[Lady Justice 17] - Lady Justice and the Pharaoh's Curse Read online

  He pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket. “I can help you there too. One of those evenings, I was attending a three day writers’ conference at Bartle Hall. After the evening session, several of us went out for a drink. The names and numbers of the event coordinator and my drinking companions are listed there. On the other evening, I was in the company of a young lady. Her name and number are there as well. Oh yes, while you are pillaging my apartment, if you take my laptop, it’s password protected. I’ve written the password there for your convenience. I hope you don’t keep it too long. I’ve already started my fourth novel. Will there be anything else?”

  This had been a new experience for Blaylock. He was used to playing offense, but Figg had turned the tables and Derek had found himself on the defensive throughout the interview.

  He pushed back from the table. “No, that’s all for now. After we check your apartment and car and verify your alibis, we’ll be in touch. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  “Absolutely! If I can think of anything else that might aid you in your investigation, I’ll certainly give you a call. Am I free to go?”

  Blaylock nodded.

  “Splendid! I think there are some folks outside that have some questions for me.”

  The captain motioned us out into the hall where Figg was waiting.

  “Mr. Figg,” the captain said, “these are officers Williams and Wilson. I’ve asked them to take you back to your apartment.”

  Figg grabbed our hands. “How kind of you. I hope you don’t mind if I take a minute with the press before we leave.”

  I looked at the captain and he just shrugged.

  “Sure,” I replied, “but not too long. We have to get back to our regular patrol.”

  As soon as Figg cleared the door, the reporters were on him like a duck on a June bug.

  He raised his arms to quiet the crowd. “I’m sure that like the authorities, many of you have questions regarding the timing of the release of my new novel, The Curse of the Pharaohs. Let me just say that while I am excited about the magnificent exhibit at the Union Station and the release of my novel, I am as appalled as you are that the sanctity of the King’s tomb has been violated by the theft of one of its most precious artifacts. There is no doubt in my mind that the deaths of the two young men are a fulfillment of the dire prophesies that befall those who defile the resting place of a pharaoh. Since I am somewhat of an authority on the subject, the police summoned me today in the hope that I might shed some light on their case. Needless to say, I was most happy to cooperate and have pledged to them my continuing support. If you seek further insight into the ancient Egyptian warnings, my new novel is available at local bookstores and on line. Thank you very much.”

  Figg was good. He was very, very good. In less than five minutes, he had turned the police department’s suspicions into a plea for help on a difficult case. Plus he had made a major plug for his book.

  With Figg safely tucked away in the cruiser, Ox pulled away from the curb.

  “That was quite a show you put on back there,” I remarked.

  “Well, as Shakespeare said, ‘all the world’s a stage.’ I was just playing my part.”

  We had just gone a block when Figg slapped his knee. “Oh fudge! Would you mind going back? I was going to pick up a copy of the police report on the two murders but it totally skipped my mind. Freedom of information and all that. I actually wanted the report to get the names of the officers that discovered the bodies. Their names were not mentioned in the newspaper articles.”

  Ox and I exchanged glances.

  “Maybe I can save you some time,” I replied. “Actually, Ox and I were the officers on the scene of both murders.”

  “Fantastic!” Figg replied. “I was hoping to get more details about the unfortunate demise of those two young men. It’s not often one has the opportunity to see the end result of an ancient curse.”

  “I’m afraid we won’t be much help to you,” I replied. “We can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation.”

  “What a pity.”

  Ox wasn’t as diplomatic. “Come on, Figg. You don’t actually believe all that crap about a mummy’s curse, do you?”

  “I certainly understand your skepticism, Officer Wilson. Let me ask you a question. You were at the scene of both murders. I think you’ll have to agree that the circumstances surrounding those events were, shall we say, out of the ordinary.”

  Ox reluctantly nodded.

  “I have simply proposed a scenario in which the catalyst of these unfortunate deaths originated three thousand years ago. Such a hypothesis doesn’t necessarily rely upon the mystical, but rather upon the vicissitudes of human nature.”

  Ox didn’t have a clue what Figg was talking about but I did.

  When Maggie and I found ourselves in the burial cave on the sheer cliff of Heleakala’s caldera, I didn’t believe for a minute we were there because of an ancient curse, but because there were men who actually believed that the curse was real and acted accordingly.

  “I’m curious, Officer,” Figg continued, “since you have dismissed my hypothesis as ‘crap,’ I would love to hear your account of how these young men met their demise.”

  Fortunately, we had just arrived at Figg’s house and Ox was spared the embarrassment of having to say he had no idea.

  A gaggle of reporters were on the sidewalk and when we drove away, Figg was busy holding court with the press.

  The next morning, I met Detective Blaylock in the hall.

  “Anything on Figg?” I asked.

  Blaylock shook his head. “Zip. Nada. A big zero. We went through his house, his car and his computer, but we didn’t find a thing to link him to the murders other than that damnable book.”

  “Did his alibis check out?”

  “Yes and no. The event coordinator confirmed that he was definitely at the writer’s conference and that he definitely had drinks when the conference was over. The program that evening was an address by some Hollywood type that had written a book. He could have slipped out and returned, but no one could say for sure.

  “The ‘young lady’ he mentioned was a gal named Rhonda Reams. She’s a hooker with a rap sheet for solicitation. She confirmed that he was with her all evening, but that alibi could have been bought and paid for.”

  “So basically, we’ve got nothing on Figg?”

  “Not yet, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s still our guy. It’s all just too slick. He claims that the whole thing is just a publicity stunt, but I’m not buying it. There’s no such thing as a perfect crime. The guy will make a mistake and when he does, I’ll be there.”

  That evening, when I returned home, Dad, Bernice, Mary and Jerry were just leaving.

  “Where are you off to?” I asked.

  “Unity Temple on the Plaza,” Dad replied. “Lester Figg is reading from his new novel tonight. We all loved the King Tut exhibit and now with the theft and all these murders --- well --- it’s just creepy. I can’t wait to hear how he ties the Curse of the Pharaohs to what’s going on.”

  Lester was definitely drinking from the well of opportunity. I had seen the announcement in the paper about his appearance on the Plaza. The price of admittance was $32.50 which included a hard back book. I did some quick arithmetic. Figg was going to pocket $130.00 from my little group of friends.

  It occurred to me that maybe I should write a novel but I quickly dismissed the idea. I’d never learned to type.

  Never one to let an opportunity slip by, Jerry remarked, “I’ve been to several readings at the Unity Temple. One of them was Under the Bleachers by Seymour Butts, but my all-time favorite was The Trail in the Desert by Peter Dragon. Then there was ---.”

  I held up my hand to stop him. “Go! Have a good time!”

  As Bernice passed by, I noticed that she was wearing her Queen Nefertiti earrings. The image of our chance meeting in the hall flashed into my mind.

  I quickly headed up the stairs for a glass of Arbor M
ist.

  Maggie met me at the door. “I’m glad you’re home. We’re having company for supper. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Actually I did mind, but since it seemed to already be a done deal I decided to not rock the boat. “Oh really? Who?”

  “Kevin. It was kind of a last minute thing.”

  Kevin was Maggie’s half-brother who, after an absence of fifty years, appeared at our door one evening. Maggie had always assumed that he was dead, but quite to the contrary, he had been in witness protection all those years. He was dying of kidney failure and had surfaced, hoping Maggie might be a compatible donor and willing to part with a kidney, but it wasn’t to be.

  Kevin had been relocated to Phoenix, Arizona and had spent his life as a private investigator, which proved to be very helpful when our whole family was dragged into the clandestine world of an organ trader ring.

  Kevin had received a kidney from an unexpected source and had been recovering nicely from surgery.

  He arrived right on time. After a terrific meal, prepared by my sweetie, Kevin and I headed to the living room with chilled glasses of Arbor Mist while Maggie worked on the dishes.

  I could tell that Kevin had something on his mind.

  “Okay, spill it,” I said. “You’ve been busting a gut to talk all evening.”

  “Am I that obvious?” he asked with a grin. “I must be slipping. But you’re right. I wanted to talk with you about these King Tut murders. Fascinating case. I’m really intrigued.”

  “Come on, Kevin. You know I can’t discuss ongoing investigations.”

  “Seriously? Who do you think you’re dealing with here? Since I helped bust those organ traders, I’ve kept my finger in the police pie, so to speak. My sources have pretty much kept me up to date on the case, and unless something has come up today, you guys are batting zero.”

  Somehow, I wasn’t surprised. Kevin loved investigative work and I could see how our case could capture his attention.

  Since someone in the department had obviously been sharing information, I saw no reason to keep him in the dark. In the next thirty minutes, I told him everything I knew about the case.

  I could see the wheels turning in his head.

  When I was finished, he said, “I want to take a crack at him.”

  “No way! I know you helped take down the organ traders, but you’re not a cop. The captain would have a cow if he knew you were getting involved in our case.”

  “This would be strictly off the books. No one would have to know unless we actually come up with something.”

  “Kevin!”

  “Just hear me out. I’ve got an idea. You said the guy was really into the publicity thing and was milking the situation for all it’s worth. Let’s up the ante. I think I have an angle that will interest him.”

  Kevin dug his wallet out of his trousers and started leafing through a stack of business cards.

  “Ahh, here it is,” he said, handing me the card.

  It read, “Bruce Wayne, Acquisitions, 20th Century Fox.”

  “Bruce Wayne? Really?”

  “Hey, I was really into Batman at the time. What can I say? This is the perfect come-on. It’s every author’s dream to see their novel turned into a movie. If he sees a big payday on the horizon, he might open up and let something slip. If he does, it’s all good. If not, no harm, no foul.”

  “So, what’s your plan?”

  “I’ll contact the guy, introduce myself and invite him to have a drink and discuss business. He’ll bite. I guarantee it. I still have some surveillance stuff left over from my P.I. days. I’ll wear a wire and you can listen to our conversation from the parking lot. If he spills the beans, you can get him on tape.”

  After thinking it over, I couldn’t see that it would do any harm and maybe, just maybe, we might get a break.

  About that time, Maggie came in with big slices of key lime pie.

  “So, what have you two been talking about?”

  Kevin and I exchanged glances.

  “How about those Royals?” he replied, with an innocent smile.

  Kevin was right. Figg grabbed the bait like a hungry catfish.

  We wanted our mark to think he was being wooed by a guy with deep pockets, so we picked the Hereford House to meet for drinks.

  Figg was right on time. Kevin had selected a table close to the window so that their conversation would carry to my car.

  Kevin was a natural actor. He could change his personality as easily as a chameleon changes his color. I could only imagine how many characters he had played during his P.I. days. They ordered drinks and exchanged pleasantries, then Kevin got down to business.

  “Mr. Figg, the studio is very interested in the film rights to your new book. Actually, we are thinking that it could possibly be part of a series, much like our Die Hard or Planet of the Apes.”

  I could just imagine Figg salivating at the idea.

  “The timing of your release coinciding with the opening of the King Tut exhibit was a brilliant piece of marketing.”

  Kevin was buttering the guy up to gain his confidence.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I had to really keep my nose to the grindstone to have the book ready in time.”

  “The icing on the cake was the theft of the Anubis and the murder of those two boys. The perfect mystery to drive the masses to your book. How in the world did you pull that off?”

  There was a long silence. Kevin had gone for the kill.

  “I --- I don’t understand. Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with those unfortunate events.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr. Figg. The executives at 20th Century Fox have been around long enough to know a brilliant piece of marketing when they see it. It wouldn’t be the first time extraordinary measures were taken to deliver a blockbuster.”

  If Figg was taken by surprise, he recovered quickly. “I wish I could take the credit for a piece of brilliant marketing, but like I told the police, my marketing ended with the release of my book. The theft and the murders, however beneficial, were serendipitous.”

  “That could be problematic,” Kevin said. “The studio’s interest was piqued by the mysteries surrounding the book and the exhibit. As you know, producing a film doesn’t happen overnight. If these mysteries are solved and it turns out that they were nothing more than petty crimes, it would certainly diminish the value of our offer to you. If, on the other hand, we knew there was some control over those events, it would certainly make us feel that we had made a sound investment.”

  I had to admit, Kevin was really good.

  “How much of an investment are we talking about?” Figg asked.

  “Definitely six figures,” Kevin replied, “depending, of course, on how this murder thing plays out.”

  There it was. Kevin had played his trump card. Figg would either call or fold.

  After a long silence, Figg responded, but the tone in his voice had gone from anticipation to disappointment.

  “I wish I could be of more help to you, but as I said, I have no way of knowing how these murders will be resolved. I hope we can still come to some agreement.”

  Figg had folded. If he indeed had anything to do with the murders, he wasn’t willing to admit it even with the prospect of a six figure payday.

  Kevin sensed it too. “Thank you for meeting with me today, Mr. Figg. I’ll relay our conversation to our executive board and we’ll be in touch.”

  “I hope to hear from you soon,” Figg replied. “I have a gift for you. An autographed copy of The Curse of the Pharaohs. I think it would make a great movie regardless of who committed the murders.”

  After Figg was gone, Kevin climbed into the car and tossed the book into my lap.

  “Sorry, Walt. Looks like we struck out. I think he knows more than he’s saying. He’s tougher than I thought he’d be. I’ll give him credit for that.”

  “Look on the bright side,” I replied. “We got a signed copy of the book and it didn’t cost us $32.50.”
r />   Kevin handed me a receipt. “Actually it did. Drinks and tip were $36.50.”

  That evening, I cracked open The Curse of the Pharaohs.

  It was obvious that Figg had done a great deal of research, but it was also quite obvious that he wasn’t opposed to a little plagiarism.

  The story was about an adventurer that had come across a map leading to the tomb of the pharaoh. The title could easily have been Indiana Jones and the Curse of the Pharaoh. The main character fit, right down to the fedora and the whip.

  The plot centered on the mysterious deaths of those who had violated the sanctity of the king’s tomb. I was amazed at how closely the story line coincided with the fate that had befallen our two young men.

  I couldn’t help but wonder whether it was a case of life imitating art or lives being snuffed to promote the art.

  CHAPTER 7

  Days passed without a significant break in the King Tut case.

  The theft of the Anubis and the deaths of Bernard Maloof and Marty Ringer remained shrouded in mystery which was money in the bank for Lester Figg.

  He had been interviewed on every local TV station and people were standing in line for hours at local bookstores to meet Kansas City’s newest celebrity and buy an autographed copy of The Curse of the Pharaohs.

  Blaylock and his team had kept an eye on Figg hoping he would make a mistake, but their hours of surveillance had been in vain.

  With no new developments in the case, Ox and I were back to patrolling our regular beat.

  After squad meeting, we were heading to the garage when we were summoned by the captain.

  “Ox, Walt. In my office.”

  We were hoping that Detective Blaylock would be there with new information on the King Tut case, but instead, Rocky Winkler, the head of the Drug Enforcement Unit was waiting for us.

  “I’m sure you remember Rocky,” the captain said. “He’s requested the two of you for a special assignment.”

  We remembered him all right.