Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [29]
I set the aggravatingly and minimally declassified documents aside and turned in for the day.
The phone woke me up a little after five PM. The sun was still up but it was on its way down; I could feel it immediately, without bothering to futz with the curtains. I hated that stupid phone. It jangled away in my purse, in the other room, nowhere near my bed, which was where I wished to remain.
It wound through its cycle and I lay there, expecting the electronic blip that warns of incoming voice mail, but no. It began to ring again with an immediacy that implied the caller was prepared to go on doing this all night, if necessary.
So it must be Horace.
I mentioned earlier, when I was trying to contain my natural tendency to digress, that I have a contact at a museum. He’s a crooked little motherfucker who used to work as an acquisitions manager at a big NYC auction house, retired, and took a leisurely sort of job as a collections assessor at a museum. If ever there was a corollary to the old adage about the fox guarding the henhouse, this is it.
I’m not going to lie and say it hasn’t been good for me. I get most of my best cases from Horace, so he’s a handy fellow to know. He’s mercenary to the core, with no regard whatsoever for art, history, or sentimentality. His whole business model could best be described as, “I know a guy who wants a thing. Raylene, I’ll pay you fat sacks of cash to go and get it.”
Usually I say yes. Sometimes I say no.
I hauled myself into the living room and answered the cell phone before he’d finished his third round of persistent redial. He didn’t wait for me to say anything like “Hello,” “Raylene here,” or “Damn you, you bastard, you woke me up.” He just dove right into his sales pitch.
“This will be an easy one, if you’re game,” his nasally voice wheedled. “It’s just a little box, somewhere in the basement of the Smithsonian. I’ve got a collector who thinks there’s an Aztec relic inside. I’ve emailed you the details, the deadline, and the budget.”
“Tell me …” I cleared my throat and tried again. I tasted clotted O-positive in the back of my throat, which was not nearly so nice as the fresh stuff. “Tell me what the deadline is.”
“Why? Do you have a hot date or something?”
“I have another client,” I told him.
“You’re shitting me!”
“I shit thee not.”
He paused, and if I knew him, he was chewing on the end of his glasses while he thought about it. “Another client. But I’m your favorite, right?”
“Favorite?”
“Most reliable. Highest paying. Most flattering, oh my beautiful, sticky-fingered queen of the night?”
I yawned. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“Then let me give it another little shove. This woman I’m talking to, she’s got a wish list as long as your arm and more money than God. You’ll love her.”
“I don’t want to love her if she wants her goodies anytime in the next couple of weeks.” I guessed at how long I’d need for Ian’s assignment. It might go as quickly as forty-eight hours, or it might take me a month. A couple of weeks was a good middle-of-the-road estimate, and one that was flexible.
“We’re talking next month. Is next month too soon? She wants it in time for some weird calendar event; I think she’s one of those multicultural hippie pagans who’s trying to get in touch with someone else’s tradition.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“She’s a white woman who’s inordinately fond of indigenous religious artifacts.” He stopped, as if he was finished with the thought. Then he added, “If you want my opinion, she’s a little creepy about it.”
“Next month,” I echoed his earlier statement, since that was the one I found important. “Next month might be doable.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a maybe. It’s a probably yes, but it isn’t a yes.”
Not everyone can sulk out loud without saying a word. Horace has elevated it to an art form. “What are you, a Magic Eight Ball?” he finally demanded. “Ask again later? Is that how it’s going to be?”
“Ask again later, yes. That’s an excellent idea. It’s a perfect