1.10

We have to park a few blocks away from the Met (there's an influx of tourists today) and walk to the museum. Flack's on his phone most of the time, talking to Stella about the other case he's working, and I wonder if they've caught the guy or not. Judging from the frustrated sounds coming out of Flack's phone, I'm going to tentatively say no.

"What do you think?" I ask, as soon as he hangs up; the stairs are crowded with people, all of them chattering at the top of their lungs, and I'm not worried about being overheard.

"About what?"

"Zoë."

Flack rubs his hand over his face, thinking. "I don't know. We've been tryin' to find her to unlock the laptop, but if that mook is right then she might be a whole lot more important than that."

Silas Meyer, a mook. I can be down with that.

We're dancing around each other again, Flack and I; the semi-argument in the corridor is going ignored, and so the awkwardness is back. Well, kind of. Mostly on my side. Bah. "I don't like the fact that nobody's been able to find her since it happened. If she knew something about what was bothering Gwen Meyer, then she'd be the natural second target, which implies that Dr. Pearce was third choice. So where's Zoë di Angelo?"

He nods, almost tiredly, and for the first time I can see the exhaustion creasing his face. He's been awake for a long time. I doubt he's had more than an hour's sleep, with two cases to work and both of them meaning late nights and early mornings. "Believe me, Doc, we've thought of – what're you doing?"

Coffee cart. I order two, and glare at Flack. "And you're the one lecturing me for not getting any sleep."

"Doc—"

"Just take it. Okay? You need the caffeine, and don't you dare say you don't."

We glare at each other for a second. Then he caves, and gives me a tired smile, maybe one of the first honest ones I've seen from him. I don't want to admit it, but Don Flack has an amazing smile. "Thanks, Doc."

I pay for my apology coffee and ignore the way that my ears are burning.

It's been years since I last visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and it hasn't changed a bit. The high sweeping ceilings and stone pillars are just the same as they were when I first moved to New York and spent hundreds of Saturday afternoons holed up in the corner, watching the people go by, fascinated by the different personalities. I probably have more practice reading people out of paintings than most of the city, let alone other the other psychology students at CUNY, because other than Aiden and her friends, I pretty much had no real social life.

It's the manager of the ancient Egypt exhibit that comes out to meet us, a nervous-looking man with big ears and mousy hair. The badge on his suit says his name is Christian Sanchez; he's only a few inches taller than I am. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, but our intern made a mistake; we don't need any exterminators. Everything in here is fine."

"Not quite the kind of rat we're looking for," Flack says, and flashes his badge. Christian Sanchez goes white around the gills. "I was wondering if you knew anything about a Dr. Jackson Pearce?"

"Jackson?" He blinks. "Of course I know Jackson. He's organizing a new exhibit for us; it's opening next month. May I ask what—"

"Dr. Pearce was found dead early yesterday morning—"

Mr. Sanchez, not the youngest guy in the world, clutches the lapels of his suit, over his heart. I hope he's not having palpitations. "What?"

"—so I'd appreciate it if you have any information about his movements day before yesterday."

"Where's the new exhibit being set up?" I ask, before Mr. Sanchez can say anything. He points down one of the hallways.

"I-It was an exhibit on New Kingdom art. Dr. Pearce is – was – a world-renowned specialist in that field…he was very…" He trails off lamely. "Now what are we going to do?"

"I have a few questions, if you don't mind, Mr. Sanchez, so if you could get someone to escort the doc here—"

"Of course."

It ends up being one of the interns who takes me down to the wing where the new exhibit is being set up. They've roped off part of the wing in order to keep it private; the intern, a boy named John McEnroe, has to unclip a rope to let me in. There's a camera too, I notice. Not exactly Fort Knox, but if something happened here we'll at least be able to track who came and went. "Is Dr. Pearce really dead?"

"Unfortunately." I pull on a pair of latex gloves (I've been keeping them in my pockets now) and flick on the lights. John McEnroe stands by the wall, watching me do it; he looks highly anxious.

"You shouldn't be going through this. I can get one of the staff, if you want –"

"This is an investigation. I'm investigating."

"Oh." His hands twitch. "Do you know what happened?"

"I can't talk about that, I'm sorry." The place is loaded with boxes, some of them half open; only some of the artifacts are in their glass cases, ready to be shown. Others are boxed away, wrapped and treated and brought up from the bowels of the Met. "So you knew Dr. Pearce?"

"He helped me get the internship here. I just…I can't believe he's dead. Do you have any idea who killed him?"

I think of Aiden, heading over to the Safe House to get a sketch of the man Charlie saw kill Gwen Meyer, and shake my head. "We're working on a few leads. You said he helped you get the internship?"

"Yeah – he taught one of the classes I took last semester, on ancient Greece. I'm an undergrad at Columbia," he adds, shifting nervously. I'm pacing the room, studying the boxes, looking for anything that shouldn't be there. "Um, what are you doing?"

"Were you in this room recently?"

"Well, yeah. Gwen and Dr. Pearce asked me to help them set up."

I nearly drop a small box full of lapis lazuli Eyes of Horus. "Gwen Meyer was working this exhibit too?"

"Yeah, it was her idea. Why?"

I don't answer him. "Is there anything different about this place? From the last time you were in here."

"No?"

There are too many sheets; they're obscuring everything. I finger one, glance at McEnroe for permission, and then fold a corner back; a stone box, the outer sarcophagus. "Is there a mummy in this?"

"No. Some of the sarcophagi…the museum keeps the mummies. That one's on loan from Cairo." His hands spasm. "Um, please be careful with it."

"I'm not going to hurt it." It's made of hard stone, set on a rolling cart, and I wonder how heavy it is; I trace my finger along the edge, rubbing the dust between finger and thumb. Natron, maybe? It smells like salt. Well, that explains how Dr. Pearce had natron on his clothes. "What's this made of?"

"Limestone."

"Is there anything else made of limestone in the exhibit?"

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"It's a lead." I peek under another sheet. A statue made of sandstone, if I'm not very much mistaken; a pharaoh, by the look of the crown and beard. John McEnroe goes a bit limp.

"Of course. You can't tell me, can you?"

"Not without violating a few laws."

His hands clench into fists, and then relax again, in a cycle; jerking like an automaton, he stalks to one of the shut boxes, sits down, and runs his hands through his hair. After a moment, he says, through gritted teeth, "I can't believe he's dead."

"Were you and Dr. Pearce close?"

"Kind of. I mean, he was my teacher, you know? He was…he was a good guy. I was closer to Gwen. Oh, God. They're both dead." He looks up at me, pure terror leaking into his eyes. "Is it because of the exhibit? Oh, hell, I can't ask you that. But if it's because of the exhibit—"

I need to get him off this train of thought. "Dr. Pearce had a tattoo on his hand, an Eye of Horus; do you know why?"

"He and Gwen – well, everyone had one. She told me once that she'd had it done right after getting her bachelor's. Dr. Pearce headed this group at school, okay? It was a bunch of Egyptology students, archeologists, art history majors, that sort of thing, theyall had that tattoo. It's a wadjet eye; in ancient Egypt it was supposed to be a symbol of protection." He laughs. "Kind of stupid, but… It was just a club, you know?"

"A club? What did they do?"

"I don't know exactly what they did. You can't be a member until you're a graduate student. But I heard Gwen and Dr. Pearce talking about it sometimes; it just seemed like this research group, you know? They were all working on the exhibit."

"How many people in the club?"

"Five, including Gwen. Dr. Pearce was the faculty advisor. I guess…I guess you could call me a pledge for it; Gwen was tutoring me. She was…she was really good. Really talented. She was going to publish a book on the New Kingdom."

"On Hatshepsut." When he glances up at me, I shrug. "I've glanced through it. Do you know who else was in the club?"

"Well, yeah, they were all working the exhibit." He begins ticking names off on his fingers. "Um, there was Zoë di Angelo – she's Gwen's girlfriend, she specializes in Amarna art, but she has a double-major in computer science. Ali al-Busiri, who works with hieroglyphs. Nick Yurko – Dr. Pearce is teaching him how to restore artifacts. And, uh, Barbie Harris. Her major is architecture."

He has a good memory. "And what do you think of them?"

He hesitates for a second, and then leans forward. "Well, she doesn't act like it, but Zoë's a bitch. She knows what she wants. She wants Gwen, and she wants fame, and she's never cared who she's had to screw over to get it. You know, they all act like friends, but they're not. They all hate each other."

I scoot around the statue to another box. "Explain."

"David's dating Barbie now, but three months ago she and Nick were like this." He twines his fingers together. "And Ali knew that. But he broke them up so he could have her, and now he's acting like he doesn't even really want her. And Barbie…" he shrugs. "She's the kind of person who wouldn't hesitate, you know?"

"About what?"

"About anything."

"What is it exactly you do here, John?" I eye him. "Except air out dirty laundry."

Pink patches flare up on his cheekbones. "Oh, I categorize. I write things up, you know? I work a lot with the records department. Taking pictures of the artifacts, that sort of thing. You know, Zoë didn't want me helping with the exhibit, but Gwen insisted. They argued about it for a long time. It was…" He shakes his head. "It was pretty bad."

I mull this over for a second. "You don't happen to have any photos of them, do you?"

John brightens a bit. "There's a picture of them in Dr. Pearce's office. I can go get it if you want?"

"That'd be great, thank you."

He bolts out of the exhibit, nearly bumping into Flack on the way out; with a mumbled "Sorry" he dashes down the hall and vanishes. Flack watches him go, and then lifts an eyebrow at me. "You don't have to scare them, Doc."

I pull another sheet aside. More boxes. "So what'd you get out of the curator?"

"Fat lotta nothing. Gotta love New York. Even in the Met, they're like those monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil." He shrugs. "What're you doin'?"

"Checking to see if there's anything in here that has the right sort of limestone to be found in Dr. Pearce's head." Another sheet reveals an open box with a casket inside; the lid's been pushed aside. I check my gloves for tears and then shift the lid over more. It's a set of canopic jars, the paint fading until it's almost the color of concrete. "Oo, fun, human organs."

He chokes on the apology coffee. "What?"

"Nothing. The ancient Egyptians mummified their organs." I put the lid back on the box. "Except for the brain. The brain they pulled through the nose and threw out, because obviously, the heart did all the thinking. The brain was just stuffing to make sure your head didn't collapse in on itself."

"Now, that's just nasty."

I grimace in agreement, and move to another statue. "You wanna hear what I just heard?"

He relaxes. "I knew sendin' you with the intern would be a good idea. Interns always know everything."

I refuse to think about what this means when it comes to the Safe House, and work my way through the boxes, going over what John McEnroe just told me. Once I'm done, Flack stands and starts to look through the exhibit with me, too antsy to sit still. Even exhausted, he's buzzing with energy; there's another twist in this weird weaving project we're trying to unravel. "I'll bet those other three names are the people we're gonna be hearin' the most about when we talk to Mandy Boylan."

Somehow, I agree with him. "We'll need to track them all down as soon as possible. I don't like the fact that there have been two deaths and one disappearance within this group in the past two weeks. I think it would be a fair estimate to say that the Wadjet Eyes are being targeted."

"For what, though? The antiquities trade? There's a lot of money in this room." An eyebrow lifts. "And…the Wadjet Eyes?"

"What else are we going to call them?"

He grunts. "We'll get a list of artifacts and have one of the techs check up on it. If there's anything missing, that might give us a direction."

"So what's our timeline?" I smack my hands clean of limestone dust. "Gwen Meyer was worried about something she thought was a betrayal. She resigns from her job at the art gallery – probably to keep working on this exhibit, which, conveniently, she didn't tell the gallery owner – and then had an argument with her girlfriend days before her death. The girlfriend vanishes. Gwen Meyer is killed."

"Jackson Pearce visits the Met the day he dies after comin' into contact with natron, which, according to Lord Fussy outside, couldn't have happened in the museum because they don't have any mummies at the moment."

"That he knows of." I point at the sarcophagus. "That has natron on it. I think."

Flack nods. Point. "Nobody sees Dr. Pearce after six o'clock. He turns up beaten to death in Battery Park ten hours later, prob'ly after being tortured. Gwen Meyer's computer is locked down. The girlfriend's still missing." He rubs the back of his neck. "Any thoughts at this point would be fabulous, Doc."

I hesitate. "I need to get into Gwen Meyer's apartment. It's the same thing with the notebook; I can read more about her from her apartment than from hearsay, especially considering her brother was a dead end."

"Done. I'll talk to the sister." He slams the lid on one of the boxes. "Maybe she'll have some idea what that goddamn password is."

"Here it is, Detective." John McEnroe slides back into the room, holding a photo frame in both hands. His glasses are slipping down his nose; he shoves them back up again. Mr. Sanchez is bustling after him, buzzing like an angry bee. I don't correct him on the title as Flack takes the photograph, angling it so I can see.

It was taken at Jefferson Park; a picnic. Gwen has her arm around the neck of a girl with caramel-colored skin and narrow eyes; the other girl's kissing her cheek. Dr. Pearce is sitting on Gwen's other side. I recognize the other three faces from Gwen's MySpace account; the one with bright blue hair must be Barbie Harris. She's curled against one of the guys, maybe Ali al-Busiri. From what I can tell, they all have the Eye of Horus tattooed on the web of skin between left forefinger and thumb.

"When was this picture taken?" Flack asks, as I move away and start walking clockwise around the room, checking to see if there are any boxes I've missed. John keeps an anxious eye on me.

"Maybe six months ago? We've been working on this exhibit for over a year. It was a big project, for all of us. Gwen took that job at the art gallery just to get some experience in how to lay out a good showing. Ran herself ragged."

There's a chip of limestone on the tile, part of what looks like a spear. I shove the bundled tarps off of the last box, and open it. It's a bunch of smallish statues, each about the length of my hand, thick-set; they look almost like more sarcophagi, the kind that are shaped like human beings, slate gray and intricately carved with hieroglyphics. There are eleven. I set the chip of stone from the petri dish against the next statue, comparing; it's a perfect match, color, angles, everything. "Flack!"

"Yeah."

"Who's lead CSI for this case?"

"Stella, why?"

I tuck the petri dish, complete with rock, back into my pocket, and step away from the box, carefully covering it back up. "I think I just found the murder weapon."

Christian Sanchez faints dead away.

Technically, none of the statues in the box are the actual murder weapon. There's one missing. There should be twelve elaborate ushebti, the little clay or, in this case, stone 'servants' that were buried with pharaohs to continue serving them in the afterlife, in that box, and now there are only eleven. John McEnroe nearly has a heart attack when that little fact comes clear, and we have to run and grab some more smelling salts for Mr. Sanchez, who's clearly not able to deal with the whole thing.

Now, at least, we have some idea of what we're looking for. We can only hope that the statue isn't at the bottom of the river.

Flack manages to get into contact with Mandy Boylan about two hours into the crawl through the exhibit; she can't come down to the 12th, which means that Flack has to drive to Albany to talk to her. Ergo, I can't go, because I can't afford to miss another full day at work.

Stella and Danny are still processing the rape case, so we have to wait for Aiden to show up with her sketchbook in tow before learning anything definite. The session with Charlie seems to have gone well; she shows me a craggy face with blue eyes and acne pockmarks, just like Charlie described to me, before tucking her drawing pad back into her kit and processes the box. No blood, she tells me, and too many fingerprints; Mr. Sanchez, taking deep whiffs of his smelling salts, chokes out that all the fingerprints of the people who work at the museum are in a digital database that he can grant us access to. Which, hopefully, can rule out the prints that are supposed to be there.

I give my card to Sanchez and John McEnroe, and so does Flack, and then we leave.

"You look like hell," David tells me frankly, when I finally stumble back into the Safe House and settle at the kitchen table, peeling open a bag of Circus Animal cookies. They're bright pink and purple and white, and, somehow, they take the edge off my temper. Across the table, Minzy taps away on a laptop; Simon sits next to her. He's watching her, not the document, and I wonder if she realizes how smitten he is with her.

If we do end up giving Simon an actual job, this could end up being a problem. I cut my eyes to David, but he's still focused on his book. I don't doubt that he's noticed, though. David notices everything.

Then again, in a month or two Minzy will be eighteen, and if she wants to stay in the Safe House, she's going to have to work too. She won't be a minor anymore, and therefore we can't help her, not according to our bylaws.

"No blood today, at least." Not fresh blood, anyway. Dead bodies, sure, but no fresh blood. Is it bad that I think this is a good thing? "How'd everything work out?"

"Surprisingly well, truth be told. Simon was lost in the Z drive for a while, because you file things funny, but other than that, no dramas."

"I don't file things funny."

Simon grins at me. "Whatever you say, Dr. Carter."

I stick my tongue out at him. David laughs, and steals the bag of Circus Animals from me. "You're giddy."

"I'm tired," I correct, but I'm happy too, more than I should be. Which is bad, because I'm only supposed to be this happy working with homeless kids. Damn it, I knew getting involved with this was a bad idea. "And I haven't eaten all day, ergo, I'm dizzy. Return the cookies, please."

He gives them back, though with a toll tax. Part of the reason I love Circus Animals is that absolutely everyone looks ridiculous eating them over the age of seven; watching an almost fifty year old black man with a shaved head and a scorpion tattoo on his neck eat them is close to hilarious. I cough to hide my laughter, and grab a few cookies myself before Minzy takes the bag. "So, I met with Clary today."

Minzy's fingers stumble on the keyboard, and she has to backspace. She doesn't look at me. Simon, however, comes to abrupt attention. David takes another cookie and keeps quiet, but he's not turning another page. "Really."

"She says that if it comes down to it, she can only fight a legal battle she has good footing in. She wants to talk to you, Minzy."

"About what?" Minzy says, wary.

"About your stepfather."

More typing. I think Simon's put her to work cataloguing old cases; people we haven't seen in years and she's probably never met. We can't let her near the current cases, because she is a current case, but the old ones she can upload to the Z drive, so they're not languishing in the back of some file cabinet. Simon glances at me, and then back to Minzy. "Min?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk to Clary?"

"Not particularly."

"It's only a precaution." She says nothing; I grit my teeth and forge ahead. "Just in case anything happens, Minzy. I know you don't want to get involved in a long legal battle, and neither do I, but if he does try to take you back, then we want to be prepared."

"He won't."

"He will, Minzy. People like him…that's how they think."

"No, he won't."

"That's a possibility." I take a breath. "I don't think it's a good idea to not saddle up at all, Minzy. Just in case something does happen—"

"I don't have to talk to her if I don't want to." She looks at Simon. "Right?"

"Well—"

"Do I or don't I?"

Simon glances at me, and then says, "Technically, no, you don't, but—"

"Then I don't want to."

"Minzy!"

She slams the laptop shut and stalks away from the table. A few seconds later, I hear the front door bang shut. Simon gets up to follow her, but David shakes his head.

"Leave her be, Simon. She needs to work through this on her own."

I hope that means she'll come back.

The rest of the evening is fairly quiet. I help Simon and David finish off the bag of Circus Animals, check the kitchen (I need to go get more cans of soup) and then head upstairs to work on returning emails. Mostly stuff from Clary and some other homeless shelter directors from around the city, but there's also a note from Rosario, asking if she can visit New York during spring break next year.

Wow. March. March is way further ahead than I've been thinking at the moment. Mostly it's just been a 'get through it day by day' thing. I write her back, telling her I have to ask David before I can give her anything definitive, but I'm pretty sure he'll say yes. I can't help it; I've missed my niece. And if it's just her coming out for spring break, and not her mother, maybe this trip will actually work out well.

I end up watching a steampunk anime movie with Matt and Maguire (who look freaked out that I even offer to sit with them, let alone seem to be enjoying Steamboy). It's highly entertaining, albeit scientifically inaccurate (all that steam squashed into a ball the size of a big watermelon? Please.). For once, it lets me talk to them; Matt agrees with me that the steam ball is completely fantastical, and rips into Maguire when he says, in a scathing voice, "It's anime, what did you think it was going to be, accurate?"

Apparently, Matt is an anime buff; also, there is such a thing as a reasonable anime. Though she can't come up with a title off the top of her head.

They're still arguing about it when I claim exhaustion and head up to sleep.

Gwen Meyer's apartment is on West 131st Street, on the fifth floor of one of the condominiums that line the street across from Christ Temple Baptist Church. It's not Stella who meets me at the door, though – it's Danny and Adam, Adam looking nervous, Danny texting absently. He has his story ready before I can even say anything.

"Stella's off for the day. She was up late reprocessing a case." He stifles a yawn. "We all were."

"I wasn't," Adam says.

"That's because you're working this one and didn't have anything to do until now." Adam shrugs a bit, and Danny scowls. "Anyway, I'm still on shift and I was dead bored, so I thought I'd tag along."

"Feel free. It might be kind of boring for you, though. I'm just gonna look around."

"Fine by me." He winks, and holds up a keychain. "Besides, I'm the one who has the keys."

The apartment itself is pretty neat; it looks like some of the papers haven't been touched for days. There's not an excess of Egyptian stuff, maybe a few prints on the wall and a pyramid-shaped paperweight, but that's about it. Some of the furniture looks like it's been picked up off the street. I know that a lot of college students do that sort of thing; hunt around alleys looking for decent couches, chairs, etcetera, so they can just pick up a new couch and not have to deal with money issues. There's a dust cover on the couch, made of white yarn and copper beads; it looks homemade.

Adam's humming under his breath as he pulls a pair of latex gloves from his kit, snaps them on, and hands me another pair. It sounds like that song from A Nightmare Before Christmas, the one about Halloween. Somehow I'm not surprised.

"Has anybody processed the apartment?"

"Not actively. I mean, uniforms have gone through it for wallets and ID and stuff, but it's not a primary crime scene, so…" He shrugs. "Virgin territory."

Which doesn't explain the gloves. I tuck mine in my pocket. I don't like wearing them if I don't have to. "You have a camera, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm just gonna wander around for a minute, and then I'll let you know if I need anything photographed."

Danny drops the keys back into his pocket. "And I am gonna stalk you, because I wanna see how your crazy voodoo gig works."

"Fine." It's not like I'm going to be talking aloud. Though… "Voodoo?"

He shrugs a bit, offering no excuse, and I stifle a grunt of exasperation. How many of these scientists don't believe in psychology?

Oh, hell. Why am I thinking like that? I sound like a conspiracy theorist. Psychology isn't a theory; the question of belief is irrelevant. It simply is.

The rooms are organized, a mix of messy and tidy. There's a desk with a space for a laptop that is no longer there; the rest of the surface is covered in papers, drafts of chapters of Gwen Meyer's book. There are some other things too, essays and computer disks that might end up being homework assignments. The top drawers are filled with bills and pencils. There's a photo of Gwen and Zoë, and another copy of the picnic photograph, and a picture of an older couple that have to be Gwen's parents. The mother has bright blonde hair. The picture of Zoë is set to the foreground; this is Gwen's desk.

If I was going to call Gwen and Zoë anything, it wouldn't be roommates; the second bedroom is being used as a storage area. The main bedroom is a cacophony of clothes and books and papers; the bed is still unmade.

"Looks like somebody's done a runner," Danny says mildly, as I prod my feet through the pile of clothes. The drawers are still open, and it looks like a bag is missing from the closet.

"Has anyone been in here before us?"

"No, we were just knockin' on the door, checking with friends. Usual deal."

I check under the bed; no dice. Nothing hidden. Then the phone messages. Typical stuff; there're a couple of calls from Flack, the latest one from this morning, just in case Zoë comes back to the apartment, but not much else of note except for a message from Dr. Pearce about Gwen's thesis. Or book, I should say.

There's no shredder, which makes things infinitely easier; I pull my gloves on, crouch by the recycling bin, and upend it onto the apartment floor. Papers skid everywhere, old bills, drafts of the book, and a flurry of paper pieces that are stupidly easy to rearrange.

It's a printed email to someone with the screenname at a Gmail account: a list of artifacts that should be going into the exhibit, probably sent over from the different museums that have put them on loan. Everything from the Met is there, and a handful of other things that someone's marked with stars and question marks. Gwen's been copied on the email, which simply reads, Thought you might like to know.

"Someone has a cruel sense of humor."

"I'll say." Danny points at the sender's name: missingsomething at a free email network. "If this is a one-time-only address…that's just kinda sick."

Adam hesitates. "I can…track them down. If you want?"

"That'd be great."

"Gimme a minute." He leaves the room, probably heading back down to the crime lab van I spotted on my way in here. Without a word, I help collect the rest of the trash, settle the pieces in a paper bag, and let Danny tape them up.

"So maybe Flack was right." I sit back on my heels, staring at the garbage can. "So maybe they were killed because they figured out someone was running antiquities through the exhibit to sell them. We'll have to search for the missing pieces if we want to figure out who it is." And it would also explain the 'it' the man Charlie saw had been blabbering on about. "Which means it had to be someone working the exhibit, because no one else would be able to edit the documents that came with the artifacts without someone noticing."

"Zoë di Angelo?"

"Maybe. It'd explain why she's unreachable." I think of the photographs, and hesitate. "I don't know, though. It looks like she was really in love with Gwen Meyer. She might be running because she thinks she'll be dragged into the conspiracy if she stays. Either way, we still have to find her."

"We're workin' on that, Doc."

"I know." Beating the dust from my jeans, I stand up, and head for the kitchen. Danny finishes his bag and tag and trails along behind. "Nothing from the airports, train and bus stations…?"

"Nobody remembers seein' her and there's nothing on the security tapes." He scruffs a hand through his hair. "So I'm thinkin' she's still in the city. There's no car registered to her or Gwen Meyer, so she couldn't drive out, and none of the rental places in town talked to her. Believe me, we've checked."

I can't think of anything that contradicts that idea, so I pick through the cabinets. Dishes. Cups. A few boxes of microwavable ramen. "All this place is telling me is that Gwen Meyer would have told Zoë if she thought something was wrong."

"So…if Flack's right, and that paper does mean someone was stealin' artifacts…then they're killing the people who know in order to keep it quiet?" He drums his fingers on the dining table. "That's…kinda irrational. That'd attract attention, which is just what this person doesn't want. Why not just threaten 'em, instead?"

"Murder isn't rational, Danny."

A cell phone rings. I wait for Danny to answer, but he doesn't move; he's watching me with eyebrows raised. "Aren't you gonna pick up, Doc?"

"Not my phone. Is it Adam's?"

"No, his is AC/DC."

We stare at each other for a second, and then bolt to find the phone.

The sound is stifled, but loud; it's coming from somewhere nearby. I start pulling open drawers again. Danny goes through the papers on the counter. The phone stops, and then starts again. Finally, we find it; shoved up behind the knife block, attached to a charge cord. The name on the screen says Restricted. Danny glances at me, and then answers it, putting it on speaker; he doesn't want to hold it against his ear and corrupt DNA evidence. "May I ask who's calling please?"

I can hear the voice, even from two feet away. It's shaky, unfamiliar, distorted by static. "Hello? Who is this?"

"This is Detective Messer from the New York Crime Lab. Now, who's calling, please?"

"Oh." Silence. Another rush of static, like she's breathing heavily. She might be. There's a rush of muffled voices, and then quiet again, except for the breathing.

"Who is this?" Danny says. "What's your name?"

A pause. Then a shuddering sound, almost like a sob. "My name is Zoë di Angelo. A-And I killed them."

My spine turns to ice. "Killed who?"

Her voice breaks. She's crying. "I killed them. Gwen and Dr. Pearce are dead, and I did it. I'm the one who killed them."

Then she screams, and the phone goes dead.

A.N.

6/8/12: Minor edits made.

So, I've calculated out, and I seem to get an average of two reviews per chapter. But there have been 709 separate visitors to Pretending in the past month...curious arithmetic. (In other words, reviews, please. :) I have said before, I am a junkie. Pushing reviews = fulfilling my addiction = more chapters of this story. Kthnx!)

yaba: I get the feeling that Danny gets vulgar when he's tired, for some reason...? And the Gossip Girl thing...I couldn't resist it.

matt-hardy-lover-101: :-)