The Artifact, page 5
“Ms. Sani, please report to conference room one. Ms. Sani, please report to conference room one,” a female voice said in French-accented English.
I removed my small notebook and pen from my blazer and sat at the far end of the table. I had just gotten comfortable when a tall, trim black lady stepped into the room, looked at me quizzically, then took a double take at the sign on the door.
I stood. “Ms. Sani?” I inquired.
This seemed to surprise her, but she recovered quickly.
“Yes…” she said, a bit guarded. Her English was perfect, but her accent was hard to place. I’d seen a documentary about a Safari once, and the guide had sounded similar.
I tried to smile reassuringly, but I’m not sure my mouth obeyed. “I’m Rev Parata, a private detective hired by Mr. Coventry to look into Mr. Kinsey’s whereabouts,” I said, passing a card over to her.
She scrutinized the card.
“Please close the door and have a seat. This will only take a moment.”
Still looking uneasy, she pocketed the card, shut the door, and sat across from me at the table. Her skin was a deep, chocolate brown, the color of wet coffee grinds, but smooth and supple. Her hair, braided into cornrows, almost blended with her skin. She had big, golden-brown eyes, a small, flat nose, generous lips, and high cheekbones.
“Can I get your full name?” I asked.
“Hassana Sani,” she said.
“And your position here is?”
“Intake Supervisor,” she said.
“What exactly is involved in your role, Ms. Sani?”
“Mostly, I make sure all incoming artifacts are properly cared for, tagged, organized, and do not seem to be forgeries.”
I looked up from my pad. “That happen often?”
She made a so-so motion with her hand. “No, not really, but there is always the possibility, especially for items with poor or incomplete provenance.”
I nodded and made a note on my pad. “Are you close to Mr. Kinsey?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not sure anyone here is. He’s a very quiet person, keeps to himself.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Hmm,” she said, looking up at a spot on the ceiling in thought, “I suppose it was Wednesday, two weeks ago.”
“Was there anything strange about the last encounter with him?”
“No. In fact, I was incredibly shocked when Mr. Coventry told me he had stolen the jar. I would have never believed him a thief.”
I nodded and scribbled on my pad.
“What makes Mr. Coventry so sure it was Mr. Kinsey?”
“Oh, he didn’t tell you? He has video of the theft.”
I nodded and wrote that down. The specifics were probably in the file Coventry gave me, but I had skimmed over that section.
“Is it normal for the organization to record employees?”
She looked as if I had asked the dumbest question she had ever heard. “Not only is it normal, it’s mandatory; our insurance requires it. The entire intake department is under constant surveillance.”
“I see,” I said. “Can you walk me through the last day he was here, along with the discovery of the theft?”
She looked a little nonplussed. “Sure, but I’m not sure how accurate it will be. It was mostly just a normal day until after the fact.”
“Just do the best you can,” I said, and tried to smile again.
“Ok,” she said, and looked down for a bit, lost in thought. “Well, it was a pretty normal day. We had a few Greek artifacts come in and a really nicely preserved wooden cross from the 1200’s. But the real prize was the Jar, which didn’t get unloaded until after lunch. We had the crate moved to David’s work area, but he had a couple of other artifacts queued before he could get to it.”
“By David, you mean Mr. Kinsey, correct?” I asked.
“Oh, of course, my apologies,” she said. “Anyway, I had to pick up my daughter from basketball practice, so I checked in on him, then left around four-thirty. He was still working when I left.
The next day, I came in to find David had not shown up. It is very strange for him to miss a day. I think this was the first time, so I called his apartment. He did not answer, so I marked him as a no show. Towards the end of the day, I called Mr. Coventry to let him know.”
“How did Mr. Kinsey travel to work? Did he own a car?”
“I don’t believe so?” she said, dragging each word out and making it sound like a question. “I never saw him drive; he always seemed to walk.”
I thought about it; he lived close enough that walking was definitely possible, but he could have also just taken the bus. I nodded at her.
“What happened then?” I asked.
“Well, Mr. Coventry asked if anything seemed to be amiss, to which I replied ‘No’, then he said he would take care of it. He directed me to handle the existing intake items on Kinsey’s desk myself until he could sort the situation out. So I called home to let my husband know I would be late, then got started inspecting the artifacts in David’s work area.”
“Did Mr. Coventry request you to stay late to make up the work?” I asked.
“No, no, nothing like that. He rarely makes such demands of us. But the Jar is the crown jewel of our old kingdom artifacts, so I wanted to get it done.”
I looked back up at her, studying her. “Is the Jar really that important?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, gravity in her voice. “The Black Pharaoh is a near mythological figure in Egyptian history, thought to be mythology until they found the tomb, mostly destroyed, in 1913. Almost nothing of his reign remains, and a Canopic jar is only second to a full mummy in historical and scientific significance.
Anyway, I stayed most of the night to get the artifacts cataloged, but stopped when I opened the crate for the jar. The top of the crate was loose, and the jar was missing.”
“I might have slept through history in college,” I said. “Can you clue me in on what a Canopic jar actually is?”
She laughed at my self-deprecation. “Not to worry, most people have no idea what they are. Canopic jars are sealed vessels containing the vital organs of the dead, specifically the lungs, liver, intestines, and stomach.”
“What about the brain and heart?”
“They left the heart in the cavity. The brain was removed and presumably destroyed.”
“Ok,” I said. “So, which organ was in this jar?”
She stared at me, surprised. “Oh, no one knows!” she said. “That is one of the things we want to find out, one reason we were gifted the jar. We are pioneering a new technique to view the interiors of the jars with Computed Tomography machines.”
She must have noticed my confusion, because she added, “It’s like an X-ray machine that lets us see inside the jar without opening it.”
I nodded, writing a few more notes. “One last question: was there anything, anything at all, that struck you as strange about Mr. Kinsey?”
She chewed her lip for a minute and her eyes went far off. After a few moments, she was back with me. “Yes, actually. Most of his work was decent, but there were a few times when I had to correct some fairly simple mis-categorizations. I would have expected better from someone with his background, so I remember being mystified at the mistakes.”
“What did he have to say about it?”
“He said he had spent most of his time on a specific period in the old kingdom and hadn’t seen these types of artifacts since college. It was a strange answer, but not implausible.”
“Did you verify his background?”
“Well, no, but I’m sure the employment agency did.”
“What agency did you hire him from?” I asked.
“Probably Searchlight,” she said. “We use them for most of our technical staffing.”
“Is it normal for you to hire through an agency?”
Sani nodded. “We hire supervisory positions directly, but it’s easier to hire through an agency for most positions.”
I closed my notebook. “Thank you very much, Ms. Sani. If there’s anything else that comes to mind, please call me.”
She nodded, smiled a bit uncertainly, then left the room.
Coventry had his security team produce the surveillance videos. The best angle was from a camera placed in front of and to the right of Kinsey’s station. This angle showed a pretty clear view of Kinsey’s face, making identification easy.
I played through the queued video several times, rewinding to watch the damning minute and a half over and over.
Kinsey had worked on another artifact until the last worker left. Then he carefully pried the top of the crate off, removed the jar, wrapped it in several towels, and shoved it into a gym bag. Finally, he placed the top back on the box and left.
Once I was satisfied I’d seen all the detail I needed of the theft, I began scrubbing the video backwards until I saw something different. About an hour before the theft, I stopped scrubbing and hit play.
The video showed Kinsey working at his station when Sani walked up beside him. They talked for a bit; Sani speaking animatedly, Kinsey mostly just smiling and nodding. Then they both waved at each other, and Sani left.
This matched Sani’s recollection and put the time of the theft at five-thirty P.M. I ejected the tape.
Chapter 7
Kinsey's Apartment
New Orleans, Louisiana: 3:19 PM, Tuesday, June 5th, 1984
By the time I left the Cultural Preservation Society’s intake center, my stomach was loudly protesting. I drove down to a little greasy spoon I remembered in this part of town and had the best plate of crawfish etouffee since leaving the city four years ago. Then I jumped back in the cruiser and drove the two miles to Washington Avenue.
I pulled past the apartment complex, scanning the area for anything that looked out of place. The apartments themselves were squat, cinder block structures with cheap tan siding. They were in one big U-shaped building, two stories tall, with doors along the outside and a small, sad courtyard in the middle. There was a gallery on the second floor that wrapped around the front. A central, wrought-iron staircase twisted upwards to connect the courtyard and the upper floor.
A pitiful little sign proclaiming the place ‘Washington Manor’ hung out front. I chuckled inside at the name. Owners of these dives were always calling them the such-and-such ‘estates’, or ‘manor’, or ‘arms’. I already knew the place was a dump just by the name.
Across the street from the apartments, taking up an entire block, was an old cemetery, crumbling stone vaults reaching like dead trees towards the dingy gray sky. A rusty black iron fence surrounded it, topped with triangular points that reminded me of spearheads.
Cars littered the curbs along both sides of the street. Most were old sedans or banged up trucks, though there were a few newer economy cars. Along a side street, I saw a dark brown third-generation LTD; maybe an ‘80 or ‘81 model. There were two men sitting in the vehicle, both white, young, and dressed in button-down shirts. The passenger was eating a sandwich, but the driver had his head on a swivel.
I drove past, not so much as turning my head in their direction, and circled the block. On the far side, well out of sight, I parked the car at the curb, moved my firearm to its holster, and went around to the trunk. I removed a small leather bag, a pair of black leather gloves, a small hammer, and a flashlight, stowing them all in pockets on my blazer.
This done, I walked back around the block casually, staring straight ahead as if I was intent on some destination. I came up behind the LTD, watching the passenger mirror as I approached.
The passenger seemed absorbed in his sandwich, a po-boy from the looks of it. It was overfilled, and with every bite, bits of shrimp and lettuce escaped the clutches of the bread to find freedom on the back of the man’s right hand.
I crossed the sidewalk quickly at a forty-five-degree angle, squatting so my head was level with the window as I reached the car.
The man in the passenger seat turned his head to the open window, eyes widening in surprise as he looked me over. His mouth was too full to speak, but his left hand was pawing around the center console, blindly trying to find the driver’s arm. It finally found the driver’s elbow and clamped down.
“What’s it now, fer christsakes,” the driver complained, and turned to face us. The color drained from his face.
“Can I help you, mister?” he said, voice kind of unsteady.
Definitely not a thug.
I nodded. “You two work for Coventry?”
They shared a brief glance, then the driver nodded.
“Good, we’re on the same team.” I produced my card. “Any activity today?”
The passenger passed my card to the driver, who looked it over before speaking.
“Sorry buddy, I appreciate any help, but we can’t divulge information until it’s cleared by Coventry.” He smiled apologetically.
I nodded again. “Piece of advice? Park farther back and in the shade.”
The driver stared at me for a moment, then nodded. I began walking towards the apartments. Strolling past the complex, I turned the corner and went halfway down the block before I stopped.
A long, single-story warehouse bordered the apartments on the right, and small, dilapidated houses crowded the rear. The upper gallery extended around the building to the sides, offering access to the side windows of some units. None of them had parking spaces. I supposed people just parked on the street or rode the bus.
I circled back around to the front. The manager’s office was in the first ground-floor apartment. A sign on the door declared it closed, and the blinds were down. The window-mounted AC units hanging from most of the apartments were almost deafening.
I walked confidently through the courtyard and onto the stairs, iron creaking in protest. At the top, I turned walked to the last unit, number 214. I knocked hard on the door, scanning the complex through my peripheral vision as I did so. The joint seemed empty, but it was the middle of the day; most folks were probably at work.
After a few moments with no answer, I walked over to unit 213 and knocked. Getting no answer here as well, and still noticing no residents, I stuck my ear to the door. Other than the rattle of the AC, I might as well have been deaf.
I headed back over to 214, leaned against the wall, and fumbled in my left jacket pocket. Opening the zipper on the bag, I kept digging until I felt the teeth of the correct bump key for this brand of lock, then inserted it into the door. I pulled it out slightly and put gentle turning pressure on it. Then, with my other hand, I gave it a sharp tap with the hammer.
The bump key disappeared into the door and the lock popped with a lazy snap. The door swung open into the Luke-warm interior with a muted squeak. I followed it inside, closing the door behind me with my elbow.
The room was dark, the only light being that which reflected off of the closed blinds and onto the walls beside the windows. The smell was musty, and I could just imagine the mold problem it must have. I clicked on my flashlight and examined the room more thoroughly.
It was a wreck. Furniture was tipped over, possessions tossed all about. Trash cans were upturned, contents strewn haphazardly. On the kitchen floor, a green fly was crawling on a black banana peel lying on a mound of old coffee grounds.
I stuck the butt of my flashlight between my teeth and pulled on my gloves. Then I retrieved the flashlight and relocked the front door.
The apartment was small, with the front door opening into a living area, which abutted into a kitchen counter. On the right wall was a doorway that presumably led to a bathroom, while an open door behind the kitchen seemed to lead to the bedroom.
I walked over and half-righted the couch. The cushions were cut open, stuffing ripped out. I let it drop back to the floor.
In the kitchen, all the drawers and cabinets were wide open. Dishes and utensils were mostly still in the cabinets and drawers, but someone had dumped every unsealed box of food large enough to hold the jar into a pile in the center of the floor. Roaches scattered as I played the beam of light over the mound.
The bathroom was empty, the cabinets open, bottles and spare rolls of toilet paper strewn across the floor.
The bedroom was pure chaos. Clothing was piled in the corner, reaching half-way up the wall. Someone had cut the mattress open and ripped the guts out. Little tufts of white material clung to everything in the room. Drawers were pulled out from cabinets, contents dumped into piles, and haphazardly strewn.
On the left wall of the bedroom was a window, blinds pulled like in the rest of the apartment. I pulled the blinds back slightly and examined the window. It led out to the gallery on the side of the building. The latch had been forced, and the window opened easily.
I went back through the apartment one more time, skimming through every bit of paper I could find. There was surprisingly little. I found utility bills, a single credit card statement, and a few receipts. I checked the dates on the receipts; the last one was from three weeks ago. I pocketed the credit card statement.
I was breaking out in a nervous sweat, which was my internal signal I had been inside for too long. Returning to the door, I cut the flashlight off and stowed it. I took a deep breath, composed my face into one of mild boredom, opened the door, and stepped out into the light. I closed the door behind me, turning the thumb latch to the locked position as I did so, and scanned the complex.
It still seemed vacant, the window units still buzzing like some infernal beehive. I descended the stairs and crossed the courtyard casually. As I reached the sidewalk, I briefly scanned the street for the LTD. They had moved it about half a block further back, in the shade.
I hung a left and circled the block, taking a rambling path back to my car and keeping an eye out for tails.
Chapter 8
The Hunt is On
New Orleans, Louisiana: 4:14 PM, Tuesday, June 5th, 1984
Back at 920 Julia, I sat up shop in the conference room. The first thing I did was check Kinsey’s file for next of kin. Finding none, I checked his insurance paperwork to see who his beneficiary was. It was a non-profit, the Society for Esoteric Knowledge. The file included a contact name and number, which I wrote in my notebook.
