Ghost's Treasure Read online

  She bit her tongue. "I beg to differ. I was using this until I'd been called away for only a moment."

  "Seat was empty, thus you weren't using it."

  Her temper flared. Obviously, the man had no manners and felt he owned the world. Nothing short of throwing him out of her seat would work. She opted for the next best option: kicking the power plug out of the floor receptacle. The computer screen immediately went black.

  The man snarled at her. She smiled, bitterly sweet, and pointed across the room. "This one seems to be down. Those over there appear to be in working order, and there are two that I can see are presently unoccupied."

  He stood up, grabbed his papers, and shuffled off with a litany of curses under his breath.

  She barely resisted the urge to throw her stapler at his head. Talk about arrogant, overbearing, and egotistical patrons. Unfortunately, the city had their fair share that happened to enjoy spending endless days at the library bugging the crap out of her with ridiculous questions, outrageous demands, and snotty attitudes.

  Plugging the cord back into the outlet, she plopped down and waited for her computer to come back on. Once again, she debated on how to track down information on her finds. Now what do I try? Everything so far had been a dead end. Her morning search, though long and detailed, proved a study in failure. She needed to find a different path, maybe enlist the help of an expert. A light bulb clicked on.

  An hour later, she sat back and sighed in relief. She'd managed to upload the three pictures of the items from her digital camera onto the computer. From there, she tracked down a couple of museums specializing in old jewelry along with two appraisers connected to the big auction houses in the US. Surely, one of them would email her back with something.

  Her belly growled, reminding her of lunchtime. Glimpsing the clock, she cringed. Two pm. She'd been too busy on the computer to notice the time. No matter. Quickly, she locked the computer so no other rude patron could use the machine while she was away at lunch. Lesson learned today.

  Trotting down the stairs, she waved at the head librarian, a salt-and-pepper haired lady with a generous heart and quick smile. "Going to lunch, Mary."

  "So late?" A perplexed look crossed the other woman's face.

  "Yeah. Unfortunately. I kept getting dragged off to help people and couldn't get away at my normal time."

  Mary nodded. "That happens. Well, enjoy your lunch."

  Josie made a beeline for her locker in the basement. Gathering up her insulated lunch pail and her purse, she stuck her head out the door, then snuck around the corner and through the door into one of the seldom used corners of the vast library. Once there, she pulled out a couple of books, dragged the bolt and drill from her lunch pail and went to work. Fifteen minutes later, she nodded approvingly. The small metal security box bolted to the cement wall would hold the jewels without difficulty, stay hidden and locked away from prying eyes until she could return later. Pocketing the key to the lock box, she stood back up. With a width of about three inches and slightly longer side, the container fit precisely in the corner of the wall and the shelf, allowing the books to fit back in their natural position, effectively hiding the metal box and impressive contents. The chances of anyone stumbling across her makeshift safe rivaled man growing wings. That will work until I can find a decent buyer or take the items to auction.

  Standing, she dusted off her knees, collected her goods, and studied the area one more time. Something nagged at her.

  The dust! Her fingerprints were all over the couple of books that she removed, but no other book appeared to have been touched for the past thirty years judging by the thick layer of dust evenly covering each and every one.

  "Well, crap." Heading back into the staff room, she grabbed several dusting clothes from the closet, stuffed her peanut butter sandwich in her mouth, grabbed her small bottle of milk, and returned to the area. Pulling the line of books off the bottom shelf, she first cleaned the metal shelf itself, then wiped down each and every book as she returned them to their original place.

  Taking another bite of her sandwich, she pondered her work and cringed. Now the whole bottom shelf drew attention by gleaming in the artificial light compared to the layers of dust on the rest of the shelves. With no other choice, she set about cleaning not only the whole back shelf, but the one in front of it. By the time she finished, she carried a healthy amount of black grit on her light blue shirt and matching pants. She wouldn't bet her face didn't carry a telling smudge either.

  This time, she appraised her work with a nod of approval. If anyone happened down there, they'd think someone had been cleaning and only completed so much before they were called elsewhere. Which just happened to be the truth.

  With the weight of worry taken off her shoulders, she returned her supplies to the break room and trotted back upstairs, right on the one hour mark to return from her lunch break.

  Chapter 4

  The first beginnings of dawn touched the sky like a dainty paintbrush haphazardly laying down strokes of pink, orange, and a midnight blue slowly lightening in tone to robin's egg. As beautiful as the start to any morning, the fiery remains of the drug warehouse provided deep contrast, reminding him of the evil reality in life. Pretty pictures like the sunrise were taken away too soon, the pitch blackness overriding such glorious colors and brightness, covering the world in sheer darkness, wiping away all the day's sunlight and good.

  Ghost turned his attention back to the small team of professional mercenaries, noting each one moved with ease, despite their obvious fatigue. For the past several hours, they snuck up with stealth, before rushing in for a fast and furious attack, finally completing their mission and blowing the whole compound to smithereens as morning approached.

  Another mission completed with everyone still intact.

  More than he could say for that horrible night that still existed in his nightmares. The endless blackness where he, along with other team members, went on a search and rescue mission. Unbeknownst to him, he'd never again emerge in the brilliant daylight. Instead, the same cold bleakness hung on his shoulders each day he carried on.

  Once again, he chastised himself, wishing he'd chosen differently, been a better man and husband. Done some things differently.

  He should have been there for her, especially after she became pregnant with a much anticipated and wanted child. Stayed with her, turned in his resignation and found a civilian job. That's what husbands did. Protected their loved one with every iota of their being.

  Instead, he learned of the tragedy weeks later, too late to even return home to attend the funeral. For that, he'd never forgive himself. He knew standard policy for Navy SEAL Teams relied upon absolute secrecy and nothing interrupted a mission, not even an emergency call from home. Even though he understood completely, he didn't have to like the fact his commanders knowingly withheld the information until he completed the several days long mission and returned to home base. After all, to them, the assignment was more important than Lindsay or any family member. They thought wrong. To him, nothing in this world held greater importance or value. Not the top man on America's Most Wanted list, not the ridiculous war, not even fighting over barren territory for the sake of freeing another people from suppression and dictatorship. No. His wife meant more than everything combined.

  Only when he returned to what loosely consisted of a home base three weeks later, did they bother to tell him what happened. Of her senseless death. After she lay buried six feet under and the funeral flowers had all shriveled up and turned to dust.

  The need for retribution rode him hard, yet he could do no more than fly home, his hands tied in the need for revenge, unable to track down the dead man responsible and beat the bastard to a bloody pulp like he deserved. Instead, he visited her grave, stood silently as he read the marble headstone, and wept inside.

  His soul died that day.

  "Hey, Ghost?"

  Breaking from his morbid thoughts, he looked up to find Loco staring
at him.

  "Want to join us for lunch once we get back home?"

  For a moment, he considered the offer. The one time he actually took them up on their proposition, he didn't have a bad time. Heck, to be completely honest, watching the others rib, and banter with, one another actually proved somewhat entertaining.

  He shook his head. "No, thanks." No sense in bringing down their fun while his memories assailed him, dragging him back into his familiar melancholy. To be frank, he wasn't good company for anyone. He knew it and didn't sweat the fact. After all, his goal in life narrowed down to one thing: take out as much evil as possible before kicking the bucket. Making friends and turning into a social butterfly didn't fit into his life anymore.

  The others glanced over, various expressions of concern written on their faces. Ghost felt their stares, understood their non-verbalized thoughts. They tried to entice him to join them, to open up, to bond into friendship. He'd give them credit for the energy and attempt. However, the effort was wasted on him.

  Without another word, he strode back to the vehicle, climbed in, and gave a short wave before driving off. Sure, he could have ridden with the rest of the Wind Warriors, but that would mean closed spaces and no way to outrun questions and comments. Not if he could avoid it. Solitary fit him much better. Alone. For the rest of his life. For he had no heart or soul left to offer another person.

  Chapter 5

  "Josie Summers?"

  "Yes?" She glanced up from her computer screen to find a tall, lean man with blond hair dressed in a fancy suit. Sunglasses covered his eyes, adding to the mysterious air about him. She detected no dust, lint, or wrinkles on his attire, simply a man dressed to the nines and definitely out of place in the research section of the city's library.

  He pulled out his wallet and flashed a badge, slapping the leather case closed before she could do more than glimpse the metal object. "Agent Robert Harris, FBI."

  She blinked and gave him her undivided attention.

  "I understand you have some rare jewelry in your possession."

  Josie bit her lip, cautiousness and a gut feeling clamping her mouth shut. In this day and age, you couldn't trust anyone with such important details, even though they supposedly held a badge.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

  He frowned down at her. "Let's not play naïve, miss. You've stumbled across some valuable lost treasure. The emails to the appraisers and museums tell me so."

  Something felt off about him, muddy and oily came to mind. His haughty tone and flawless suit could be forgiven in some arenas. In the middle of the library, she felt his presence overdone, unwanted, and a bit nerve-wracking. Too slick, too clean, too perfect with his manicured fingernails. He made her uneasy, and she never disagreed with her gut instincts.

  Lifting her chin, she stared into his dark-toned glasses. "Again, I have no idea what you're talking about. However, I would like to see your badge again."

  He grumbled under his breath but hesitantly produced the item.

  No sooner had he opened the cover than she grabbed the case, holding it open for her up close appraisal. "There should be a badge number. Yes, right here." She jotted down his name and the number on a piece of scrap paper. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll have to make some phone calls to verify your identity. Lots of scams going on these days." She waved her hand and dug a phone book out of the drawer of her desk.

  Harris's fingers pushed down on the receiver resting in the cradle. His other hand found her desk as he leaned in closer. "First of all, no one is going to give you the information you're seeking. The agency doesn't give out that kind of information over the phone. If you really want to check, I can give you a number to call."

  "Sure, but you understand, I have to check other sources, too." She pasted on her best librarian's smile, the one she used when she really wanted to clobber someone for being a demanding idiot.

  Standing up for a second, he pulled a business card out of his wallet, tossed it in front of her, and replaced the leather carrier in his back pocket. "Listen up, lady. Those jewels are stolen. The FBI needs to ensure they're the same ones so they can be returned to the original owners."

  Straightening her spine, she glared at him. "I told you once, and I'll tell you again. I know nothing about these jewels you're talking about." She glanced to his side. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other patrons that need my assistance."

  His lips thinned into a tight line. "If you change your mind, call me. Better make it soon. I can't guarantee there's not others going to be tracking you down for the same reason. Only they won't be nearly as nice as me." With those parting words, he spun on his heel and strode to the nearest staircase, jogged down, and out of sight.

  Josie released a long pent-up breath, her nerves still jittery from the odd encounter. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine someone from the FBI, if Robert Harris truly belonged with the agency, would track her down at work and demand information about her estate sale find. What if the guy was right and her finds were stolen? Why would the FBI be interested?

  On a whim, she typed in stolen jewels and FBI into the computer, then hit search. "Well, well, well." The answer stared back at her in the form of the FBI's Art Crime Team.

  Her cell phone rang. Who would be calling her? Everyone knew she was at work at this time of day, so they'd try her direct work line instead of the cell. Puzzled, she reached into her purse, grabbed it out, and answered. "Hello?"

  "Josie Summers?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm Tony Riley. I work for the appraiser you sent your pictures to."

  A warning bell rang in her head. Yes, she sent the pictures to two museums and two appraisers who worked with top-notch auction services in order to help learn more about her find. In none of those emails did she list a phone number. She simply sent from her work email, which would give a reader her name and the library. At the moment, the move seemed to beg trouble. Dumb on her part. Real dumb.

  This guy had to do his own research to track her down. Definitely unsettling and a bit scary.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Riley." She hoped her voice held conviction and didn't shake with nerves.

  His tone grew gruff. "The pictures of the jewels. You emailed them to my associate for a possible appraisal."

  "I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number." She clicked off before he could say anything more.

  Before she could put her phone away, it rang again. Josie hit the silence button and let the call roll over to phone mail.

  What in the world have I gotten myself into just trying to find out some simple information about an impulsive estate sale purchase?

  Dozens more questions whirled through her mind with no answers. One thing she did know, those items must be worth a pretty penny in order to garner such attention. The fact both thrilled and concerned her at the same time. If Harris wasn't bad enough, she hated to think his prediction might come true. Who else would be climbing out from under rocks, landing on her doorstep, and doing their best to part her from her lucky find? What about the guy who just called? Where did he get his information and her phone number?

  More importantly, what am I going to do?

  Again, she stared at the screen before her. Quickly scanning the information, she sucked in a breath as an idea came to her. After Harris, she couldn't trust anyone who came looking for her. She shuddered in remembrance of his commanding tone, his cruel mouth. No. She needed a more upfront approach with a way to ensure the legitimacy of the man she spoke with.

  She wasn't prepared to fly to Washington, DC to talk to a member of the team directly, but perhaps, she could start with the local FBI office and go from there. After all, if these jewels were what Harris led her to believe, the FBI would surely want to know.

  Finding a phone number and address of the local office, she jotted both down. As a second thought, she pulled up a security picture from earlier and printed it off, used her tweezers to pick up the business
card and drop it into a clear storage bag used for frail documents. After gathering up all her documentation, she slipped everything in her purse, shut down the computer, and headed out.

  Trotting down the stairs, she waved at Mary, letting her boss know she was leaving for the day.

  "Miss. Oh, miss?"

  Turning her head, Josie spied an elderly lady shuffling up to her with the assistance of a cane. "Can you help me, please?"

  Impatient, Josie stepped closer and tamped down on her desire to dash off, leaving the pudgy, silver-haired lady to her own devices. "What can I do for you?"

  "Can you point me to the biographies, please, dear?" The woman stopped right in front of Josie.

  "To your left."

  "What?" The woman leaned in. "I can't hear well. What did you say?"

  "To your left." She spoke up and gestured down the hall.

  "Thank you. Ohhh." The woman grabbed Josie's arm to steady herself as she wobbled a bit. Once she regained her balance, she smiled. "Thank you. I was sure I was going to take a nasty tumble."

  "No problem." With a quick grin, Josie resumed her hasty exit, hoping no more patrons stopped her along the way.

  "Oh, Josie?"

  Well, crap. Recognizing Mary's voice, Josie turned to her. "Yes?"

  "Will you be attending the monthly meeting Tuesday evening? I'm trying to get a head count."

  Barely refraining from rolling her eyes, Josie pasted a wan smile on her face. "I hope to, but I need to check my schedule. Can I get back with you?"

  "Sure. Just let me know as soon as you can." With a quick wave, Mary returned to her work.

  Finally. Hurriedly, she strode from the building and made a beeline for the parking lot. Climbing into her car, she double checked the address and headed downtown straightaway. With any luck, the FBI would not only understand her situation but have reasonable answers that kept her out of the hands of creepy men like Robert Harris. If not, she was screwed.

  Chapter 6