“No, Henry wouldn’t want to leave his work.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Well, I think they must be about ready to start.”
“Let’s go.” Harley slid her fingers into Jensen’s and they left, nodding to Micah. It was ludicrous, but she was suddenly afraid to be too close to the man. He not only projected strength—he was someone warm when the world had been cold. Too confident, too attractive...
She could easily give in to her feelings of sadness and loss and even anger on a night like this. With a man like this.
She was aware of Micah watching them leave.
And she wondered what he was thinking.
* * *
HARLEY FRASIER, CRAIG’S COUSIN, was certainly a beautiful young woman, Micah thought, watching her leave, hand in hand with Jensen Morrow. He’d been studying her intently for some time before he’d spoken with her. It was evident that she had really cared about Henry. And he knew how Henry had felt about her.
According to Craig, she had wonderful parents and a great older brother, living grandparents, all kinds of family life. Micah’s parents had been lost in a bridge accident when he was a child; his aunt had raised him. Auntie Jane. He loved her and she was a talented and compassionate woman. But she was it as far as family went. He had no siblings, no cousins—no one else anywhere that he knew about. His family went far back in Virginia history; it had simply winnowed down to him and Jane.
His father had been FBI. People had feared the dangers of his job. They’d never imagined that he might die young because of a bridge collapse.
Henry Tomlinson had treated him like a son or grandson. He’d shared his enthusiasm for Egyptology with Micah. Henry had a family he adored. He hadn’t married, but he had a loving niece and nephew-in-law, and he was crazy about their kids.
He’d send Micah pictures of an unusual canopic jar right alongside ones of the kids with their new puppy. That was Henry.
Micah followed the pair who’d just left, wondering if he was indulging himself in an exercise of futility. Was the truth about Henry Tomlinson’s death ever going to be uncovered? Henry had been murdered, which was terrible enough, but it had happened on a night when both the Egyptian government and the US Department of State had been determined to get all the workers away from the site and out of the country. The group who’d planned the attack had called themselves The Ancient Guard.
Apparently, they hadn’t believed that Alchemy intended that the treasures they’d found would merely go on loan to the United States and other countries—and that they’d remain Egyptian property. Maybe they hadn’t cared. And maybe, like most militant groups, what The Ancient Guard wanted, religious and political ideology aside, was a chance to fight and stave off frustration. And probably steal the treasures to finance their fighting.
They’d either been beaten back or dissipated quickly when met with armed resistance.
Micah had gone to Cairo to investigate Henry’s death on an unofficial basis, and then to Rome, where the Alchemy crew had briefly stayed. Their communication had been by phone—he’d been a day behind each time everyone had moved on. And by the time he’d reached the States, it had all been too long.
Henry had been cremated, just as he’d instructed his niece to arrange in the event of his death. Then, of course, it was too late to bring in any experts.
But Henry had never suspected that he might be murdered.
And why would he?
Why the hell kill an academic like Henry? The man had never wanted or kept anything for himself—he’d never tried to slip away with even the smallest, most insignificant artifact. His work had always been about sharing treasures with the world.
Tonight... Well, tonight, Micah could watch. He could see the people who’d been close to Henry in his last days.
The grand foyer of the museum had been chosen for the site of the private gala opening. The center monument here was a massive replica of a temple from Mesopotamia that sat in the center of a skylit rotunda. The museum was beautiful, and just down the street from its larger cousin, the Metropolitan. Many design ideas that worked well in the first had been used in this newer museum. The offices were deep in the basement, for the most part. The museum was dedicated to the ancient world; it was divided into sections that concentrated on the earliest humans to the rich, ancient civilizations of Greece, Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and more.
The exhibition hall that would open to the public in the morning was an admirable addition to the museum. Exhibits didn’t stay forever, but the hall itself would continue to thrive because of the work of Henry and other archeologists and scholars; right now, however, it was all about Henry.
Men and women in pairs and groups stood around the room, chatting, while waiters and waitresses in white-and-black attire moved about with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.
Many of those invited were here because they were sponsoring patrons of the museum. There were also a number of politicians, including the mayor.
None of them interested Micah.
He scanned the crowd, taking note of those he did find intriguing.
Arlo Hampton, young, pleasant, eager. Tall and slim, but handsomely boyish-looking in a suit, speaking with an Egyptian dignitary. Ned Richter and his wife, Vivian. He so robust, she so tiny, both smiling, standing close, chatting with the mayor. And there—between an aging Broadway director and his latest ingénue—Belinda Gray, sans her fiancé, who was still serving in the military. He saw Roger Eastman, wiry and lean, wearing thick-lensed glasses, talking with his hands as he loudly discussed a technical innovation for dealing with the security of priceless historic objects. Across the room, in the midst of a few young female museum apprentices, was Joe Rosello. Joe seemed electrically energetic; he was a square-shouldered guy who could’ve been a fullback. He had a full head of curly dark hair and a very white smile.
Micah had done research on everyone involved with the last stages of the dig. Every one of the workers who’d had access to the tent. It hadn’t been easy finding out about the Egyptian workers. Since they weren’t archeologists or preservation experts, they hadn’t been allowed into the inner sanctum of the camp, where the preparation tent was located. Still, he’d done his best. But everything in him screamed that the guilty party was not Egyptian, but someone among those who should have loved and honored Henry.
Why? he asked himself again. Why the hell would anyone kill Henry? If he could come up with a why...
“Micah?”
He turned. He hadn’t expected to know many people here tonight. His name had been softly voiced by one of the few people he did know, and he knew her fairly well.
Simone Bixby, Henry Tomlinson’s niece.
Simone was in her midthirties, a sandy-haired woman who looked eternally like a girl. She was small and slim and wide-eyed. She was accompanied by her husband, Jerry, a banker, who was equally slim and wide-eyed.
Micah greeted them both.
“Thank you for coming. And thank you for caring so much,” Simone said. “It’s still so hard to accept what they say.”
“Yes, it is,” Micah agreed.
“But tonight,” Jerry said brightly, “tonight we honor his body of work.”
“Yes. An incredible body of work,” Micah said. “How are the girls?”
“Getting big!” Simone answered. “Ten, eight and five now.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen pictures. They’re beautiful.”
“They are. Thank you. They loved their uncle Henry, too,” Simone said.
“We all