The Bone Conjurer. Alex Archer

there was a woman.”

      Ben raised his eyebrows. An exhale settled him in the comfortable chair. Relaxation was far from his mind.

      “Before or after you began to trail Cooke?” he asked. “I don’t need to hear about your amorous liaisons, Harris. And I certainly hope you were not entertaining the flavor of the week on my time.”

      “I would never, Mr. Ravenscroft. Cooke didn’t go immediately home from the airport. He met a woman on the old Carroll Street Bridge. He must have arranged for them to meet before arriving in the States.”

      Cooke going behind his back with the goods? The bastard had come highly recommended after Serge had worked his magic. Ben did not tolerate those who tried to screw with him.

      “The sniper followed the backup plan, as discussed,” Harris said.

      “Good.” The backup plan did not allow for Cooke to live.

      “The artifact, unfortunately, was sacrificed in the process.”

      “Damn!” Ben slammed a fist onto the desktop.

      Harris flinched, tugged at his tie.

      Ben tried not to get his hands dirty. He remained invisible in any business transaction. A liaison had been necessary to meet Cooke. He’d sent out an idiot when he should have taken care of this himself.

      “The sniper got this.” Harris approached the desk and reached inside his suit coat. He placed a black-and-white photograph on Ben’s desk. “He sent it to me on my cell phone. Then I, er, lost contact with him.”

      Not picking it up, but instead drawing the slightly curved photo toward him with the edge of his thumb, Ben leaned over the image. It was blurred, but some details showed on the two faces. He recognized Cooke from the one meeting he’d arranged during an art exhibit at a gallery in the Village.

      There was enough clarity to ascertain the figure talking to Cooke was indeed a woman. A dark ski cap hugged her head. Prominent cheekbones suggested beauty. Mouth open, as if talking, she couldn’t have known her conversation was being observed.

      Tilting his head to reduce the glare on the photo, Ben sought more in the grainy depths of her eyes. Something about her was familiar. But he couldn’t recall seeing her in person. He attended so many damned parties he felt sure he’d slapped palms with half of New York over the past year alone. If he ever wanted to pursue politics, he’d certainly gotten flesh-pressing down pat.

      The door to his right opened. The photographer shoved his head through. “Ready, Mr. Ravenscroft.”

      “Five minutes,” he said. When the door closed, the clicking sound of the mechanics bit at the base of Ben’s skull, threatening the imminent migraine. “What happened?”

      Watching the door with wary suspicion, Harris finally decided the coast was clear.

      “After the sniper shots they went over the bridge railing.”

      “He got them both?”

      “We’re still waiting to verify bodies, sir.”

      Ben rolled his eyes and pushed back in the chair. Again, he propped his feet up and clasped his hands on his lap. He didn’t look at Harris. To give him any regard was more than the man deserved right now.

      Bodies. He didn’t do bodies. What a fiasco.

      “And the sniper is gone?” he asked.

      “No, uh…”

      “What the hell is it, man?”

      “I went looking for him.”

      Ben picked up on the man’s increasing anxiety. More so than when he’d initially entered the office. The rancid sweat from Harris’s armpits blasted over any lingering waves of clove.

      “Why would you go looking for him? Didn’t you maintain radio contact?”

      “He didn’t contact me as arranged. I found him…dead.”

      “How?”

      “Broken neck. His weapon was still in place. Nothing was removed from the body. I have no idea who did it. I’m sorry, sir.”

      “Sorry?” Ben shook his head and glanced out the window. He saw nothing. Not the clear winter-white sky, nor the acres of steel skyscrapers.

      The sniper was dead. That was good. One less witness. And yet, an unknown had gone after his sniper? That was not good. Add one unidentified witness to the list.

      Had Cooke placed his own man on the scene? He couldn’t have, or else why would he kill him?

      Ben calmed his racing thoughts.

      “You disappoint me, Harris. The operation was thoroughly botched. And not even an artifact in hand.”

      “I’m unsure if the exchange was made.”

      “You say exchange.” Ben studied the bead of sweat running down Harris’s forehead. “Was there an exchange?”

      “I feel it was intended, but the sniper reported nothing was exchanged before they went over the bridge railing.”

      “What about after, do you suppose?”

      “After?” Harris sputtered. “Difficult to imagine either survived. Two shots were fired. Both found their mark. If the bullet didn’t do it, the toxic sludge would have smothered them, surely.”

      “The canal is a hell of a lot cleaner than most believe. Men have fallen in before, and emerged with nothing more than a case of hepatitis A.”

      Ben took the photo and tapped the edge sharply on the stone desktop. So it all ended right here?

      No. There was too much at stake. And now with the unknown who’d taken out the sniper, the risk in not following through could prove deadly. Someone had too much information.

      He needed that skull. A life depended on it. He wasn’t about to let it be swept under the carpet until he’d heard confirmation of two bodies. And when the bodies were found, would the skull also be found?

      “Do we have a man on the inside?”

      “The inside, sir?”

      “The police. We need someone on location at the NYPD when the bodies are found. The artifact mustn’t wind up shelved in the municipal evidence closet, never to be claimed or seen again.”

      “I’ll ensure it happens.”

      “Do so. Did you remove the sniper’s weapon?”

      “I did.”

      “No clue whatsoever to our mystery killer?”

      “No, sir, but I’m looking into it.”

      “I want a lead within eight hours. That will be all.”

      Harris bowed and turned sharply to leave the office.

      Ben tucked the photo inside his suit coat. He drew out his phone and tapped Serge’s number.

      “No.” He set the phone on the desk. “Not yet.”

      He didn’t want the man involved until the right moment.

      Ben gazed at the phone. Could Serge be the mystery man who took out the sniper? What reason would he have to do so? If he guessed Ben was tracking the skull, he would have gone directly after it. To imagine Serge killing a sniper was difficult. It just didn’t fit. He had no knowledge of weapons, as far as Ben knew. He was a big man, but one of those wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly sorts.

      The meeting room door opened again.

      “On my way,” Ben called.

      He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a syringe. Tugging his shirt out from his trousers, he grabbed a wodge of middle-age bulge. The autoinjector pierced the flesh. His skin warmed and tingled.