On Thin Ice: Cold Play, #2

Table of Contents

Chapter One | Los Angeles

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Los Angeles

Rafe Medeiros might have been the last person Dr. Keefe Person expected to walk through the doors of the Pearson Institute of Antiquities. Her former lover looked different from three years away and for once, his sexy Mediterranean appeal didn’t stir her.

I need that canister, he said before she’d barely gotten over the shock of seeing him and he’d barely gotten past the hi-how-are-yous. That he wanted something she had shouldn’t have surprised her—the surprise was that he even knew about the canister. Her team had just unearthed it in Mexico a few days ago.

She noted the lack of charmed animation in his expression. It stirred a sharp pang of wariness. She’d been down this road before and, unfortunately for him, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. She avoided any feeling that might distract her. He was a thief. He was the past.

"Rafe, you want the canister and no, you can’t have it," she said with an inordinate amount of guilty pleasure.

I’m prepared to pay, he said. Please.

They faced each other across the room. Thieves aren’t welcome at Pearson Institute of Antiquities, as you well know. She smoothed black strands of hair away from her face with a quick brush of her fingertips, bracing herself for the inevitable battle of wills. Her blood and sweat had made PIA the respected institute it was—Rafe wasn’t going to jeopardize it a second time.

The last time she’d seen him, she’d bailed his ass out of a sling to save the reputation of PIA from his careless thievery. For that alone, she would never forgive him.

He dropped a black hard-shell briefcase on the desk, snapped open the metal locks and lifted the lid. That’s in the past, Keefe. I’m offering cash this time. He spun the case around, displaying neatly stacked rows of green bills.

Keefe’s gaze shifted downward. She placed her hand on the nearest corner stack and fanned through the hundreds of hundreds banded together with white and orange bank straps. This time? What makes you think I’d be interested in selling to you—ever? She glanced at him, arching her brows with an expression she hoped showed her disdain.

There would be no polite haggling.

She fisted one hand at her side. As she looked him over, she decided she was an idiot for staying with him the few months they had been together. He was still the selfish, rapacious dressed-to-the-nines stud he’d always been.

He was a Spaniard. Dark eyes, dark hair. He’d romanced her, wooed her, and like a silly coed, she’d fallen for his protestations of affection. He was Prince Charming–attractive if one didn’t bother to look below the surface. She hadn’t really known anything about Rafe. She’d just succumbed to his charm, falling at his feet and believing anything he whispered in her ear. Until it was too late.

The earring was new.  The dimpled chin along with his sparkling white teeth set against perfectly tanned features were almost enough to make a girl forget herself. Almost, but not quite. Not when she’d been burned once.

But, damn, he is beautiful.

Rafe stepped closer to Keefe. She held her ground. When he touched her bare arm, sliding his finger from her shoulder to the crook of her inner arm, she suppressed a shudder. The urge to reach down and break his elegant, underworked fingers was a temptation she could barely resist. Hard to believe she had been attracted to this man without knowing more about his character.

"I’m sorry, Rafe. For the last time no. The canister belongs to the government of Mexico. It’s in PIA’s possession for one reason—investigative study. Once our work is complete, the canister will be displayed in the Museo Nacional de Antropologia, where it will find a permanent home. There’s nothing I can do for you," she said, daring him to challenge her. The fact that it was the truth made the delivery much easier.

Keefe looked down at Rafe’s hand where it touched her, then glared at him.

He gave up his tenuous claim. We can work this out, Keefe. Money is no object. And if there’s anything else you need that I can provide, you have only to ask.

Keefe laughed. She turned away from him and returned to the chair behind her mahogany desk. Leaning back, she scrutinized him. You’re not hearing me. I couldn’t give it to you, sell it to you or barter it to you. Even if I wanted to. It doesn’t belong to me or PIA.

She watched as he searched for a new approach. His eyes darted across the room and up. He slid his palm across the material of his slacks. His nervousness made her wary. Normally Rafe was a smooth, practiced charlatan.

Keefe waited for his next line of attack.

Do you have any idea of the significance of that artifact? His voice broke, wavered. Rafe barely held on to his much-vaunted poise.

Alarms sounded inside Keefe’s brain. Rafe had never been a desperate man before.

Not at first, but we’ve learned some interesting details about its origins and uses since we unearthed it, she said. She hadn’t really, but what else was she going to say? Admit that Rafe knew something she didn’t? Not a chance. But he certainly knew how to get her attention. All artifacts had some cultural significance—his question implied some greater consequence.

But what I’m interested in knowing is how you came by the information? No one at PIA has said a thing. So you must have sources inside the Mexican government. And they hadn’t shared any of their limited research with the Institute of Anthropology yet. The documentation and notes from the extraction weren’t public—not because there was some great secret to protect—the urn was just unusual. Pristine.

There was a leak somewhere. One Rafe would happily exploit, one she was going to locate and plug.

And the leak had moved with lightning speed. She had only left Mexico City two days ago with Diego Jimenez as an escort. The recovery team stayed behind. For the next six months, they would work with the Mexican government on some lesser finds in Palenque.

Rafe said nothing. He reached inside his Armani suit jacket and pulled out his business card. Holding the rectangular slip between his fingers, he waved it at Keefe. If you change your mind, here’s a number where you can reach me.

With politeness she did not feel, Keefe took the card, plucking it from his fingers with a quick swipe and an equally quick glare. She’d throw it in the trash can once she got him out of her office.

She leaned back in her chair. With casual style, Keefe shifted the card between her fingers. She squinted, perusing him at her leisure, watching him pretend indifference. Oh, he wanted the urn and he wanted it bad. His agitated stance and darting eyes hinted of desperation.

Feverish, hot joy bubbled inside her that she would finally, finally, get back at Rafe. She wanted to giggle. She held all the cards and was ready to bet the limit.

If she set the vessel on her desk now, she had no doubt he’d wrestle it from her and run out like any petty thief. Instead, she threw the card aside.

What’s your real interest, Rafe? You’ve never been concerned with Mayan ruins or artifacts before.

Rafe stalled, swallowing before he answered. Keefe prepared for the lie he was about to deliver.

I have a client. One who would move heaven and earth to get his hands on what you possess. He forced an enigmatic smile—one he’d used when he’d wanted her in the past. He appeared bored with the suggestion now, but willing to try anything to earn her agreement.

He was such a con man. Keefe supposed it was meant to be flattering. Instead, his lack of tact combined with his overblown charm made her feel slightly nauseated.

It’s called possession for a reason, Rafe. What’s mine is mine.

She appreciated direct truthfulness rather than his hit and miss tactic, especially since it was mildly threatening and reeked of untruth.. He’d had his chance three years ago and he’d blown it.

She sat up in her chair and planted her elbows on her desk. Goodbye, Rafe, Keefe said with finality. This time she hoped would be the last, but the gnawing in her gut told her that wasn’t going to be the case.

He clenched his jaw but accepted her dismissal without another word. He closed the case and didn’t look back.

When she heard the outer door shut behind Rafe, she picked up his card.

Mr. Raphael Medeiros, Antiquities Expert.

In smaller letters, Specializing in Egyptian, Roman and Greek Artifacts. So what was he doing dabbling in Mayan myths and legends?

Three years wasn’t long enough, Keefe mused. She reclined in her chair after he left her office, all of the old anger stirred up by his presence. Why did he have to show up now? When she didn’t need a former lover to interfere in either her personal or her professional life.

She pinpointed the origin of the churning aggravation. Not once had she seen Rafe Medeiros less than poised and charming. Never.

It had all started simply enough. Keefe had gotten the call from Mexico over two weeks ago. Evan Jahnning, her current significant other, seemed thrilled for her to go since she hadn’t been on a dig in well over a year, but no more thrilled than she had been. Cool-as-ice Evan guarded his thoughts better than a Jedi master. She had to rely on her keen perceptions of people and her familiarity with his previous life to know that he would not object unless there was danger. She tended to leave those parts out.

She’d flown out within forty-eight hours. Directing every detail of the recovery, she’d steadied her shivery instincts that promised an exquisite prize, but her heart raced when they were ready to make the final extraction. It took them a full day to remove the delicate piece from its centuries-old hidey-hole. When they brought it into full daylight, Diego looked across the worktable at her with that expression she knew so well. A kid—as if he were a kid in a candy store with a cowlick and dancing eyes.

Holy sheet! His trademark. Diego smiled broadly, shaking his head. Keefe smiled back at him. Two pure archeologists savoring the first few seconds of a once-in-a-lifetime find, which for PIA happened about once a year.

The urn was in perfect condition and exquisitely made, even an amateur could have said as much.

They’d agreed to obtain the necessary permissions to get it to the States promptly. Incredible artifacts weren’t uncommon, but this one seemed special. And after the twenty-four-hour shine had worn off, they’d agreed the urn, trimmed in delicate painted detail with gold and silver inlay, was valuable, but neither of them thought it earth-shattering. Or that it would be noticed.

Evidently, they were wrong. What did Rafe know?

She and Rafe had a singular common interest, which revolved around antiquities. Their other interest in sex was moot once he’d betrayed her and now that she was in the throes of something real and much, much more dangerous to her heart.

She was determined to preserve antiquities, he was determined to exploit them, including using his short-lived connection with PIA. Fortunately, he embarrassed her only the one time before she dumped him. She’d personally reimbursed the Egyptian government the $50,000 he’d swindled in artifacts from the PIA dig at the Valley of the Kings.

He was the last man she’d been with before Evan Jahnning came barreling into her life, guns blazing. Well, knives actually. Evan remained in Athens while she enjoyed the jaunt to Mexico, a much-needed break since she was sinking further into her relationship with him and he hadn’t offered to throw a lifeline. She loved the ice brick of a man and thought—hoped—that after the months they’d been together, he’d be feeling the same way.

So far, nothing. Well, except smoking hot sex whenever she wanted. Conversations with him tended to involve his well-placed questions and her blathering on and on, exposing every detail of her life while he still guarded all aspects of his.

Rafe couldn’t hold a candle to Evan Jahnning. Then again, no one could.

If Evan knew of her prior relationship with Rafe Medeiros, she wouldn’t have to break his fingers. Evan would simply kill him. No, that wasn’t fair. The old Evan would have killed him, the new one would want to. Hmmm. Maybe it would be worth having the two of them meet.

At least she had the confidence of knowing Evan would never use her position for his own gain. He seemed bored silly whenever she spoke about Mesopotamian art or Egyptian hieroglyphics, but he must have absorbed something, because he could always converse with reasonable intelligence. Yes, she was safe with Evan at her side.

The thing about Evan though, was she couldn’t always read him. His years freelancing with the Central Intelligence Agency had molded him into a cold killing machine until well over a year ago, when he’d almost died at the hands of a Chechen assassin. He worked for the embassy in Athens now, and by slow degrees, she started to understand him. Love was not the problem, understanding him was.

Keefe pushed aside her melancholic daydreams to focus her attention on the urn. Rafe’s involvement meant she had to prepare. He wouldn’t give up with one attempt.

Keefe hit speed dial, leaving the speakerphone on.

She stood, flicked Rafe’s business card toward a pile of papers and then walked over to the closed cabinet on the right side of her desk. She opened the double-hinged door. An unobtrusive pine box, built at the site in Palenque to hold the artifact and filled with special packing material, cradled the canister protectively. The box was light in her hands as she carried it to her desk.

The telephone ringing ended abruptly when Carol Hysten answered in her chipper British accent. PIA. Preserving the legacy of the past for future generations. How can I help you?

Carol, Keefe said with a motherly tone. I know that’s our slogan, and it looks great on banners, but I would prefer you found a new greeting. Carol rarely answered the phone. Her position as their European fundraiser kept her out of the office and allowed her to rub shoulders with their more elite donors. She was Keefe’s best cheerleader.

Oh, Dr. Pearson, I’m sorry. I just like the way it sounds. And don’t you think everyone should know about our unwavering commitment to the cause?

They learn about our commitment to the cause when you squeeze all that money from their wallets.

Carol laughed.

I need to speak with Dr. Atwater. Paul was her senior advisor on Mayan antiquities. He’d help her get to the bottom of this mystery in a hurry, or as much of a hurry as antiquities study allowed.

Certainly, Carol said.

It was an interesting artifact, but Rafe’s insistent demands put a new light on its potential value. What did he know that she didn’t? As far as she was aware, there wasn’t another jar like it, certainly nothing this perfectly whole. And unopened. She’d already dismissed the idea that it was just an urn.

Was it the link? Or something else entirely? There were too many possibilities.

And she chided herself for allowing her enthusiasm to run roughshod over logic.

Keefe picked up her glasses and slid them on. She flipped on her desk light and angled the beam toward the box. Pulling on a pair of cotton gloves and then lifting the green alabaster jar from its resting place, she rotated it under the light for closer inspection. It was the size of an Egyptian canopic jar without the traditional Sons of Horus heads. More like a jar reminiscent of the Old Kingdom, she thought.

Dr. Pearson?

Paul, get out your Landa. I need your best skills, she said, rotating the urn under the light.

Landa? Sounds serious. Morley and Thompson won’t do? he asked, his voice laced with humor. Landa was an acclaimed Mayan expert. Morley and Thompson were nearly as accomplished in their knowledge.

No, I’ve got a puzzle in my hands that I think is going to require an intimate review of Landa’s work in Mexico. Diego’s crew unearthed an urn like I’ve never seen before.

I’m sitting.

"It might be a link between Egyptian and Mayan cultures. The link."

Paul didn’t answer.

At first glance, the vessel did not appear Mayan, but its inland burial location at Palenque and the pictographs, which were most certainly an indication of Mayan work, belied her concern. Very fine, well-preserved Mayan work.

Keefe knew the rules. There was no reason to get her hopes up before it could be examined by true experts.

She tilted the urn, allowing the light from her desk lamp to illuminate the outer lip of the jar. The green alabaster could only be from La Pedrara.

The painted areas of the jar were slightly faded but intact, except for a few areas of chipping.

A gold band lined the top of the jar and the bottom of the lid. Not a trait of pre-Columbian Mayan work. It was sealed shut. Her team had opted not to open it in the field. With his expertise, Paul would determine when it should be opened.

Two circles on opposite sides were the dominant theme. Keefe knew they were the symbol of balancing forces. The glyphs were most unusual. All of the Mayan characters were inlaid with silver. And the most prominent symbol was Death.

But the real gut-clencher—the symbol of the final Baktun 13.0.0.0.0.0.

December 21, 2012. Doomsday.

She shook her head in denial. The Mayan calendar ended on that date. The end of time as they knew it. She didn’t believe in doomsday scenarios, after all, she was a scientist, an investigator, not a conspiracy theorist. The artifact had cultural significance and rarity—nothing more. The shiver that snaked down her spine prompted her to stop her wayward thoughts before she started believing in the boogeyman.

Paul?

I’m here. You know I’m a staunch oppositionist. I don’t believe there is a connection.

I know. That’s why you’ll be able to give me an unbiased opinion.

Don’t I always? When can I see it?

I’m bringing it to London. I’ll meet you there the day after tomorrow.

Well, that will be a nice surprise. And here I was just wondering what I’d be doing for the next year.

After hanging up, Keefe tucked the jar back inside the special box and flipped the locking mechanism. She pulled off the gloves with a snap and sat back down in her chair, contemplating Rafe Medeiros.

And the Doomsday urn, she said out loud. What am I going to do with you?

How had Rafe tracked her and the jar to her office already? From experience, she knew Rafe would stop at nothing once he decided he wanted a trinket for himself. This time she’d best him at his own game.

Tonight the urn would sleep with her in her bed. Tomorrow night it traveled to London with her. Arroula had already arranged the airline reservations. PIA’s best and most secure facilities were in London, otherwise she would have had Paul meet her here in L.A.

On occasion, Keefe cut corners with antiquities. She’d dealt with enough grave robbers and corrupt government officials to know how to grease the wheels of information and progress, but her decisions were always in the best interest of the field, not for her personal gain. She had informed the right officials within the Mexican government, filed her papers and greased the right palms. PIA’s reputation was solid, she had no trouble expediting the urn’s removal from Mexico. Until she knew what the artifact represented, no one else could know about the relic—or Rafe Medeiros.

That included Evan. This was between her and Rafe. This time he would not embarrass her. This time she would get her pound of flesh.

Evan wouldn’t want to know the sordid details of her past relationship with Rafe. Not once had he asked about former amours. She considered his lack of interest in her past a systemic response from a man unable or unwilling to commit. Truthfully she didn’t know how he would react. Strangely, he had homed in on and hated Keefe’s college friend, Georgo Pappas, and they were nothing more than friends. How would he feel about a Spanish lover who lived with her, and for whom she fell in the way of apples and gravity? She could only hope that Rafe’s appearance in her life was an anomaly. Until she knew for sure though, it would be best to proceed with caution, easing Evan into the truth.

Was she prepared to rock the boat with Evan? No. Their boat was steady, if slow moving. She didn’t want it capsized.

She made one more call.

The fib was difficult to speak, but she had to do it. He picked up on the second ring. Hey, Evan. I’m going to be in Los Angeles for another week or so.

A problem with the dig?

Of a sort, and I haven’t been able to spend much time with my parents.

No problem. Unruh is keeping me busy at the embassy.

Sorry I can’t get home when I promised. Keefe’s voice snagged on the untruth. She was glad he couldn’t see her face. A face-to-face lie would have been much more difficult to pull off.

While she lied without compunction when she wanted something from a recalcitrant government official or backstreet antiquities peddler, so far she had not lied to Evan, unless withholding information about her feelings counted.

Well, it was for his own good. He didn’t need to be involved—she was more than capable of handling Rafe Medeiros.

Is everything okay? Evan asked when she paused. You got your hands dirty?

Keefe laughed. That’s what she’d told him she wanted to do. Plenty of dirt. No, it was good. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back to Athens.

Keefe?

Yeah. It had been months now—the best months of her life and he still hadn’t told her he loved her. And she was scared out of her mind to tell him a second time. She was afraid he knew her like the back of his hand, while she knew him not at all.

I... Evan stopped. I miss you.

Me too.

When will you be home?

I don’t know. How ’bout I surprise you?

* * * * *

Darren Kentzler, her chauffer, held the back door of the Mercedes SL open as Keefe stepped inside and scooted the handmade wooden box across the seat beside her. She rested her elbow on the lid, then pressed two fingers against her brow and rubbed at the headache pounding between her eyes.

Darren, can we stop by my mother’s house on the way home? She’d promised her mom a visit, even though it was a total inconvenience at this point. She hadn’t seen her in over a year. She still hadn’t told her the truth about Grandfather’s death. Keefe had no hope her mother would ever understand. Only she and Evan knew the awful facts. And since she had confessed the truth to Evan, the consuming guilt had lessened into a constant but containable sorrow that would probably always be with her.

Darren glanced in the rearview mirror. All she viewed in the reflection were two dark eyes and raised brows. Sure, Dr. Pearson.

Discovering the identity of the devious rat inside her organization who tipped off Rafe Medeiros would take some doing, especially if Rafe had sufficient funds for bribery. Only a handful of people knew about the discovery—even fewer could guess its worth or importance. How could Rafe know? He knew virtually nothing about Mayan works and it was preposterous to think he’d become a specialist in a few short years. Keefe almost snorted in disbelief.

Something wrong, Dr. Pearson?

No. Am I talking to myself again? she asked with a grin.

Looks like you’re having a conversation with the entire staff.

A long day. Sorry, I’ll try to keep the chatter down back here. Keefe turned away from the eyes that watched her through the rearview mirror. Darren wasn’t normally so talkative and today she was not in the mood for idle chitchat.

The exit sign for Ventura flashed by in her peripheral vision. The frown on her face deepened.

You’re not taking the freeway? she asked while still peering out the window. If she didn’t need to see her parents before she left for London, she’d have gone straight to her apartment, showered and packed. Too bad she hadn’t instructed Arroula to get her a flight out tonight.  

Something wasn’t right. Keefe counted the number of people involved in the dig. Who did Rafe know? It could only be for money—it was Rafe’s only real interest in life. He dabbled in antiquities only for the illegal gains he could reap with quiet, under-the-table transactions. Since Cairo, she’d heard he’d been involved in the sale of some of the stolen artifacts from the National Museum of Iraq. It was right up his scamming, slimy alley. But rumors were rife in this business. Everyone searched for the proverbial Indiana Jones artifacts—the holy grails and the buried treasures.

Archeology was nothing so glamorous. Most of the time.

So who was he really working with? Worldwide there couldn’t be more than twenty true experts in the field of Mayan artifacts. There were dozens of people who’d want the canister as a doomsday artifact, another handful of Egyptian experts who would believe this type of relic was the missing link between the Mayan and Egyptian cultures. And maybe the most dangerous of all—those who wanted the jar destroyed just for the fantastic possibilities it might hide inside. Keefe shivered as a wash of goose bumps raced to the top of her head.

It was a bit absurd that she was allowing Rafe’s interest in the urn to cloud her objectivity.

Yes, she had to consider the Egyptian connection, even if Paul disagreed with her. She’d call Josef Mazouly, her Cairo chief, once she knew more about the relic.

She glanced at her watch. Darren, why aren’t we on the freeway yet?

Sorry, Dr. Pearson. The traffic’s backed up so I thought I’d take some side roads.

Oh. Keefe’s thoughts returned to the box beside her. She had to get the artifact to Paul Atwater. An expert opinion is what she needed—a calm, deliberate assessment would put things into perspective.

The Mercedes slowed and Darren pulled to the side of the street near a park. Keefe looked out the window then glanced at her driver. Why are we stopping?

Darren turned around in the seat and pointed a Para-Ordnance .45 caliber at her head.

Keefe blinked at Darren’s unsteady hand and the threatening gun. Fourteen in the magazine, one in the chamber. Probably a weapon he kept lying under his bed. Little boys shouldn’t be allowed to play with guns.

Chapter Two

Dr. Pearson, get down!

She breathed deep. Expert instruction had taught her all she needed to know. Obviously Darren had no clue she’d been trained to kill the strongest and the smartest. With a limo driver, she wouldn’t break a sweat.

What?

Get down!

With one arm, he pushed her aside.

He fired two rounds through the back window.

He’d pushed her hard enough that she’d gone to her knees, but by tense, slow degrees, she sat up.

Another shot sounded, coming from behind them. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the car. The fog and mystery of her thoughts about the canister evaporated in an instant. No matter their worth, she had never valued artifacts as much as her life.

He opened the front door and climbed out.

Darren, what are you doing?

She clasped her left hand around the box and set it on the floorboard.. Her body tightened in anticipation of the coming attack. He crouched behind the door.

Keefe fought for control and shuttered all thoughts but one—get the gun from