Beautiful Sacrifice: A Novel

burritos and something in two brown paper bags. Jase climbed in, handed over half the grease and one paper bag. They sat swigging water from the anonymous brown bags, wolfing down lousy food, and waiting.

Half an hour.

No one reappeared.

An hour.

Nothing but locals.

Another twenty minutes.

“I’m going in,” Jase said.

“What’s your excuse?”

Jase touched his shoulder holster under his wind jacket. “It’s called a nine-millimeter warrant.”

Hunter started to argue, but got out instead. It was Jase’s butt on the line, so it was Jase’s call.

They walked back slow and quiet. The afternoon was settling into heat with a slanting promise of evening. Eventually. The river birches that had been planted along with the buildings were the only break in the concrete and dirt.

The car with the squeaky brakes was still parked in front of the apartment building. The steps leading from the street to the apartment were still dirty, the security door was still broken, and the staircase to the second floor still complained. The only thing that had changed was the opening in Landry’s door. Now a small pony could walk through without sucking in its breath.

Beyond the door was chaos. Overturned table, chairs, TV knocked down, bedroom door wide open, ripped sheets, and trashed mattress.

“This was a message, not a search,” Jase said.

He drew his pistol, holding it parallel to his leg in case any civilians opened an apartment door. He and Hunter stepped into the destroyed apartment. Hunter went straight to the bedroom.

The blue duffel was gone.

Jase began swearing in the kind of gutter Spanglish his mother wouldn’t have allowed. Hunter joined him.

“Can’t believe they walked out right past us,” Jase said.

“Bet there’s a fire escape at the back. Or they just walked into a ground-floor apartment, threatened the occupants, and went through the window,” Hunter said. “Either way, they’re gone and we’re standing here with refried beans on our face.”

“What now?” Jase asked.

Hunter didn’t point out that it was the other man’s case. “Give me the paper towels and piece of pottery. I’ll drop you at your apartment. Or use mine if it’s too soon for you to be home. Can you run the plates on their vehicle from there?”

“Ten to one it’s stolen.”

“No bet. It’s a piece of junk. The two men were expensive.”

“I’ll do it anyway,” Jase said. “And I’ll see what I can shake out about LeRoy Landry. What are you going to do?”

“Find out what Dr. Taylor can tell me about the pottery.”

“A hot Latina and all you can think about is a broken pot. My man, I taught you better.”

Shaking his head, Hunter stalked out, leaving the apartment as he had found it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

LINA SAT IN HER OFFICE, STARING AT THE LINES SHE HAD SO hastily entered into her electronic notepad. She printed them out and stared some more, hoping to see something other than Hunter’s slow grin and long body.

Nothing new or old spoke to her.

The artifacts have to be fake, she thought.

Unfortunately, Hunter didn’t really care. Fake or straight from the ground on a sponsored dig, he wanted them.

If they’re fake, it doesn’t matter where or how they were “found,” she reminded herself.

The relief was intense.

But she couldn’t afford to assume the artifacts were fake. If they were real, and her family was involved…

“Damn it, Philip. Return my call.”

But her cell phone remained quiet. So did her desk phone. Not that she was surprised. Out on a salvage dig in Belize, Philip couldn’t care less about the rest of the world. Even her use of the word “scandal” hadn’t piqued his interest.

It will take dynamite to get through that limestone block he calls his head.

Lina breathed out a few choice words and nerved herself to do what she didn’t really want to do—call Mercurio ak Chan de la Poole. During the looted artifacts scandal that had shaken her family, Mercurio had logically decided that being mentored by Philip was no longer a fast road to academic recognition. It hadn’t been a difficult decision. Not only was Philip an exacting master on dig sites, he wasn’t going to make room for anyone other than himself at the top of the pyramid. The scandal made a hat trick on the side of Mercurio working alone.

Lina had been there on the hot, steamy night when Mercurio and Philip had unloaded years of mutual tension. Mercurio had left at dawn and had never come back. He had kept in touch with Lina, though.

Sometimes too much touch. Especially after the scandal had died down. Lina never had been sexually drawn to the handsome young Mexican, no matter how delicate or deliberate his pursuit. Yet they had retained an odd kind of remember-when friendship rooted in past digs and present interest in Yucatec Maya artifacts.

Reluctantly she punched in the number Mercurio always made sure she had. The phone rang several times before a male voice answered in Spanish. Around his words she heard the sound of a sea breeze through open windows and the cry of birds. A cross between homesickness and nostalgia swept over her. There was no place on the earth like the Yucatan.

“Hola, Mercurio. It’s Lina Taylor,” she said, mouth dry.

“Lina! It’s so good to hear your voice again,” he said. “It has been much too long.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t get down to Tulum as often as I used to. And when I do it’s to see family or digs.”

“Ah, but you never find time to see my digs,” he said, his voice teasing. “You know that you’re more than welcome anytime.”

“Of course. You’re very gracious, Mercurio. You always have been.”

Somehow Lina managed the long minutes of polite small talk—family and digs and weather, new friends and old—while she waited for the right moment to introduce the reason for her call.

“Though truth to tell, I won’t be on the digs as much as I used to,” Mercurio said. “I’m in line for director of the department. Funny, no?”

“A desk instead of a dig? You never seemed the type. Always happier out in the dirt, like me.”

“Ah well, things change. Except for your father. His only change is to get more…”

“Difficult?” Lina suggested dryly.

She could almost hear Mercurio’s stifled laughter.

“I should thank King Philip for teaching me the importance of being politic,” Mercurio said after a moment.

“Are you kidding?” Lina asked. “Philip hates anything that doesn’t have him measuring a dig level, marking and mapping artifacts in situ, or gently brushing dirt away. He’s the least political academic I know.”

“Exactly,” Mercurio said. “Which is why he’ll be out in the rough instead of on the fairway.”

“When did you take up golf?”

Mercurio laughed. She found herself smiling. Laughter was one of the reasons they had remained friends despite the professional and personal tensions.