The Antiquities Hunter Read online

  THE

  ANTIQUITIES

  HUNTER

  A Gina Miyoko Mystery

  MAYA KAATHRYN BOHNHOFF

  To Linn Prentis who loved Gina ”Tinkerbell” Miyoko almost as much as I did. Thank you, thank you, Linn, for taking me on as a client, believing in me, and introducing me to the rest of your team.

  To Ursula K. Le Guin, masterful writer, inspiration and dear colleague at Book View Café, who thought Linn’s agency would be a good match for me. Turns out she was right.

  THE

  ANTIQUITIES

  HUNTER

  Prologue

  When you are alone in the dark, hurting and frightened—no, terrified—that the next sound you hear will be the dying scream of a friend, or a round being chambered, you find things to do.

  I prayed. I checked my watch. I checked my jacket pockets.

  I had a little pack of Kleenex, my compass, my camera, and a hair clip. That was on the practical side. On the arcane side, I had a jumble of good luck charms: a Hopi tinu, an obereg, and a piece of wire from an old Cadillac’s taillight. And then, firmly in a class of its own—Things That Were Once Practical But Are Now Junk—was the cell phone that wasn’t much of a cell phone this deep underground.

  I turned it on and was immediately mesmerized by the pale luminescence of the little screen. I hoped there was enough kick left in its battery to light my tiny world for a while. I used the wan light to check my bandages. They were fairly dry. I had stopped bleeding.

  Mercy.

  I shut off the cell phone-cum-flashlight and mentally checked the rest of my personal inventory. Earrings, a fake engagement ring, a watch, my Saint Boris medallion. I had a small custom tattoo on my right hip. Or at least I had before tonight. For all I knew, the bullet that had grazed my hip had cut a bypass through that neighborhood.

  I prayed not. I was a bit superstitious about that tattoo. It was a Russian Orthodox “Old Believer” cross with a Buddha seated in an eight-petaled lotus in the heart of the second crossbar and surrounded by beams of light. I’d gotten it the year I obtained my private investigator’s license. Other than the tattoo artist who put it there, my best friend Rose and I are the only two people in the world who know that tattoo exists. No one else has ever seen it. Not even my mom. It’s probably the only secret I’ve ever been able to keep from her.

  My reeling mind wandered to places more pleasant than the pitch-black guts of the Mayan temple, in which I was trapped like a wounded animal, aware that tons of rock pressed down on my hiding place, and that a man I had once liked and trusted pursued me with one aim—killing me.

  How had I come to be here, you might wonder? Hell, I wondered myself. One day I’m chasing down delinquent dads in San Francisco, the next I’m trying to avoid becoming part of a South American archaeological site. All Cruz Veras’s fault.

  A jolt of raw terror shot from one end of my body to the other; I was falling asleep.

  I couldn’t fall asleep.

  Okay, so the Wicked Witch of the West had routed me through her infernal poppy fields. I’d think of snow.

  I pulled myself up off the stone stairs I’d been huddled on, wobbly and dizzy. My hip whinged. I took deep breaths and held them for three seconds, then let them out . . . quietly.

  I was in my fifth rep when I heard something that woke me utterly: a gunshot.

  A gunshot.

  I pressed myself to the wall and moved down the stairs one shallow tread at a time, pausing to listen. Sounds found my ears—movement, shoes on stone. In the maze of tunnels under Itzamnaaj Balam, I couldn’t tell where it came from. All I could do was continue to move, descending slowly to even lower levels. I paused, put my head against the cool stone, and listened. Sounds rose up from below, sounds that might have been the scurrying of mice anywhere else. But there were no mice down here.

  My eyes were starved for light, yet dreaded to see it. It would be him, searching for me.

  Keep moving, Gina. Just keep moving.

  I fell into a sort of stupor, shuffling through the shadow lands, listening and watching. So when my eyes finally saw light, it didn’t immediately register with my brain that it meant Something Bad. I found myself being drawn toward a strange, gray, faded spot on the left-hand wall of the corridor ahead. I was nearly on top of it when I realized that it was reflected light from a cross-passage to my right.

  I flattened myself to the near wall and peered around the corner. Ambient light washed out of everywhere and nowhere to illuminate the narrow way. I could see clear through to its other end, where there was a wall as solid and opaque as the one behind me.

  Where was the light coming from? Curiouser and curiouser.

  I stepped cautiously out into the junction. And was turned to stone. He seemed to emerge from the very wall of the maze not four yards distant, his flashlight in one hand, his revolver in the other.

  I gasped.

  He swung slowly toward me, bringing the muzzle of his gun to bear. I stood and clutched my useless cell phone and waited for him to shoot me. He didn’t.

  “Hello, Gina,” he said, sounding like Eeyore—relieved to have found me, but depressed as hell. “You don’t look so good.”

  Chapter 1

  Gina Miyoko, PI

  My best friend, Rose Delgado, is an operative with the National Park Service (NPS). Occasionally, she is an undercover operative, believe it or not. Not many people know the Park Service has undercover agents, and I’ll bet most people wouldn’t have a clue why they should have them.

  The Park Service has undercover agents because of pothunters. These are people who live to pilfer. I’m not talking about little mementos to take home to the kids. I’m talking about a seriously destructive black market business in artifacts chiseled, chopped, and wrenched from sites ranging from coast to coast and on both sides of the Mexican-American border. So a team of trained field agents armed with guns, “interviewing techniques,” and archaeological expertise makes for a very effective unit.

  Most pothunting takes place in the Southwest. For the last five years or so, that’s where Rose has spent about five months of her year, on and off, doing undercover work aimed at taking black market artifacts and purveyors of the same out of circulation. The other seven months she spends in a “landlubber,” catty-corner to my houseboat in Sausalito, California, where she lives with her husband, Dave, their two adorable children, and a dog named Hoho. At home, she works out of the NPS’s San Francisco offices doing a variety of work—much of it generated by her time in the field.

  Don’t let anyone tell you that the work of a U.S. Park Service agent is all cloaks, daggers, and glamour. No, ma’am. My pal Rose spends an absurd amount of time in courtrooms testifying against the aforementioned pothunters and the entities who buy their ill-gotten goodies. Sometimes she gets to bag bigger game—museums, art houses, and private collectors who—shall we say—lack scruples when it comes to acquisitions.

  Rose and Hoho and I jog together every morning when she is in town. Hoho is a chocolate Labrador retriever—a thoroughly ridiculous animal with no sense of dignity. And yes, he does bear a passing resemblance to a certain rolled snack cake.

  All three of us are creatures of deep and abiding habit. So when I came back from tracking down a husband-gone-wild in Santa Cruz and Rose canceled our morning run, I was puzzled. On the third morning of yet another canceled run, she suggested we stop running altogether and get memberships at a local health club. Suspicious. Rose had long been of the opinion that health clubs should more accurately be called “hormone havens.”

  You could’ve knocked me over with a soba noodle when I inquired why we were doing this, and she said, “Because you need to meet men.”
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  “And why is that?” I asked when I recovered from the shock.

  Rose and Dave had just celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary with a romantic trip to Monterey—Dave has been in love with her since high school but she returned the favor in college—so I suspected this was one of those situations in which someone with a warm and fuzzy relationship wanted her best friend to be as warm and fuzzy as she was.

  I have nothing against warm and fuzzy, you understand. I’m just no good at it. Lots of warm and fuzzy things bite, shred furniture, and pee on the carpet. Warm and fuzzy, I’ve found, is not all it’s cracked up to be.

  “Because,” Rose answered my query, “you need to relearn how to trust people.”

  That was not the answer I expected. “I do trust people,” I said. “I trust you and David and Mom and Dad . . . and Alvie. I even trust your two darling children and your not-so-darling dog.”

  “With the exception of my dog and kids, everyone on that list has been in your life for uncounted eons. And you even keep poor Alvie at arm’s length.”

  Poor Alvie is the SFPD’s assistant medical examiner. He is a few years older than me and has been a friend of my dad’s since Alvie was a rookie. He flirted with me on and off, and had asked me out a couple of times after a respectful amount of time had passed since my near-brush with marriage.

  This wasn’t a subject I was comfortable with, which Rose well knew. I suspected I was being deked—drawn off topic with a deliberate emotional dodge. I gave her a look calculated to inspire guilt, and she blushed, her glowing copper skin turning ruddy.

  “Have I said anything that isn’t true?” she asked.

  “I don’t want to meet men,” I said. “I don’t do well with men. You may recall that I flunked Relationships 101.”

  “First of all, you weren’t the one who flunked. Second, that was three years ago. It’s time you . . . relaxed. Expanded your circle of friends.”

  Relaxed. I was convinced she’d started to say “recovered.” I held up my hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll relax. I’ll go to the club—to exercise. But you have to promise me you will not help my mother with any marriage divinations. If I catch you anywhere near her bathhouse between the hours of eleven-thirty and midnight, there will be a reckoning.”

  The “bathhouse,” in this case, was the little cabana in which Mom and Dad kept their hot tub. This was where Mom liked to hold court and try to enlist my female friends in helping her marry me off. I suspected that like all good Russian Orthodox witches she also attempted to cast spells there, though she’d deny having even considered it.

  Rose laughed, all too familiar with my mother’s personal and professional obsession with Slavic arcana. It didn’t sound right, that laugh, and when I looked into her eyes, I knew it was a tin-plated fake. I’m not saying big clanging alarms went off at this point, but there was an itch in the back of my mind. I know my best friend and I know when something is off. But I didn’t call her on it, not yet.

  Rose chose a club close to our respective offices, at which it was rumored Giants of the Major League Baseball variety were wont to sweat. We went to the club every morning for about two weeks. We swam; we did the walking/climbing/skiing machines; we took aerobics classes; we tried racquetball; we kept an eye out for Giants. We saw none. Possibly I saw none because I was too busy watching Rose. I found myself going automatically into surveillance mode whenever I was with her. What I observed did not comfort me. She looked perpetually exhausted; she seemed nervous; she didn’t eat well. Little sounds in a quiet room unnerved her. Once she chewed out Dave for making too much noise, then ten minutes later snapped at him for sneaking up on her.

  Still, we “clubbed.” We met lots of men. Some of them even flirted with us. When that happened, my attempts to relax went to hell in the proverbial handbasket. When one of them came on to me in the Jacuzzi and invited me to coffee after, Rose disappeared before I had time to protest that I was with a friend, with the hope the guy would assume Rose and I were a lesbian couple.

  I had a problem with self-saving lies like, “I have a husband, a boyfriend, a mean older brother, and a father who’s an ex-samurai.” And I’d begun to suspect there was not an obereg made that would ward off unwanted attentions from the random male. Oberegi, I should note, are the lucky charms my indomitable mother, Nadezhda Eliska Arkhangelski Miyoko, drops into my pockets, purses, and any other unguarded hiding place to keep me safe from unspecified harm. I also suspected my mother had planted marriage talismans for me under the altar at Our Lady of Kazan and that her long working relationship with the Saints gave her a leg up in that area.

  Deciding that honesty was the best policy, I told the guy I was a private eye. The variety of expressions that bolted across his face filled me with frank amazement.

  Finally, he did a double-take and repeated, “Private eye? As in Sherlock Holmes?” as if the thought was just too ludicrous.

  I am five-foot-two and weigh ninety-four pounds in a drenched trench coat. I’ve been told I have a “gamine” look.

  Sweet, huh?

  This has been a great challenge to my efforts in making a living as a PI. I don’t look like a PI, which should be an asset, professionally speaking. In reality it’s a mixed blessing. But the list of credentials I’ve accrued—a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice, graduating from the police academy with three years on the SFPD, and a level III concealed carry license, to name a few—add the extra weight to back me up that my five-foot-two, ninety-four pounds in a wet trench coat just can’t.

  Anyway, at that point I mentioned that I had a license to carry, and a black belt in kung fu, both of which my wannabe-pickup could see for himself if he’d like to drop around to my office. Then I lovingly described my baby-blue Taurus .357 Magnum (which has a hell of a recoil, but I’ve gotten used to it).

  I had hopes of an immediate cooling of interest, but my pool pal wanted to know some gory details: What sort of cases had I worked on? Any gruesome murders?

  I had a litany of these all lined up and ready to fire. They weren’t all my cases, mind you. In this type of situation, I pull freely from my dad’s repertoire as well. As of late, my cases have been more along the lines of providing surveillance for suspicious spouses, helping some small companies to figure out who is messing with their books, and had once been hired as a bodyguard for a female athlete with a jealous competitor. Not particularly awe inspiring.

  One of my most interesting cases to date was the one that launched my career as a PI. Investigating the murder of a too-nice-to-die man in my hometown, I’d ended up locked in the trunk of an aging Caddie driven by a skinhead, pinned atop a cache of weapons intended to bulk up the arsenal of a white supremacist gang, and forced to wrench a taillight wire out by its roots in order to draw the attention of the California Highway Patrol. Somehow I sensed that this story would only encourage the guy to believe I was some sort of Jamie Bond. He’d asked for gruesome murders; I’d give him gruesome murders.

  I aim to please.

  I dusted off one of my father’s last cases, in which a guy on trial for embezzlement felt his lawyer wasn’t representing his best interests. “So he murdered him,” I explained, “with a nine iron on the eighth hole. Par four,” I added, because details lent an aura of heightened reality to such sordid tales.

  My new acquaintance was suitably impressed. He wanted to know what broke the case.

  “There was a golf ball with a partial fingerprint that matched the defendant clutched in the dead man’s hand. And the pattern impressed in his forehead perfectly matched the one on the defendant’s nine iron. When the police finally found the defendant’s golf bag—bingo—bone chips, blood, the works.”

  At this point, a whole new set of expressions went into motion as my new acquaintance processed the visual images. (Eeew! Gross!)

  “You . . . you didn’t actually see any of this, though, right?”

  “Are you kidding? I attended the autopsy.” I had too, but I didn’t me
ntion that it was part of a college-level forensics course I was taking from Alvie.

  My new friend’s facial expression announced that I’d lost him on that last curve. I smiled and slipped out of the whirlpool, wondering if he’d be anywhere in sight by the time I popped out of the women’s locker room.

  As it happened, I caught him in the corridor, clearly in flight.

  “I . . . ah . . . I just remembered—I’ve got an early meeting . . .”

  I feigned regret and produced my business card: Gina S. Miyoko, Private Investigator, license number: CA988-007-09. “That’s Miyoko,” I said, smiling unabashedly. “Gina Miyoko.”

  He took the card, gave it a little wave and said, “Thanks.” Didn’t even ask what the S. was for.

  I watched him scurry away, wondering if he’d consign the card to the trash can in the entry or tuck it into his pocket so it would end up in the laundry.

  I found Rose waiting for me in the health club lounge, twisting the end of her waist-length braid around her finger and pretending to peruse a woman’s magazine that I knew for a fact held no interest for her whatsoever. What she was doing instead of reading about how to keep the sizzle in her sex life was peering out the plate glass window into the parking lot as if some hardball hunk was going to arrive any minute for his morning workout.

  As I was framing a sarcastic and witty remark about wannabe matchmakers, I got a good look at her face. This was not the dreamy look of someone who’s just swum two miles and is still under the spell of endorphins. This was raw anxiety.

  “What’s wrong, Rose?” I asked.

  I’d caught her off guard—so off guard, she jumped. “Oh!” she gasped. “Oh, nothing. I was just daydreaming.”

  My bullshit alarm sounded loud and long. This wasn’t just a brain itch anymore; this was at least a yellow alert. Rose could bullshit with the best of them when she was on duty, but never did it with me or Dave or anybody else that mattered to her.