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“Hold on,” he said, raising his hand. “Two shots back. I’d like a closer look at that one.”
I displayed the photo in question and handed him the phone. Amelin peered at the screen. He placed the phone on a small side table at the intersection of our seating.
“One moment, please.” Amelin opened a drawer in the side table and retrieved what looked like a photographer’s loupe. He picked up the phone again, enlarged the image, eyeballed it, then observed it through the loupe. As he gazed at the photo, I shifted in my seat to keep my back from barking at me.
Finally, Amelin shook his head. “I cannot give a firm opinion on the authenticity of these. But even if they are not real, they might convince an amateur.”
“What is it about them that makes you think they might be real?” I asked.
Amelin replaced the phone on the little table. “Excuse me,” he said. He rose and left the room. I stared at the photo, then looked around the room and ran my hand along the love seat’s cushion. Silky, almost. It was a nice, middle-class room, furnished with an impressionist oil painting and pieces that might have belonged to my grandparents. I continued looking for ways to distract myself from the pain in my back until Amelin returned. He had a magazine in hand, opened to a specific page.
“I collect some of these,” he said, holding up the magazine. “A publication for archaeologists and artifacts experts. Occasionally, they feature a subject in my particular field.”
He sat down again and showed me the page. “Now, these are actual artifacts recovered by authorities who were investigating a smuggling ring.” Amelin handed the magazine to me.
I checked the photo and compared it with my cell phone pictures. I could see what he meant. The resemblance between them was clear.
“So what do you see that suggests they might be fake?” I asked.
Amelin gave me the “aren’t you funny” grin again. “It is not a matter of how they look. There is money to be made in selling fake artifacts.”
“So, it’s just a possibility.”
“A distinct possibility.” He raised his finger in a professorial manner. “Had you ever heard of Svaneti before?”
“A friend told me about it. It relates to another matter.” And let’s not go there.
“How likely is it that anyone would have ready access to genuine artifacts from a place like that?” Amelin queried.
“Not likely, unless they knew someone. Had an inside connection.”
“There is your answer,” he said. “You must find that connection to know whether these are genuine or not.”
Chapter Nineteen
After talking to Amelin, I sat in my car and reviewed my jottings. I combined what I had learned from him with what I’d learned before our meeting. None of it gave me any comfort.
The scenario Blaine had presented—one in which Kandinsky might have skimmed a portion of the partnership’s profits—was metastasizing into something much worse—a phony artifacts smuggling ring. But I couldn’t know for sure without poking my nose where it might get cut off.
If Kandinsky had been part of a smuggling ring and the artifacts were fakes, that could explain why he was murdered. Or he might have been killed by a jealous competitor. Maybe Kandinsky’s death had nothing to do with either of those things.
The problem is, I don’t believe in coincidences. I doubted that I had simply stumbled across Kandinsky’s body, met with an art instructor and a criminologist, then became the victim of a passing vandal with time on his hands (and a sharp knife) who cut my brake line.
I went home and turned my attention to other work that was waiting for me—small-change stuff, but clients, nonetheless. While I was at the computer, I tried again to find information about Melissa Blaine—free information, that is. Once again, I came up almost empty handed. I did happen across a Web site that featured artwork credited to “Melissa B.” Very nice, but not very helpful. I wondered how she managed to keep such a low online profile.
That night, I decided to read a book to relax before hitting the sack . . . but I was still haunted by the nightmares.
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Car is approaching the outpost. I motion for it to stop, but it keeps coming. My partner yells at the driver. We both yell and gesture, but that doesn’t change a thing.
This damn place is so hot, it’s like an oven. I squint against the glare of the sun and the grit of sand blowing against my face. Focus on the dark object barreling towards us out of the white heat. Why won’t it stop?
Screaming the word “halt” over and over seems ridiculous. Does the driver even speak English? By now, you would think they’d have learned what the word meant, though. Surely they understand my frantic motions.
My partner raises his M16, sites the oncoming vehicle through its ACOG Riflescope. Almost simultaneously, I do the same. We’re synchronized, like we’re on parade. Or a perverse new Olympic event. Our drill sergeant from boot camp would be impressed.
