19
Rune Alignment
Chapter 5
"Thanks," Eames said to the assistant who handed her several sheets of paper. She looked through them. "The lab results are back," Eames informed her partner. Goren was immersed in folders.
"We've got to move this to the conference room," he replied with exasperation. "There's way too much stuff here. I thought you said this was going to be pretty straightforward." Goren loaded his arms with stacks of folders and headed to the conference room. He sorted the folders, removed certain photos from each one and began pinning them to the corkboard on the wall.
"Excuse me, Detective, Dr. Wintermantle is here to see you," an assistant said at the conference room door.
Goren looked up and through the door. Wintermantle stood by his desk. His grin grew into a smile as he walked toward her, but it faded as the distance closed between them. He extended his arm and touched her elbow "Gleason, what's wrong?"
"Bobby, I didn't know what to do, call the police or come to you."
"I am the police. Are you ok? Tell me what happened. Let's go in here." Goren led her across the short space to the conference room; hand still on her elbow. He closed the door, guided her to a chair, pulled one close beside her and said, "What's happened?"
Gleason took a breath and began, "Last night, after you called, I checked for phone messages. It was full. Bobby, every message had the same angry voice, but it sounded weird, like the person was having some kind of problem breathing or talking. The messages were horrible, vicious. Then I checked my cell phone. It listed sixteen missed calls from four different phone numbers. Each message had the same, weird voice and each message was worse than the previous. My cell holds only ten messages. After the strange call at the coffee shop . . . I am a little frightened."
Goren said nothing, stared into her eyes, head cocked to the left. Gleason stared back.
On the table, he covered her left hand with his and gave it a squeeze. "Was it the same voice from the call at the coffee shop?"
"I, I couldn't tell, maybe."
"Were the calls from a man or a woman?"
"A man."
"Did you recognize him? Someone you know?"
"No! I would have said that first."
"Ok, ok," Goren gave her hand another squeeze. "Do you have any idea who it might be? What about that student, Elliot?"
"I don't know. Elliott's harmless." Goren watched as her eyes filled. It only made her eyes bigger, bluer. He reached in his back pocket and handed her his handkerchief.
"Did you bring your cell?"
"Yes, here."
"I want to hear one of the messages." Goren punched a few buttons and put the phone to his ear. He listened, stood, began to pace; he closed his eyes and rubbed them as he listened to the sick talk. This woman is in real danger, he thought. The message was vile and threatening. He did not dare look at her lest she see his concern. "I have to talk with Deakins. Wait here," he said, taking her cell with him.
Wintermantle watched him stride to Deakins office. Through the glass office walls, she observed them talk, noticed Deakins glance her way. Bobby's hands were moving, but not chopping. She saw Bobby hand the cell to Deakins who put it to his ear. She could not be sure, but Deakins' expression suggested disgust. More talk, then they both headed toward the conference room.
"Eames, join us," Deakins said as they passed her desk. Eames stood and followed them.
"Dr. Wintermantle, good to see you. Sorry it had to be this way," Deakins offered his hand and she took it with a nod. Deakins sat across the table from her. Bobby closed the conference room door behind him and took his previous seat close beside her; Eames sat beside Deakins. "Detective Goren has briefed me on these calls. I've listened to one. Are they all similar?"
Deakins slid the phone to Eames and indicated she should listen to one. Revulsion registered as she listened; oh God, Eames thought, this lady is in real trouble. Eames felt concern for the professor's life. Forget jealousy.
"Yes. Each successive message seems to get uglier and more vicious. Who would do this? For what possible reason?"
Ignoring her questions, Goren asked, "Has anyone ever been disappointed or angered by an authentication you made?"
"Disappointed, certainly; not everything I examine is genuine. It may not be an outright fake; frequently an artifact turns out to be something other than originally thought – a later era, different culture, different language. Often, that means it is worth much less than anticipated. Collectors and curators encounter this kind of situation from time to time. I don't know that anyone was ever actually angered, not at me anyway. I'm just the messenger."
"Those times you served as an expert witness," Goren asked, "was your testimony ever the determining factor in the case? Anyone ever convicted on your evidence?"
"Well, yes, several times; most recently for fraud, once in Berlin and once in London. In each case, the sentences were long. Those people are still in prison."
Deakins asked, "What about a disgruntled student? Goren tells me one of your students has some sort of crush on you. He's kind of persistent, obsessive, almost? Could this person be moved to do something like this?"
"No, no. Elliott is harmless. He's just, he's . . . It's not him." She sounded depleted and about to cry.
Without hesitation, without thinking about propriety, as naturally as could be, Goren put a hand to her shoulder, fingers reaching her neck, slightly massaging; something completely verboten with another witness or victim. Both Goren and Eames noticed the move. "Ok, it's ok. Just a few more questions," Bobby said softly.
Clearing his throat, Deakins began, "Dr. Wintermantle is there someone in your past, a lover, perhaps, who is capable of this, wanting to frighten you, exact revenge, maybe?"
Wintermantle's eyes averted and she looked at her hands in her lap, fooling with Bobby's handkerchief. She felt Bobby's strong, long fingers gently working her neck. She closed her eyes; that feels so good. She said nothing. She was quiet too long.
"Dr. Wintermantle?" Deakins urged.
She kept her head bowed, afraid to move. She felt Bobby's fingers stop rubbing; felt his hand slide away, down her back. He continued to stare at her. Slowly he bent over in his chair, lowering his head so he could look up into her eyes. He saw it there, absolute terror. "Gleason?" he whispered. She met his eyes, locked, and her head followed as he raised his.
She heaved a sigh, then slowly, almost to herself, as if she were processing a string of thoughts, "No . . . No . . . It isn't. . . . Cli- . . . he would not do this. He couldn't. Not him. Not to me . . . Oh, oh God." Then, the tears fell. She clutched Bobby's handkerchief to her face and the tears turned to sobs.
Goren glanced back at Deakins, his face dark with pain. Deakins and Eames rose and closed the door as they left.
Deakins and Eames stood talking a few steps outside the glass door. Both looked back at the pair inside, watching Goren and Wintermantle at the table. They saw Bobby slide an arm around Gleason, move his chair closer and lean into her.
"So, what do you make of it?" Eames asked her captain.
"Make of which, her calls or his behavior? She's been threatened and is at genuine risk. Goren's treading a thin, thin line with his feelings. He's not treating her like any vic off the street. He would never touch someone like that. For God's sake, he just met her two days ago. Look at him. I've never seen a guy fall so hard so fast. I want you to stay close on this case. You'll probably be working it with Sledge." Eames and Deakins looked back one more time and went back to work.
She felt thin, drawn. Cinnamon again, he thought. She didn't cry long. She pulled away, straightened up. His arm fell away and he moved slightly back in his chair. A few stray sobs punctuated the following silence.
"I am so sorry. Forgive me for that melt down. I'm stronger than that." She wiped her face with his handkerchief and blew her nose. Another sob and a glance at his face, "I am so embarrassed."
His face was dark, pained. She watched his eyes move over every inch of her face, finding their way back to her eyes. With the thumb of his left hand, he wiped a tear from her jaw, his fingertips on her neck. God how he wanted to lick his thumb, taste her salt. Pull her face to his mouth. Taste her. He did nothing and said nothing.
"What?" she finally asked.
"Who is Clive?"