Sunken Pyramid (Rogue Angel) Read Online Free PDF Page A

search showed nothing about Edgar Schwartz’s death, but she found a blog posting he’d made early yesterday, about arriving at the conference, passing on the tour because he was tired and perusing the menu. The last entry mentioned how much he was looking forward to dinner with the TV archaeologist Annja Creed.
    She closed the laptop down and left the room, turning toward the elevator and then spinning and heading instead to the stairwell. Indeed, she was on intimate terms with death—she just hadn’t expected to be touched by it in Madison, Wisconsin.
    Her stairwell landing was shadowy, but the landing below and the one above were lit. Annja shivered involuntarily as she leaned over the railing, looking down. They said Edgar had been found dead at the bottom. Sucking in a deep breath, and finding the air a redolent mix of stale odors and antiseptic floor cleaner, she took the steps up two at a time and came out on the tenth floor. No sign of the police detectives, no open hotel-room doors.
    But the Arms was a big place, and the hallways branched in different directions. She turned left, made another left at the next corridor toward where she knew the elevators would be and heard muted voices coming from an open door. She recognized the voice of the young detective who had been rather curt with her.
    For a heartbeat Annja considered slipping up quietly and eavesdropping; she might gain a little more information. But she squared her shoulders, dismissed that notion as juvenile and lengthened her stride to stop squarely in the doorway.
    Edgar’s room was tidy, almost as if the maid had just readied it or he’d not had time to settle in.
    The detectives ceased their conversation and stared at her. In the silence that settled between them, Annja noted the faint chime of an elevator, but it was for the floor above. She heard a siren, a fire truck from the sound of it, in the distance then growing in volume, joined by another before fading as they moved deeper into the city. A radio played from a room or two down the hall. The tune was Stevie Wonder’s. A snippet of the closing lyrics came through. “Boogie On Reggae Woman” was the song. From the seventies, she thought. Edgar would have favored it.
    The young detective was giving her a serious look. Realizing she wasn’t moving on, he shook his head. “Police investigation, I told you. Wait until tomorrow’s paper and—”
    “He was a friend, ” Annja said.
    “Good to have friends.” He stepped between her and the door frame, squeezing out into the hall. “I bet he was friends with a lot of the people at this conference. But they have the sense and courtesy to stay downstairs.”
    The problem with detectives was they didn’t have the little name badges that uniformed cops wore. Annja wanted to address him by something.
    “Look—” she started.
    “Lieutenant Greene,” he supplied.
    “Look, Lieutenant Greene, I—”
    “—was a friend of the deceased. I get that.” His expression softened, but only for a moment before it became stoic again. “And like I said in the lobby, I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, no matter how routine it is. It’s policy. If you’ll excuse me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Manny, I’m going back down, to talk to this—”
    “—Professor Chia something,” the tall detective interjected.
    “Yeah. I’m going to pull him into the manager’s office. Meet me there when you’ve got this packed to go.” Then he was gone down the hallway. He touched the elevator button, and like magic the door instantly opened for him.
    Annja was glad to see the door close and the contraption whisk him away.
    Chia something? Dr. Chiapont? Peter? Did he know something about what happened to Edgar?
    She stepped into Edgar’s room.
    The older detective was scribbling in his notepad. On the desk next to him was a file folder about a half-inch thick. Edgar’s suitcase was open in the center of the bed. It looked as if nothing