Castro Directive by Stephen Mertz

the Mayan pottery on the mantel. "I don't think it's simply a case of a renegade hired hand."
    "What do you mean?"
    She turned, met his gaze. "I think the cop set up the murder as well as the theft . . . and he's working for Raymond Andrews."
    He noted the caustic tone in her voice when she mentioned Andrews's name. "Why?"
    "You heard what Loften said. Andrews wanted that skull—and Paul felt he'd commit a crime to get it." Pierce shrugged. "You might as well say that I was involved, too. Loften said I was a friend of Ray's."
    "At first, I thought you were. That's why I followed you to that seedy bar. I wanted to find out who you are."
    "And what did you find out?"
    Her answer was succinct. "That you are honest, but somewhat naive in dealing with powerful corporations, and people."
    He laughed, not sure whether to be offended or flattered. "You think I'm naive because I lost those contracts?"
    She crossed her arms and leaned against the mantel. "I think you're naive because you're willing to work for Andrews even after Loften was killed."
    "How do you know that?"
    "Why else would you be here?"
    She was right. If Andrews hadn't hired him, he probably would've given her name to the police after discovering her identity. She was clever, but she was mistaken about one thing. He wasn't so guileless that he believed everything she was saying was true. It could be a ruse. She and Redington might have set up the whole thing.
    "I'm here because—"
    "Because you think Bill and I did it. I suppose if we knew the cop Paul was talking about, we could have engineered it." Her eyes narrowed and her voice was terse. "If that's the case, why would we have spared you and killed Loften? Think about it."
    He didn't know.
    "But Andrews had reason to keep you alive. What better cover-up than to hire you to look for the skull and the killer when he's the guilty party."
    Andrews was shrewd, no doubt about that. But so was she. Simms fit the pieces together for him in one way, Andrews another.
    "Why are you telling me all of this?"
    "You can help us find the skull. You've got an inside. You know Andrews."
    Wonderful. She wanted him to work both sides. He looked above her head at the circular piece of wood with the Mayan glyphs. "Why don't you work with the police? Let them hear the tape."
    "Bill already gave them a copy. But I don't know if they're going to do anything. Andrews is slippery. And influential."
    Carver hadn't even mentioned the tape to him, hadn't mentioned Andrews. "So I suppose you're going to ask me not to say anything to Andrews about you."
    "I'm not that foolish. You needed to find a lead to keep him happy. I'm hoping that one murder is all he dares to commit."
    Would she be so daring if she really thought Andrews was capable of commissioning a murder? And what would prompt her to take such a chance?
    "Who owns the stolen skull?"
    "A man named John Mahoney. He lives in Scotland. Raymond Andrews has tried to buy it from him several times. His last offer was three million dollars."
    "Three million for a quartz crystal skull? Is it really worth that much?"
    She shrugged. "As a piece of quartz, it might be worth a few hundred dollars. But as an ancient life-sized precision-carved skull with possible mystical attributes, well, it's worth whatever someone is willing to pay."
    "And Mahoney passed up three million?"
    "He apparently has his reasons."
    One other thing bothered him. "What about this twin skull that Andrews told me about? He thinks Redington is looking for it."
    "Why don't you ask Redington about it? I'm sure he'll be interested in talking to you."
     
    T he approach to Florida International University was a long, straight road surrounded by a barren landscape that had once been part of the Everglades. The place looked more like a private airport than a college campus and, in fact, years ago had been a landing strip for military planes.
    He glanced in his rearview mirror. Earlier he'd had the feeling that someone was