The Shroud Key Read Online Free PDF Page A

unannounced.”
    “Maybe I should introduce myself,” she says, reaching out and gently touching my arm. “I’m Mrs. Andre Manion. It’s my husband who’s gone missing.”
    I stare down at her hand.
    “Your husband?”
    “Correction,” she exhales, gently retreating her hand. “Ex-husband.”
    “So I hear,” I say, still playing it cool despite her luscious eyes. “And what would you like me to do about it?”
    “I want you to find him.”
    “And then what?”
    “Bring him back alive,” she says.

CHAPTER FOUR
    She enters into the apartment, her shoulder brushing against mine as she walks past. Setting her bag on the couch, she gives the place the once over.
    “Looks like a museum,” she laughs. Then, turning to me, “If you’re making coffee, I’d love some.”
    “Is that an order?” I say, playing hard to get. “Because if it is, I haven’t agreed to taking on this job. Looks dangerous enough for me to lose my skin. And I like my skin. It fits nice.”
    By all appearances she has no idea about my history with her husband, and that’s the way I want to keep it, at least for the moment. If she knows I went after the Jesus bones with him once before and he had cause to run out on me, no way in hell will she tolerate me getting a second chance to make a grab for them. She’ll just assume I’m some sort of opportunistic grave robber looking to make a quick buck. And the hell of it is, she’d be right.
    “That’s not your reputation, Mr. Chase Baker,” she says. “I’m told you are quite handy around an archaeology dig and even handier when it comes to finding a missing person. Both in real life and in your novels.”
    “You’ve read my books.” It’s a question.
    “All three of them. Deception was my favorite. I loved how the detective deciphered clues only by looking at their reflection in a special hand held mirror. Clever. Even your prose was passable. I teach English, you know.”
    “The mirror was the book’s hook, Ms. English Prof.”
    “Indeed and it’s a good one. It’s almost like you took it from real life.”
    “Maybe I did. But how do I know you’re not just trying to butter me up here?”
    She cocks her head, which admittedly, is a very pretty head, then bites down gently on her bottom lip.
    “I have no reason to compliment you on your work. If I want something from you, I will ask you directly.”
    “So why not just ask me politely to help you find your husband?”
    She smiles.
    “I already have, and so has the detective. I’ve just come to confirm the status of your employment.”
    The room falls silent on us, on the many books, on the many pieces of treasure I’ve accumulated over the years in Europe, the Middle East, South America and God knows where else. Skulls, amulets, statuettes, rocks, jars of ashes, and a mirror. A special mirror about the size of a credit card and almost as thin. A mirror that’s broken in half and that I dug up inside a deep pit outside the Third Pyramid within the Giza Plateau back when I was sandhogging for Manion … But that’s only for me to know.
    “Think I’ll make some coffee,” I say, heading into the kitchen.
    Pulling down the stove-top coffee pot from the shelf over the sink, I fill the bottom with tap water, and the coffee receptacle with Lavazza espresso. I light the gas stove, set the pot on the burner and wait for the magic to happen. When it does three minutes later, I pour the coffee into an espresso cup, grab hold of my already open beer, and carry them back out to the living room.
    I find her standing, facing my floor-to-ceiling shelves, gazing upon the books and relics.
    “You have quite the collection,” she says. “You remind me of the most interesting man in the world…a real Renaissance man.”
    “I’ve heard a lot of women call me a lot of things. But never that.” I hand her the coffee. Then, “So, Mrs. Manion, remind me of your given name again.”
    She turns to me, carefully sipping her