COME UNDONE
by
PiperMerlyn
Chapter 24
The Chapters
29 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
10:25 am
Cassandra looked at the box sitting on the table. Why had it been in Joe’s coat? A warning, perhaps? Would that mean that the girl’s death and Joe’s wounds were connected? Was the dead girl Ailsa? She looked back at the castle. Who lived up there? From this distance, it looked uninhabited and decrepit.
With a sigh, she turned her back on it, telling herself it was futile to try and guess who might own the place. She walked back to the table and picked up the box, wondering where to put it when she suddenly froze. The clasp was broken, she remembered. She opened the box and looked at the chain again. The link that held the clasp to th echain was broken and stretched nearly twice its length—as if it were pulled or yanked off.
Casi narrowed her eyes. “And how do you yank a necklace off?” she muttered. “By grabbing the pendant...” She studied the pendant lying haphazardly in the box. So unless the killer wore gloves, there should be at least partial fingerprints on the pendant. A thoughtful look came over her face and her eyes drifted to the bath powder sitting on the dresser. Could she do it?
She watched countless detective and mystery shows all about forensics and fingerprinting. Could she use the bath powder to reveal fingerprints on the pendant? She thought about it for a minute, then made a decision. She got the powder, tweezers to hold the pendant and a makeup brush to dust the powder on the metal. She gave the pendant a light dusting of the white powder, then blew the excess away. Looking closely, she saw whorls and spirals.
Suddenly, Casi groaned. How could she lift them? Did she have any clear tape? She didn’t remember packing any. What could she substitute? The overhead light revealed the small clear oval on her thumbnail. The nail repair kit had nail shields—clear thin plastic to keep nails from ripping or tearing, adhesive on one side. She grabbed the box the kit came in and opened it one-handed. Using the largest one, she lifted the partial fingerprint.
She dropped the necklace back in its box and using another large nail shield, pressed against the first one, carefully so as not to blur the print. She held it up to the light and saw the whorl lines. So far so good. Casi looked for an envelope then stopped. What to do now? Would the police believe her if she told them she found the box on the road? She had to take that chance.
Casi walked down the stairs, after leaving her room and locking the door. She asked the doorman for directions. If he had been surprised by her request, he didn’t show it. He just called a taxi for her and sent her on her way. Leaving the old Lispcani district, she saw more modern steel and glass buildings, towering above the old churches and century-old buildings.
She paid the driver after he stopped at a modern-looking building, She got out of the taxi and headed inside toward a horseshoe-shaped desk. She cleared her throat. “Verbiti engleza?”
The young woman raised her head. “Da. That means yes.”
Casi sighed. “I need the police department.”
“What is the problem?”
Casi thought for a moment, not wanting to get in any kind of trouble herself. “The murder this morning. I think I saw something.”
The woman frowned and picked up a phone and spoke in rapid-fire Romanian to someone on the other end. Casi hoped she wasn’t about to get arrested or anything. The woman hung up. “Someone will be right down.”
As if on cue, a tall woman with short light brown hair stepped out of the elevator toward her. “Buna ziua.”
Casi tried to remember the only other phrase she knew in Romanian—thanks to the travel guide Chad had insisted she look through. “Nu vorbesc romaneste.”
“You’re doing well enough. I’m Inspector Corwen. Please, come with me.”
Casi followed Corwen into the elevator. She pulled the box out of her purse and handed it to the woman. “Here. Truth is, I only found that. I...really didn’t see anything.”
“I won’t throw you under the jail, Miss....?”
“Casi MacFairlaigne.”
Corwen pulled the lid off the box and looked inside. “Where did you find it?”
“Not far from where she was killed.” Casi took a deep breath. “I noticed the clasp was broken and there was blood---“
“Yes. I see.” Corwen nodded. “Hmm.”
The elevator deposited them in a gray hallway that smelled faintly of cigarettes and sweat. Corwen led the way through a set of double doors, past several desks where people were either extremely busy or not at all. Corwen stopped in front of one desk. Without looking up, the man said, “Who the hell ordered a toxicology on Jane Doe?”
“You mean Ailsa Haines,” said Natalya.
Casi gave a start. Then the necklace did belong to the dead girl.
“Whatever.” The man raised his head and glanced at Casi. “And you are?”
“Casi MacFairlaigne.”
“She found this.” Corwen dumped the box’s contents on top of the open folder.
Gil sat back. He saw the blood on the chain, the stylized letter A pendant. He’d seen a picture at old man Haines’—his great niece wearing this necklace. “Shit.” He glanced back at Casi. “You see anything?”
“No.”
He grunted. “I went to New York once. It amazed me how blind people were to crime.”
“I think I’d remember some vampiric Lothario sucking at a woman’s neck.”
Natalya Corwen bit back a smile and didn’t say a word.
“Oh really. So you must not be from New York.”
“Not hardly. I’m from Boston.” snapped Casi.
Gil flashed her a grin. “Nice to meet you. I’m from Brasov.”
Natalya chuckled. “Gil.” She smiled at Casi. “He really is human.”
Casi shrugged as Gil picked up the chain and let the pendant dangle in front of his face. He narrowed his eyes, then looked at Casi. “Mind explaining that?”
“I lifted a partial print.” She’d held it the whole way there and now she set it next to the box lid.
Natalya arched an eyebrow. “You’re a police officer? In Boston?”
“Um....not exactly.”
*****
29 October 2003
Paris, France
11: 05 am
She opened the door. “What? You had an epiphany?”
He didn’t even bother to reply to that. “Lovely as ever.”
“Damn,” muttered Alethea Hadley. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Where’s Quinn?”
“It’s a boat, Radcliffe. He can’t go that far.”
“Thank you, Alethea, you’re as charming as ever, too.”
Alethea gave him a what’s-up-with-you look, then glanced over her shoulder. “Quinn, you-know-who is here.”
Nicholas Quinn looked up from the salad he was tossing. “Michael, I see you finally pulled yourself away.”
“I think I’ve got it, Quinn. She keeps extensive notes and she was nice enough to let me copy them.”
“She’d have to, considering,” remarked Alethea. “So what’s it?”
“According to her grandmother’s stories, there’s a legend of a gods’ circle. Gods as in plural, mind you. But one circle made up of the twenty-seven stones that represented twenty-seven gods.”
Alethea stared at him. “Twenty-seven? Good grief, I have enough with just one.”
Nicholas shot her a look, then pushed the salad aside and rested his elbows on the counter. He nodded to Michael. “And?”
“Originally, according to these stories, the stones were unpolished, uncarved chunks of rock or ore about the size of a man’s fist. None of the stories say anything about what happened later. They mention a planetary disaster, then a regression to medieval times. After that the stones are different, much smaller. I’ve tried calling Ar—Casi, but she’s not answering her phone.”
Quinn shrugged and snitched a slice of cucumber from the salad. “I don’t know, Michael. I got the impression Casi liked to travel—did you get that impression, Al?”
“Most definitely.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “What’s not in her notes are bound to be in that head of hers.”
“Have you tried Alexander?”
“DuBois? Why him?”
“Because Alexander knows Casi’s father,” said Quinn patiently. He shrugged again. “And Casi’s father probably knows where she is.”
“Not half-ass bad, Quinn. Want to be a private detective when you grow up?”
“No. Because my first case would be her.”
Alethea looked outraged. “Me?” she said in a shocked voice.
Quinn grunted. “And what do you call a B & E?”
Alethea thought a moment, then snapped her fingers. “A railroad.”
“That’s the B&O,” retorted Michael. “And that’s Monopoly.”
Quinn shook his head. “Stop picking the locks to Michael’s shop, Al.”
Michael grunted. “Yeah. Pick on someone else—like the Louvre.”
“I’ll get arrested.”
“So? You can always break out.”
“Go away, Radcliffe.”
“You.”
Alethea tossed her ponytail over one shoulder. “You.”
“Children,” said Nicholas. Behave or I’ll send you to your room without lunch.”
“Ha,” muttered Michael. “I’d just like to see you try.”
“Don’t push me, Michael,” warned Quinn. “At the very least, I’ll withhold sustenance from you until you beg for mercy.”
Michael snorted. “Fine. I’m going.”
“Good riddance,” muttered Alethea.
Michael gave her a glare and headed for the door. “I think I’ll install a security system. One that shocks intruders.”
Alethea shook her head. “Idle threats. You can’t afford a security system.”
Michael gave her a devious grin. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you.” He waved to Quinn. “Didn’t want salad anyway. Bye.”
Quinn sighed, then turned around to the oven behind him. He pulled out a pan of five-cheese lasagna and grinned at Alethea. “More for us, eh. You might want to lock the doors. Michael has a habit of peeking through portholes.”
Alethea grinned. “My pleasure.”
***
29 October 2003
Bucaresti, Romania
11:10 am
“What do you mean,” asked Gil. “Not exactly.”
Casi cleared her throat. “I’m something of an amateur detective.”
Gil studied her a moment and then looked at the print. “Looks clear enough.” He sniffed it. “Smells like apples,” he said suspiciously.
Natalya shook her head. “Gil, behave.”
Casi chuckled. “It’s okay. It’s all I had on hand.”
Gil arched an eyebrow. “You don’t happen to watch MacGyver, do you?”
“Until it ended. Why?”
“He’s a big fan of the show. Always tries to imitate him,” said Natalya.
“You hush.” He handed the print to Natalya. “Run it through.”
“Yes, master,” said Natalya, sarcastically.
Casi took a deep breath. “I guess I’d better go.”
“Don’t you want to know whose print it is?”
“I would’ve thought you couldn’t tell me.”
“What if I made you an honorary member of the police department?”
“And I doubt you could do that.” Casi shook her head. “You can’t get much from a partial anyway.”
“We do have computers, you know, and we’re hooked into Interpol. You’d be surprised.” Gil gestured to the metal chair by his desk. “Have a seat.”
Casi felt a moment’s chagrin. “I didn’t mean to be condescending.”
“No, no. It’s all those stupid American vampire movies. They make us look like backwater idiots.”
Casi nodded. “Hollywood does excell at stereotyping.”
Gil laughed, then settled back in his chair. “You said amateur detective, so what’s your real job?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Romance, huh?” asked Gil, with a knowing grin.
Casi smiled. “Not exactly. I write science fiction.”
“Like Star Trek?” he asked, wiggling one eyebrow up and down.
Casi’s smile widened. “No. It’s more about a planet exactly like ours but far far away. It’s a cross between Star Trek and the Middle Ages, with a little Star Wars thrown in.” At his interested look, she gave a brief synopsis of the first book.
“Sounds interesting.” Gil glanced past Casi. “Well?”
“It wasn’t easy.” Natalya shook her head. “Until I broadened the perimeters. The guy’s dead.”
“Nat,” said Gil, giving her a hard look. “No vampire jokes, please.”
“No.” Natalya shook her head. “The guy died four years ago in an explosion in New Delhi, India. He—“
“Omar Hadad.”
Both Gil and Nat stared at her. Nat slowly nodded. “Yes,” she answered, a puzzled look on her face.
Gil Henerik f rowned. “How did you know?”
“It was just a hunch.” Casi felt cold. Joe had said seven months ago, that Omar Hadad was dead. So how could there be a fingerprint match. And why kill Ailsa Haines. What was going on here?
Natalya scanned the paper Interpol had faxed her. “He was a drug smuggler. Why would he kill his housekeeper?”
“Maybe she knew too much,” suggested Gil.
Or maybe, she was the perfect pawn, thought Casi. She stood up, ready to leave. She had to tell Joe all this.
Gil glanced down at the open folder and his eyes narrowed. He jabbed a forefinger at the toxicology report sitting on top. “Wait. You said drug smuggler? Take a look at this.”
Natalya leaned over his shoulder and her eyes widened. “Oh my God.”
Casi swallowed hard. That did not sound good. “What?”
“Ailsa Haines was practically dead before someone drained her blood.” Natalya took a deep breath. “From a drug overdose.”
Casi’s knees buckled and she sat down hard in the metal chair. It just got a million times worse.
“Chandler Whitfield, what cat dragged you in here?” Miranda Berkeley-Smythe cocked her head to one side. Her long sable hair was in a thick French braid and she was wearing skin-tight black jeans and a burgundy silk blouse. “Never thought I’d see you here.”
Chad held back a groan. Last night, he’d figured—hoped—it was just a lookalike. “Hello, Miranda.”
“Don’t tell me after two years, Emerson had a change of heart and sent you to find me.” Her tone of voice was overly sarcastic.
He felt a surge of resentment. Whitfields never begged. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“So why are you here?”
“I was out walking and—“
Miranda snorted. “Let me guess. You’re on a walking tour of Europe.”
“Save all your malice for Emerson, Miranda,” snapped Chad. Now that he was here, he was regretting the impulsive decision to stop by the embassy.
“So what do you want?”
“I’m a British citizen. I’m allowed to visit my embassy in a foreign country.”
Miranda shrugged and busied herself straightening items on the countertop. “Whatever.”
“Who’s Dorian Thayer?”
“The resident vampire.”
“Miranda.” He’d tolerate that from some elderly native but not her—especially not her.
“That’s what everyone calls him. He only comes out after dark.”
Chad rolled his eyes. “So he’s nocturnal. At the turn of the century, millions of Londoners did the same. That’s not a crime.”
“He’s gone through three housekeepers in the last four years.”
“Speaking of housekeepers, the girl in—“
“Yeah. That was her. Don’t remember her name, little bi—“
“Excuse me?” Chad cut in, startled more by the malice in her tone, than her profanity.
“Nothing.” Miranda sighed. “Not supposed to speak ill of the dead, after all.” She finally looked over at him. “Is that all?”
Chad glared at her. “For now,” he snapped and left the embassy. He started back to the hotel. Talk about a sore loser.
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Disclaimer
The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.