done enough.
And the Alchemy people...
They wanted it to be a suicide. They didn’t want to deal with a murder. They accepted the verdict without a whimper.
They were so sorry and sad, they’d claimed, and in hindsight, they could see so many mistakes.
They should’ve known to be more careful!
Henry should’ve known to be more careful!
But in fact, they said, the professor’s enthusiasm for the project had caused them all to bypass modern safety regulations that might have kept him alive.
A great company line, Harley thought in disgust.
And what was the matter with her? They might all have been killed by a crazy insurgent group that hadn’t defined exactly what it was fighting for or against. It was a miracle that they’d gotten out, that they were all alive.
Well, most of them. And Henry, poor Henry, he’d done himself in—according to the authorities and to Alchemy, who went on to say that now they’d never completely understand the biology of what had gone on. They weren’t allowed back on the site; the Egyptian government had stamped a foot down hard.
And that night...
First, they were shuffled to Cairo, then, almost immediately—on the orders of the Egyptian authorities and the US State Department—they were put on planes to Rome, and from Rome they were flown to New York City.
But, thinking back, Harley recalled that it was while she’d been staying at the little Italian hotel near the Spanish Steps that she’d spoken with this man. Fox. He’d wanted to know whatever she knew about the situation, and she’d told him everything, adding that she didn’t believe a word of the official explanation.
There was no way Henry had killed himself.
Special Agent Fox had seemed to accept her version, but apparently he’d been just as stonewalled as she had.
Like her, he’d been forced to realize in the end that no one was going to believe him. Or her.
And even if the authorities had believed him, they didn’t care enough to make a killer pay!
Here, tonight, for the first time in a year, everything about that horrible occasion was suddenly coming back.
Tonight was about honoring Henry Tomlinson. This would be an event during which people would shake their heads sadly, missing the professor who’d done so much, declaring it tragic that he’d lost his mind because of what he’d loved so deeply.
“Ms. Frasier?”
She blinked, staring at the man in front of her, wondering how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.
In a way, she did know him. They’d just never met in person. She’d left the Sahara before he reached it. Then she’d been flown out of Cairo, and soon after that she was back in New York.
“I’m sorry!” she said softly.
He shook his head. “Hey, it’s all right. I know you really cared, and that you tried to do something. It must have been hard to maintain your own belief that he’d been murdered when everyone else was telling you otherwise,” Micah Fox said.
It had been and still was. “Oh, don’t you know?” she muttered. “‘Henry went crazy. Bacteria in the wrappings. He just had to dig in before proper precautions were taken. It’s so tragic—don’t make it worse by rehashing every little thing!’”
Her tone, she knew, was heavy with sarcasm.
They were alone in the temple area—or so she believed. Still, she looked around and repeated, “I’m sorry. I tried... I do believe he was murdered. They did find bacteria, but not enough. Henry was murdered. And I couldn’t do a damned thing to prove it.”
Micah nodded at her. She liked his face. Hard-jawed, somewhat sharp-boned. His eyes, she saw now, were actually blue—sky blue—and they seemed to see a great deal.
“Remember, I was a student of his, too. And now I’m an FBI agent. And I couldn’t do anything, either. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He paused. “I should explain. I knew about you through Craig, of course. And also through Henry. We kept in touch when we could—he’d let me know what was up, what was going on. I went into law enforcement, but I still love Egyptology. Henry thought the world of you.” He shook his head. “I can only imagine what it was like that last night. I hope you’re okay now. Time...heals, so they say.”
“So they say.”
“It heals when you’re at peace with the past.”
“And I’m not,” she said grimly, and added, “And neither are you.”
“No. Anyway, I’d like to find out about the last time you saw him. If you don’t mind.”
“There won’t be a chance tonight,” she said.
“I know. At a later date.”
Harley nodded. “I’ll be happy to speak with you. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”
“You found him.”
“Yes.”
“I’d just like you to go over it with me. I realize it’s painful, but...”
“The verdict was ridiculous! You know what the ME said! That he killed himself.”
“An Egyptian ME, who wanted out of there as quickly as possible, with armed insurrectionists about to attack the place.”
True!
But then...
“The company, Alchemy, brought in a medical examiner, too. He agreed with the Egyptian ME’s findings.”
“I’m sure that all happened in about two minutes in Cairo or Rome. And as soon as they made their decision, Henry was shot through with preservatives and packed into a box. So anything that could be construed as evidence was compromised. I could be way off base. We could be way off base. Thing is, I’d feel better if we could talk.”
“Yes, of course,” she said.
Of course?
She didn’t want to remember that night!
And
