Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [15]
“I don’t deal in stolen merchandise, and I don’t support sales of antiquities on the black market,” she snapped.
“But your partner did.”
“Derek was clueless,” she all but exploded. “He was smart enough to know that what was being offered to him was the real deal, but not smart enough to demand its documentation.”
“Now I’m really curious. Why would you, someone so seemingly savvy about these things, be in business with someone who is, by your account, not very smart.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t say he wasn’t smart in general. He knows his American primitives—art and furniture—inside and out. That’s his specialty. He just isn’t all that familiar with items like this.” She nodded in the direction of the goblet.
“And you are?”
“I know someone who is. Look, Officer Mercer—”
“Chief Mercer.”
“Right. Sorry. Chief Mercer. Derek was not a crook. He was offered an opportunity to buy something very valuable, and since he’s a dealer and knew he could make a tidy profit on it, he bought it. Once he found out what it was, he was in total agreement that it be returned to its rightful owner. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do, as soon as the courier gets here.”
“Ah, I see. Very righteous of you.” He tapped two fingers on the counter. “But wasn’t there a situation about two years ago . . . ? Seems to me I heard something about a Civil War–era uniform.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “That wasn’t really what the papers made it out to be. Derek had a client—”
“And wasn’t there a samurai sword some time back . . . ?”
“Derek—”
“Derek again? Not you?”
“No, of course, not me.” She was becoming exasperated.
“So you’re in business with a man who isn’t really all that concerned with where he acquires his merchandise.”
“That’s not fair. Derek’s just . . . well, sometimes he’s just too trusting. Too naive about people.”
“How so?”
“He takes everyone at face value. I’m sure that the man he bought this piece from looked totally on the level. That would have been good enough for Derek.”
“And what would you have done under the same circumstances?”
“I would have asked to see some documentation on the piece. In archaeological terms, I’d have questioned its provenance. Its pedigree, if you will.”
“Isn’t that sometimes difficult to obtain?”
“When you’re dealing with important pieces, there should be some kind of paper trail. A record of its excavation, for example, or a record of its chain of ownership.”
“Generally speaking, would a sixty-five-thousand-dollar piece be considered important?”
“Not necessarily,” she conceded. “At least, not on the international market, where artifacts can command hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“Then what should he have done differently?”
“He should have passed on the offer to buy.”
“Because you suspected the piece was stolen.”
“I know the piece was stolen. It’s been confirmed.”
“By?”
“By a noted expert in the field.”
“When did you receive the piece?”
“Four days ago.”
“And you’ve already confirmed its origins? My, that was fast.”
“I have a friend whose sister is in the Middle East. She’s an archaeologist, part of the international team currently evaluating the losses in Iraq. We emailed some photos of the goblet to her. She confirmed my suspicions.”
“When did this take place?”
“On Sunday.”
“The day before yesterday,” he noted. “The day before Mr. England returned from his trip.”
“Yes.”
Mercer touched the goblet and shook his head. “Crazy, isn’t it, what some people will kill for?”
It took a long moment for his words to sink in.
“Kill for?” She straightened up slowly, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “You think someone killed Derek for this?”
“Someone might have.” He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable. “Let’s start with you, Ms. Crosby.”
“Me?”
“You have to admit, you make a really good suspect.” His dark eyes studied her carefully. “Mr. England had just spent your cash cushion on a piece of stolen