Mark of the Devil (6 page)

“Power? Money and prestige for making a significant archaeological find is one thing, but power? I have all the power I need.” Shoemaker forced himself to move away. He wanted to touch her, to tear at her clothing, to feel her breasts crushed against his chest, to bite and suck at her nipples while he worked his fingers between her thighs, but then for him, that would be all. She would only laugh at his inability to carry through the promise of his fingers, the promise cancer had denied. She’d tell him to go away, that she could do as much without him.
Goddamn her!
His muted voice cried, and goddamn himself for allowing her to remain in his life.

Taking a deep breath to calm the inner turmoil, Shoemaker went on. “A man named Berkeley has already forwarded paperwork to the Florida Division of Historical Resources, establishing a record of finding something unknown at a precise location. From what Eric says, I feel certain Berkeley has conferred with friends in Washington and may have provided them with the same information.”

“Then stop him.”

“Not as simple as that. I know what the man is capable of doing. Much to their chagrin and mine, our people at Antiquity Finders have dealt with him before. Anasazi excavations in Arizona and southern Utah. That was before I made you chief operating officer of the organization. Additionally, if he shared the information about what he found with others, that would establish the finding.”

“I still don’t see the problem, Henry,” Starla said. “Eric can get the application, destroy it, and submit one in the name of Antiquity Finders, Incorporated. Date it several days earlier, if need be.” With one eyebrow raised, she spread her hands to show the simplicity of the solution. “As for those Berkeley has contacted, we find who and where they are and remove them.”

“And Berkeley? What about Eric’s agreement with the Mason woman?” he asked. “He said you were aware of it.”

“Once the good Dr. Mason is no longer needed…” Starla shrugged her shoulders.

Shoemaker turned back to his wife. “You know what you’re asking me to do, don’t you?”

“Without a doubt,
my dear Henry,”
she said, the last three words coated with sarcasm, “all you have to do is snap your fingers and…your man Striker, for instance. How many times has he taken care of your removal chores? Give him to me, and I’ll put his talents to use.”

Starla picked up her coat and turned to leave the office, saying over her shoulder, “For your dear little wife, Henry. You do want to make me happy, don’t you?”

Shoemaker stood looking out the window after the door closed. Finally he turned to his desk and buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Doreen, get me the man called Striker. He works out of our office in Charleston.”

Charleston, South Carolina

After arriving from Washington, Matt spent more time at the NAARPA office in the Federal Office Building than he’d planned. It was already early evening as he exited the taxi and watched it pull away from the curb. Matt stood for a moment, briefcase in hand, looking at the two-story Georgian with wraparound porches, Tuscan columns, balustraded railings, and the sign on the wrought iron gate that read
Berkeley House.
Behind him, across the street, lay White Point Gardens, part of Charleston’s famous Battery, and farther on, Charleston Harbor with Fort Sumter swimming on the distant horizon. Memories of so many things flashed before his minds-eye as if they had happened only yesterday.

His stepfather, Holice Kirkland, and his dislike for this man who had inserted himself into the family after Matt’s father’s fatal accident; who ultimately brought a stench of disease and death to Berkeley House. Time had allowed Matt a gradual understanding of the bond that had grown between his mother and this dying old man. It had been like a second coming of age, but that had been over four years ago.

Not only the metamorphosis of his feelings for Holice, but his soon-after marriage to Ashley and her acceptance of his family had brought a new beginning to his own relationship with his mother. And for that, he was thankful.

Pushing through the gate and up the steps to the porch, he punched the button for the doorbell. Almost immediately, the door swung open. “Why, Mr. Berkeley, your momma and Miss Ashley are back in the Charleston Room waiting for you. Thought you’d never get here.”

Stepping into the dimness of the foyer, he playfully put his arm around the shoulder of the woman in the nurse’s uniform who stood before him. “Good to see you, Emmy Lou. You taking good care of Momma?”

Emmy Lou chuckled, breaking away and taking the briefcase from his hand. “Now, Mr. Berkeley, you know I am, best she’ll let me. You know how she is.”

Matt laughed. “I know. Independent and ornery as hell, but that’s a good sign.”

“Yes, sir. You go on back, and I’ll bring you your favorite. Dinner won’t be ready ‘til around seven. We got a new cook who’s a little slow. She’s white, but she’s good.”

Matt laughed. “If she can cook a good roast beef the way Momma likes it, we’ll forgive her for being white. But I could sure use that
favorite.
My flight from Washington was so rough, they couldn’t even serve peanuts, let alone anything to drink.”

Moving as softly as he could through the hallway toward the back of the house, Matt heard his mother’s voice. “Come on in, dear. No need trying to sneak up on us.”

Matt shook his head in wonder as he pushed open the door to what the family had long called the Charleston Room. Its wall-sized mural of the Charleston skyline dominated the room with antique whites, pastels, and brick reds melding perfectly with the city’s stonelike grays of centuries past. “Your hearing gets better the older you get. How are you, Momma?” he asked, bending to put his arms around her shoulders and kiss her cheek. Seventy-nine years old, she was still beautiful to him despite the wrinkles, now a little deeper and more pronounced. Her hair was white and beginning to thin, and a walking cane used to steady her movements rested beside her chair.

“I’d do better if you’d spend more time in Charleston and not off gallivanting around doing this, that, and the other. And your poor wife…”

Matt stood and wrapped his arm around Ashley’s waist. “My poor wife is probably so busy doing her detective thing and peeking through life’s little keyholes, she hasn’t even missed me, but…” he added to Ashley, “I sure have missed you, you gorgeous hunk of woman.” Even the short time he’d been away, he’d lain awake at night, envisioning her dark hair, its slightly boyish pixy cut, the same as it had been the first day they’d met. Her face, heart-shaped with a scrubbed, girl-next-door beauty that even makeup couldn’t hide, was the perfect match for a body more willowy than voluptuous. And to top it off, she possessed enough brainpower to match his any day of the week. In Matt’s eyes, Ashley was perfection in every dimension. Even Victoria’s Secret models couldn’t compete.

“And I’ve missed you, too, Gypsy man.” The words had barely escaped Ashley’s mouth before she’d thrown her arms around Matt and was giving him one of her watermelon-sized kisses.

“Oh, yeah,” Matt moaned.

“That’s enough, you two,” Mary Elizabeth Kirkland said, rapping Matt’s backside with her walking cane.

Both laughing and still holding hands, Matt and Ashley moved to a sofa across from Mary Elizabeth as Emmy Lou entered and handed Matt his drink. “Just like you like it, Mr. Berkeley.”

“Glenlivet?”

“No other,” she kidded.

“All right, dear, Emmy Lou’s brought you your whisky,” Mary Elizabeth chided. “Now tell us why you had to go to Washington and why you’ve got to go back to Jacksonville tomorrow. I didn’t know your Aunt Freddie’s house was that important.”

As night settled over the Battery, a short, thickly muscled man carrying a rolled-up newspaper rose from a park bench, moved past the bandstand to the street, then climbed a set of concrete steps to the walkway that ran along and above the waters of Charleston Harbor. The bill of his Charleston Riverdogs baseball cap was pulled down tight over his forehead, shadowing the man’s square-jawed face, his olive complexion already blending with the coming darkness. His back to the harbor, eyes focused on the line of two-and three-story homes fronting South Battery Street and White Point Gardens, he punched in several numbers on the face of a cellular phone and waited until saying, “It’s me, Striker. Mr. Shoemaker said to report directly to you.”

After a brief pause, he continued, “Berkeley arrived from Washington, went straight to his office, and got here, his mother’s house, about thirty minutes ago. His wife’s here, too.” Another pause and, “No ma’am, no idea who he met in Washington, but I think we’ll know before the night’s over. Took me all afternoon, six domestic employment agencies, and a bundle of money to find the right person. Once I found her—a hundred-dollar bill can buy a lot of information from a new cook with no allegiance to the family. If she did what I told her, I’ll be on my way to Washington first thing tomorrow morning.”

Slightly over two hours later, Striker watched the car with Berkeley and his wife pull away from the front of the house. Moments later they were followed by the new cook, let out the front door by a black woman in a nurse’s uniform. As the cook came down the steps and along the sidewalk to the gate, she looked back for a moment and seemed to give a great sigh of relief as the nurse locked the door and turned off the porch light. Lights inside the house quickly followed suit.

The cook, a stout woman in her early forties, pushed through the gate at the end of the walk. Throwing another rapid glance over her shoulder toward Berkeley House, she hurried to an aging Ford Escort parked in the shadows of a large oak tree some distance from the nearest street lamp. Unlocking and opening the door, she shoved her purse to the passenger side seat and slid in beneath the steering wheel.

“You got it?” Striker asked from the back seat.

The woman jerked around. “Oh, God! You scared me! How’d you get in my car?”

“Easy when you know how. You got it?”

The woman grabbed her purse and pulled out a small cassette recorder. “Almost got caught getting it back. That Emmy Lou’s one snoopy black bitch. You got the other hundred?”

“Here.” Striker handed a hundred-dollar bill over the front seat. At the same time, he grabbed the recorder from the woman’s hand.

“What’s on that thing’s not gonna get me in trouble, is it?” she asked. “You’re not gonna do anything to hurt the old woman, are you?”

Holding up the recorder, Striker said, “Whatever’s on this thing’s got nothin’ to do with you or her, and if anything happens after I listen to the tape, it won’t be happening in Charleston, at least for now, anyway.”

The woman let out a shallow swish of breath. “If I didn’t need the money so bad…” She let her words fade away before adding, “Tape probably doesn’t have what they talked about in the dining room, but I heard most of it from the kitchen when I was bringin’ in the food and pickin’ up plates afterwards.”

Striker thought he detected a more-info-will-cost-you inflection in her voice. “Uh-huh,” he hummed, followed by, “You got nothin’ else to do tonight?”

The woman turned back in Striker’s direction, her hand on the seat back for support. “Whatcha mean nothin’ to do? Got two kids at home to take care of. Bein’ a single mom’s not much fun, I clue you.”

Striker studied the woman for a moment. “What about another hundred? Let the kids take care of themselves for a while. You and me, we go for a ride.”

The woman bristled at the thought. “What are you getting at? You think I’m some kinda easy pickup or somethin’?”

Striker reached forward and touched the woman’s hand resting on top of the seat back, a soft touch, nothing rough, nothing to generate fear. “Uh-uh. Just a single mom needing money. Me? A man wanting all the information I can get and willing to pay. Like an escort service.” Taking his hand away from hers, he reached into his pocket, brought out a wad of bills, pulled off another hundred, and held it toward the front seat.

The woman looked at the bill for a moment, then said, “My name’s Connie, short for Constance.”

“Okay, Connie babe, I’ll sit back here; you drive and give me everything you heard at dinnertime.”

As the woman started the engine and pulled out into the street, she said over her shoulder, “I just hope nobody finds out about this, or I won’t be able to find work anywhere in this city. You won’t tell, will you?”

Striker laughed. “Me tell? Don’t worry, lady. It’s like we never met.”