Page 40 of The Burnt
He texted again.
If there’s anything you need, just ask. Wish I could be there with you.
He hit ‘send’ then reread his text and groaned. The wording of the second part of the text might make Charlie feel guilty about asking him not to come with him in the first place. Charlie would have known exactly what to say at a moment like this. Declan thought about sending a third text, but knew he’d just dig himself a deeper hole. He tossed his phone on the desk, then went to the credenza and poured himself a scotch.
Keep it together, Hunt. No matter how much you love him, you’ve still got a business to run.
Chapter Sixteen
It was late in the afternoon and Simon dozed in his chair. He hadn’t slept well the previous night. He rarely slept well these days and this Milo business had left him feeling unsettled.
He went into his office and distracted himself at his desk. In the so-called good old days, he would have buried himself in work. But work, as it stood now, came in drips and dribbles. It was an insult. He had climbed the ladder to the highest rungs of Monarch Holdings, a place he’d focused his energies on for most of his adult life. He’d been invaluable to them and he deserved to be promoted to the top spot, once that position was available—when the inevitable happened to Harlen Feist.
As he pondered the past, his thoughts were interrupted by Jasmine. She carried an oversized package in her arms.
“I think you’ve been waiting for this,” she said with a smile.
In fact, Simon had been waiting for this package for over six months. Negotiations for the acquisition of the package’s contents had been ongoing for over a decade. The owner had not wanted to part with it, but Simon knew how much of a financial bind the seller was in. He could have bartered the man down on the sale price, but he chose not to. He respected the seller. He and Simon had much in common, most of all a love of history. Besides, if Simon didn’t buy it, the seller would have to go into the open to unload it, and that would be the last thing the man would want to do. The powers that be who would have swept in to grab it would have only given the seller a fraction of what it was really worth.
Simon carefully slit the sealing tape which closed the heavy corrugated cardboard box. Inside, surrounded by foam packing peanuts, lay another box. The contents were packed layer within layer, like amatryoshkadoll, in order to protect what lay at the core.
As Simon extracted the inner box, the packing peanuts spilled all over his desk, but the normally fastidious Simon didn’t care. He was frantic to discover what was inside.
He carefully opened the inner package and saw two small, grip-seal bags. He had trouble deciding which to open first. Simon chose the one with the shiniest appearance.
His hands shook as he pried apart the sealed bag. He put on a pair of clean cotton gloves then slid the contents into his hand. The seventh-century circular gilt-copper brooch with an inlay of garnets and delicate shell discs was no more than two centimetres wide. It was one of the original finds collected from the Anglo-Saxon burial mounds of Sutton Hoo in Suffolk, England. Simon was fascinated by anything related to burial practices, but this rare piece had just become the Hope Diamond of his collection. And it was legal—technically. As long as no one asked the British Museum.
While the contents of the second bag paled in comparison to the first in the looks department, they thrilled Simon just as much. The bag, which would remain closed, looked as though it contained mainly sand and coarse grit. But visible through the clear plastic were large pieces of shell-like material. Simon looked at them through his jeweller’s loupe. His heart pounded. These were fragments of bone of the very man who had worn the brooch.
He placed the bags back within the small box and reverently walked them to the bookcase across the room. He pulled on the first edition of Howard Carter’s memoirThe Tomb of Tutankhamen. There was the comforting click of a latch and thebookcase swung outward, revealing the door of a large walk-in vault with an old-fashioned set of tumbler locks. This was where he kept his treasures.
The vault had been one of Milo’s favourite places in the house. Even at an early age, he was allowed to go in and look at daddy’s treasures as long as Simon was there and Milo didn’t touch anything. Like his father, Milo was fascinated by the stories associated with the collection of burial treasures.
Simon couldn’t help but wonder what Milo would have thought of his new acquisitions.
Milo. No matter how Simon tried to distract himself, things these days always came back to Milo. Was he really alive, or was it just a sick joke? And if it wasn’t a sick joke… Simon had to find him, and quickly. There were things they needed to discuss. Hopefully Tom was right about Declan Hunt and his firm.
He picked up the phone and placed a call.
* * * *
Tom Semple lived alone in a two-bedroom condo in the Beltline district in Calgary—most of the time. Sometimes he stayed at Simon’s house, but only when there was business to take care of at The Paddock, and clearly there was business tonight.
Tom ran over the current problem. Simon had called and he was in a tailspin over this whole Milo business. It was interesting. Simon hadn’t even particularly liked the kid. He had certainly never expressed love for him. For the most part, Simon was all business and Milo was, well, Milo was just a kid. The only thing they’d had in common were antiquities. Both had spent hours looking over Simon’s collection, but aside from that, they hadn’t spent much time together.
Milo certainly hadn’t talked to his father about the fact he was gay. Jasmine, the housekeeper, knew. So did Tom, but he wasn’tbothered by it—that would be hypocritical. He didn’t give a shit about who Milo was attracted to as long as he didn’t go bringing strangers into the house. There were rules at The Paddock.
Simon’s recent preoccupation with Milo’s disappearance had resulted in Tom making a difficult choice. He’d suggested an outsider. He knew Simon wouldn’t say anything that would compromise the business, and, by reputation, Declan Hunt was a fucking Boy Scout when it came to honour and discretion. He could be useful. Very useful indeed.
Tom needed to find out who had sent Simon the message. But there was another reason to use Declan. Tom wasn’t able to call on his usual resources. If Monarch found out about the note and anything led back to Tom, it could cost him everything…possibly even his life. Instead, he would let Declan do the legwork and once the detective had found the person that had sent the note, Tom would take action. He’d already done a little checking on his own, but so far that had been a dead end.
When Simon had called Tom, he’d suggested they meet for supper at The Azure Owl in Canmore. For Simon it was only a fifteen-minute drive, but for Tom it was over an hour…in good weather. But since Simon paid all the bills, Tom didn’t argue.
He gave himself plenty of time to get there. A Chinook wind from the west had raised the temperature by twenty degrees, melting the snow off of the roads. Even so, the traffic was bad and Tom arrived just in time. He pulled into the lot, parked next to Simon’s prized Bentley then made his way in.
“Mr Griffin’s table, please,” he said to the hostess who was dressed in a skin-tight, floor-length dress. It might as well have been made of body paint. He could see…everything.
“Simon,” he said, extending his hand as the painted woman pulled out his chair, then seamlessly tucked it under him as he sat.
