Last Breath (10 page)

“The killers ever caught?”

“Not as far as I know. It really cast a pall over the neighborhood, though,” Nancy told them. “Everyone was very nervous for months afterward, though the police said the Blumes were most likely targeted because they had a lot of valuable things in their house and never made any effort to hide that fact.”

“Things from their collection?” Daria asked.

“Yes. They often loaned things to the museum in Philadelphia, that's how important some of their items were. There was a big article about them in
Philadelphia Magazine
about a year ago.”

“You mentioned a son…”

“Yes, Martin Blume.” Nancy took a card from her purse and a small notebook. “I can give you his number if you give me a minute, Agent Shields.”

“Take your time.”

“Here we go.” Nancy wrote on the back of the card and handed it to Connor.

“Thanks, Nancy,” he said as he pocketed the card. “We appreciate it.”

“How did you know?” Nancy asked as they started down the steps. “About the blood on the carpet?”

“I could smell it,” he told her when they reached the bottom.

“Great.” She grimaced. “No wonder the house isn't selling…”

         

“Who's next on the list?” Connor asked when he and Daria were back in the car.

“Elena Sevrenson.” Daria's seat belt closed with a click. She read off the Philadelphia address to him. “Could you really smell blood in that bedroom?” she asked as he programmed the address into the system and started the car.

“Nah. But I could smell the chemicals they used to remove it. That smell lingering in the room for so long, well, that says blood-soaked carpet and the floor underneath to me.”

“Guess that wasn't such a good idea, having a magazine feature your collection of valuable antiques and artwork,” Daria said. “You think that's what happened? Someone read about it and decided to rob them while they were out?”

“I think that's probably how the thief or thieves found out about their collection, but I doubt the robbery took place while the Blumes were gone. They would have had a killer security system in place. As a matter of fact, I recognized the name of the company on the keypad by the front door. They handle a lot of specialty security on the East Coast. I doubt your local burglar could have gotten around it. I think it's more likely someone was waiting for the Blumes when they returned home that night, made the Blumes unlock the house, robbed them, then killed them.”

“I wonder what they took—and how the Blumes died.”

“We're about to find out.” Connor speed-dialed a number and waited for the call to be answered. “Will. Connor. How's it going? Good, good. Listen, I need you to put those legendary computer skills to work for me. Here's what I need…”

         

Elena Sevrenson's eighteenth-century town house was located on the fringe of Philadelphia's Society Hill. Like the Blumes' neighborhood, it was strictly upscale. Connor made several trips around the block before he found a parking space on the narrow city street.

“This is so pretty here. All the houses are so tidy, and so colonial-looking.” Daria's admiring eyes went from one house to the next.

“These are some of the oldest continuously inhabited streets in America. They've been lived in since the 1700s,” he told her.

“I feel as if I should be giving you the history lesson. After all, I'm supposed to be the expert.”

“But probably not in American history.” He smiled. “Which was one of my minors.”

“What was the other one?”

“Political science and English lit.” He checked the address and pointed to the house two doors down. “That's the place.”

“You had three minors?” She frowned. “What did you major in?”

“Statistics.”

“How the hell did you end up in the FBI?”

“It was sort of the family business,” he said as he rang the doorbell.

The door was answered promptly by a tall, willowy woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

“Yes?”

“Are you Elena Sevrenson?” Connor asked.

She surprised them by asking in return, “Who are you?”

Connor showed her his credentials and repeated the question.

“No. I'm Lily DiPietro, her niece. My aunt died four months ago.”

“Ms. DiPietro, I'm so sorry,” Connor told her. “May we come in for a moment?”

“Sure.” She stepped back. “Agent…Shields was it?” She turned to Daria. “And you're?”

“Daria McGowan.”

“Please, come in.” Lily DiPietro led them into a living room that was perfectly furnished in a style consistent with the architecture. “May I ask why you're looking for my aunt?”

“We have reason to believe she owns an artifact that may have been stolen from a museum,” Connor told her.

“That's impossible.” Their hostess's stare went cold. “My aunt would never have purchased anything that had been stolen. She was very careful who she bought from, and she had very strong feelings about the black market.”

“She wouldn't have known the piece was stolen, and the piece did not come into this country illegally,” Daria assured her. “And depending on when she bought it, the piece was probably presented to her with credible provenance. The dealer may not have known.”

“What piece are we talking about?” Lily asked. “Although it hardly matters, since everything was sold after Aunt Elena's death.”

“May I ask how she died?” Connor ignored her question for the time being.

“She was murdered, Agent Shields. Right here in this house.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Was it a robbery?” asked Daria.

Lily nodded her head and lowered herself to the sofa.

“What was stolen?” Daria sat next to her.

“Just two objects.”

“Would you happen to know what those pieces were?” Daria asked.

“A pair of gold griffins. Turkish, I think they were.”

Daria's heart jumped in her chest.

“The funny thing was,” Lily continued, “she always had something on display in three cases in the dining room. I've been telling her forever that wasn't smart, that she was asking to be robbed, but she was very stubborn. Her attitude was that she didn't collect these things to keep them locked away. She wanted to look at them, enjoy them, every day.”

“May we see the display case the items were stolen from?” Connor asked.

“I can show you the cases,” Lily told him, “but the items that were stolen weren't on display at the time. That's what's so strange. My aunt rotated the items every six months. The griffins hadn't been out of the vault for over a year.”

She led them into the dining room and pointed to glass cases, all of which now held china birds.

Connor stood in front of the first case. There was no lock on the glass door, and he couldn't help but wonder what a person could have been thinking, keeping something valuable in so seemingly careless a manner.

“There were objects in these cases, but nothing was touched. Just the griffins from the vault. Why they took them and nothing else…”

“Where was the vault?” Connor asked.

“In the basement. She had it built years ago. It was even supposed to be bombproof.” Lily shook her head in disbelief. “Can you imagine going to the expense of building such a thing, and then just putting things on display in your dining room? If I told her once, I told her a million times, Aunt Elena, put it all in the vault or in the bank or give it all away.”

“What pieces did she have on display at the time of the theft?” asked Daria.

“Some pottery jars, I think. But the police have a full report. You can get all this information from them.”

She looked across the room to where Connor stood. “Why were you looking for her anyway? What brought you here?”

“There was a theft from Howe University,” Connor explained, “and though we don't know exactly when it occurred, we do know what items are missing. We identified your aunt as the owner of two of those pieces—the gold griffins—and we wanted to talk to her about how they came to be in her collection.”

“The griffins were stolen?” Lily frowned. “But I'm sure my aunt had no idea…”

“We're equally sure,” Connor assured her. “We believe she most likely purchased them from a dealer who could have acquired them from another dealer. That's one of the things we're trying to find out.”

“For the past thirty or so years, she—and my uncle, when he was alive—bought from Cavanaugh and Sons on Rittenhouse exclusively. I can't imagine her acquiring any objects through anyone else. As a matter of fact, they bought the pieces I sold after her death.” Lily walked them back to the living room.

“You sold her entire collection?” Daria asked.

“Except for several Egyptian items she had previously placed on permanent loan to the museum at Penn, yes. I called Mr. Cavanaugh and asked him if he was interested in helping me sell the collection, and of course he was. He sold every single piece. I couldn't bear to look at any of it. I know that's what attracted those bastards who killed her.”

“How would anyone have known what she had?”

“The
Philadelphia Inquirer
ran an article last year about something she'd loaned to the art museum. When they interviewed her, they asked about her collection, and she told them. I said at the time that it wasn't a smart thing to do, but…” She raised both hands, palms up.

“Would you happen to have a receipt from the dealer you sold to, Ms. DiPietro?”

“Yes, Agent Shields. Would you like to see it?”

“Please.”

When Lily DiPietro left the room, Connor turned to Daria. “Is there a pattern here, or have I been in this business too long?”

“The hair on the back of my neck stood straight up when she said her aunt had been murdered,” Daria whispered. “Connor, who would be—”

“Here.” Lily handed a sheaf of papers to Connor. He glanced at it, then passed it on to Daria. “Take a look.”

Daria studied it page by page. When she reached the end, she looked up at Connor and said, “Mrs. Sevrenson had a most impressive collection. Any one of these pieces would bring a small fortune at auction. It's hard to believe that thieves would come in, ignore all this, and only take two items.”

“That's what I told the police,” Lily said, “but they didn't know what to make of it, either.”

“Ms. DiPietro, are you absolutely certain that the griffins were stolen? Are you positive she hadn't disposed of them some other way? Could she have sold them and not mentioned it to you? Could she have sold to a different dealer?”

“No, Agent Shields, there would have been paper on a sale.” Lily shook her head emphatically. “There was nothing in her desk about a sale of the griffins.”

“The pieces she loaned to Penn—are you certain they were all Egyptian?”

“Yes.”

“And you're sure she didn't loan anything to any other museums or galleries?” He continued to question her.

“I'm absolutely positive. My aunt was meticulous in her record keeping. Even at seventy-nine, she kept all her books in order.”

“In that case, maybe she left a record of where the griffins came from?” Daria asked hopefully.

“I'm afraid not. My uncle began the collection many years ago. Many of the pieces were purchased by him. He was apparently a very astute collector, but unfortunately, he didn't keep records very well.”

Lily dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “This whole thing has been so terrible. She was an old woman. Defenseless. They didn't have to kill her, torture her the way they did. They should have just taken whatever it was they came for and left her alone.”

“May I ask exactly what happened to her?” Connor asked gently.

“It's in the police report, so I'm sure you can get a copy, but they never did make it public, it was just too grisly.” Lily was openly crying. “The bastards cut off her hands.” She sat on the nearest chair, as if her legs had given out. “And then they cut out her tongue, and left her to bleed to death.”

NINE

D
aria's hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. White-faced, she turned to Connor. “Connor…”

He reached for her arm and grasped it firmly, as if he thought she needed to be held up.

“Ms. DiPietro, I'm so sorry to have upset you,” he said gently. “We had no idea…”

The dead woman's niece said tearfully, “It was such a horrible way to die, and she was such a sweet woman. Why would anyone do such a thing? Where would someone even get the idea to do something like that?”

Connor had thoughts on that, but didn't think now was the best time to share them.

Lily turned to Daria. “I can see I've shocked you. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so blunt. I just should have said she was killed during a break-in and left it at that.”

“No, no,” a still-pale Daria insisted. “I'm glad you told us. It's important that we know.”

“Why?”

“Because I can enter the killer's MO into our computer and see if there have been similar murders,” Connor said before Daria could open her mouth. “We might be able to learn something about the killer or killers.”

“I think the Philadelphia police already tried that,” Lily told him.

“Sometimes our computer people can dig things up that someone else might miss,” he said smoothly.

“If you find anything new, you'll let me know?”

“Absolutely,” he promised.

“Then if there are no other questions, I really need to get going. I have theater tickets tonight and I'm supposed to meet a friend for dinner. I was just getting ready to leave when the doorbell rang.”

“We're sorry to have detained you, and sorrier still for your loss.” Connor shook her hand. “I apologize again if we've upset you.”

“Agent Shields, I've been upset since the day she died,” Lily assured him as she walked them to the door. “She was my only relative, and I hers.”

“At the risk of sounding insensitive, may I assume you were the beneficiary of her estate?”

“Except for her bequest to Penn—the pieces on loan became theirs upon her death. As I said, neither of us had anyone else.”

Before he left, he handed her his card. “If you think of anything at all, or if you have any questions, give me a call.”

“I'll do that, Agent Shields. Thanks.” Lily did her best to smile as she closed the door behind them.

“You okay?” Connor put a protective arm around Daria, and even in the summer heat of the early evening, felt her shiver.

“Connor, did you hear…did you get that?” She stumbled over her words.

“Yes. I got it.” His jaw tightened and he slowed his step until they arrived at his car. Once inside, with the engine running, he said, “You know, I'm liking this less and less, the more I think about it. We need to know how the Blumes died. There's obviously a connection between Elena Sevrenson's death and the fact that she had those griffins.”

Daria nodded. “I don't know of any culture other than Shandihar that punished in that specific manner. Her death was clearly a punishment. A condemnation.” She swallowed hard. “But it's almost too crazy to be true. I mean, who outside of a few scholars would even know about any of this? This story isn't at all well-known; it isn't like Tut's tomb. And who would even know that she had the griffins?”

“Anyone who read the
Inquirer
article her niece mentioned.”

“Crap. I forgot about that.”

“First things first.” He took the phone from his pocket and hit redial.

“Will, it's Connor. Where are we with that information I asked you for?” He reached across the front seat and gave Daria's shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Yeah, I know it's only been two hours since I called, but I'd appreciate it if you'd really turn the heat up. I need to know the cause of death…sure, I understand. Tell her she has to wait her turn.”

He placed the phone on the console and checked the rearview mirror for traffic. He pulled out of the parking spot expertly, and headed for the center of the city.

“You agree, though, right? This is all connected?” Daria turned in her seat to face him. “Why else make Mrs. Sevrenson open the safe but only steal the artifacts from Shandihar when there were so many other valuable items right there under their noses? Why kill this woman in exactly that manner unless it's to make a statement?”

She thought that over for a moment, then said, “No, it wasn't a statement. It was a punishment.”

“A punishment for owning something that was stolen from Shandihar?”

“For owning something that was stolen from the goddess,” Daria said. “Those griffins were from one of the tombs in Shandihar, a tomb where one of the high priestesses was buried.”

“Who the hell would know that?” Connor frowned.

“Someone who read Alistair's journals would know,” she replied. “He went into quite a bit of detail about finding them and how he removed them from the tomb. I'll show you the passage when we get back to Howe.”

“How many other people do you think might have read that same passage over the years?

“I have no idea. I don't know where they were kept, or how accessible they were.”

He took a left turn instead of heading toward the expressway.

“We're going to make a quick stop at Mr. Cavanaugh's and see if he sold those griffins to either Mr. or Mrs. Sevrenson. If he was the dealer, he'd remember where he got them.”

“And when,” she pointed out. “The when is important. I think the farther back in time we go, the harder it's going to be to figure out who stole them originally, and how many hands they've passed through since then.”

“Like I said, first things first. And the first thing we need to figure out is where Cavanaugh got the griffins. Next up, did the person who sold them to him realize the significance of the pieces? Where they came from, and that somewhere along the line they were stolen?”

Rush-hour traffic had just eased up, and within minutes, Connor was driving around Rittenhouse Square, looking for a sign for Cavanaugh and Sons.

“I don't see it,” Daria said. “Go around again.”

“Do you remember the address?” Connor asked.

“I didn't really notice,” she admitted. “I take it you didn't, either.”

“I figured Rittenhouse Square, how hard could it be to find?” He pulled into a parking spot on Walnut Street that was just at that moment being vacated. “Let's just get out and look around. It has to be here someplace.”

The hazy August stew of heat and humidity clung to even the smartly dressed women who passed by on their way to the corner where they crossed the street. Nearby, a genteel-looking storefront announced the home of Cavanaugh & Sons, Purveyors of Antiques, in tasteful gold script. In the window, an elegant Victorian settee with red silk upholstery stood next to a delicate candlestick table, upon which sat a Deco-era vase.

“Looks like Cavanaugh's tastes pretty much run the gamut,” Connor observed.

“I guess the antique-furniture market might be a little busier than the market for antiquities these days, especially since there's less and less available in the legitimate marketplace. Most collectors really are ethical when it comes to what they buy. They want to know it's come cleanly, so I'm not surprised to see dealers mixing up their stock. I would imagine one would have to, in order to make a living.”

They walked to the door and as Connor reached for it, a young woman opened it and collided with him in the doorway.

“Oh! Sorry!” she exclaimed, looking up. “I didn't see you.”

“My fault.” Connor smiled at her.

“I was just about to lock up.” She flushed red and glanced at her watch. “We close at seven on weekdays. Would you mind stopping back tomorrow?”

“Actually, we would.” Connor nodded and reached into his pocket for his credentials. He held the ID up for her inspection.

“Oh. FBI?” She glanced from Connor to Daria and back again. “You're with the FBI?”

“Yes. We were hoping to speak with Mr. Cavanaugh,” he told her.

“Which one?” the young woman asked.

“How many are there?”

“Three. David, Colin, and Mr. C.”

“David and Colin are the sons, Mr. C. is the Cavanaugh?” Connor guessed.

“Right.”

“I'm thinking Mr. C. might be the one I'm looking for. Would he have handled any dealings the shop had with Mrs. Sevrenson?”

“Oh, Mrs. Sevrenson.” The woman's face clouded. “Yes, she and Mr. C. went way back. It was just terrible what happened to her.”

“It was. How can I get in touch with him?” Connor asked.

“He's in Maine, on vacation. Is there something I might be able to help you with?”

“We just wanted to ask him a few questions about some pieces from Mrs. Sevrenson's collection.”

“I helped Mr. C. catalog the items. I helped pack and unpack them, too, so if there was something in particular you were looking for…?”

“Ms. DiPietro mentioned that there were two items stolen from her aunt's house the night she was murdered. We were hoping Mr. Cavanaugh could tell us something about those two items.”

“I know that something was stolen, and I know he had to fill out something for the insurance company about the theft, but you'd really have to talk to him about that. I'm afraid I wasn't that familiar with the pieces.” The young woman seemed to backtrack from her previous statement. Clearly, this was something she didn't want to be involved with.

“Do you have a phone number for him?” Connor asked.

When she hesitated, he took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Could you give him a call and ask him to contact me at this number?”

“Sure.” She glanced at the card. “I'll let him know.”

“Please tell him it's very important that we speak as soon as possible.”

“I'll be sure to do that.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Connor took Daria's arm and walked back to the car.

“Connor,” she said when they'd set off for the Schuylkill Express-way, “I'm wondering if maybe we should talk to Damien Cross. Maybe he should know what's going on, what's happened to the Blumes and Mrs. Sevrenson.”

He handed her his phone. “His number should be under last numbers dialed. If he answers, just let him know we'd like to speak with him.”

She scrolled through the numbers until she found it. She dialed, then waited.

“I got the answering machine,” Daria whispered. “Should I leave a message?”

Connor shook his head. “Let's just head back there. I have a really bad feeling…”

“I was hoping it was only me,” she said as she disconnected the call. “What if…”

“Like I said, let's not get ahead of ourselves. For all we know, Damien Cross took a week at the beach.”

“I don't think he would have left his dog alone inside the house if he went away for that long.”

“A day trip, maybe.” He didn't sound convinced.

Connor made a call to his boss, but had to leave a detailed voice mail. He hung up hoping that John wouldn't pull him off this case just yet. It was just starting to get interesting.

By seven-thirty, they were back at the Cross property and ringing the doorbell once again. And once again, the only sound of life came from the barking dog on the other side of the door.

“Let's walk around the back,” Connor suggested. “Maybe there's a door unlocked.”

“Are you going to go in?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

He didn't answer.

Daria followed him around the corner of the house. At the rear, they found a patio with French doors that led from the kitchen. The brown-and-white dog scratched wildly on the other side of the glass.

“Connor, that dog wants out badly.” She walked to the door and leaned down to the dog's level. “What's wrong, pup? Have you been locked inside the house all day?”

I'd bet money it was more than one day,
Connor thought, as he took in how skinny the dog looked.

Daria was just about to say something else when she jumped back from the glass. “Oh, God. Look at the glass.”

Smears of red streaked down the outside of the door like ribbons.

Connor knelt down and studied it.

“It's on the outside of the glass. Looks like a really clear handprint right here, but there's nothing on the handle.” He took something from his pocket, turned his back on her and did something to the door.

“Do you have a tissue?” He asked.

She looked through her bag. “Here's a napkin.”

She handed it to him. “Are you going in there?”

“No, that would be breaking and entering. Not a good idea. But at the same time, I can't help but think Cross might be in there, and he could be injured, or worse.” He held the napkin over the door handle and gave it a turn. “I'm thinking maybe I'll just open the door and call inside. If he answers, I'll go in.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then we go to plan B.” He hesitated, the whining dog now appearing ready to lunge. “Pit bulls aren't known for being all that nice. I hope this one is friendlier than most.”

“Not pit bull. American Staffordshire terrier,” she said. “My parents used to have one, and she was an absolute lamb. I think this poor thing just wants out.” She peered over Connor's shoulder. “See, the dog isn't snarling, it's just whimpering and scratching at the glass.”

“Stand back anyway, just in case.”

“Connor, did you pick that lock?”

“Of course not. I'm a federal agent.”

“How do you know how to do that?” She ignored his halfhearted indignation.

“Spy school.”

“Stop it. Even I know that FBI agents aren't spies. Seriously, where did you learn—”