Cold Case - 1. Chapter 1

Cold Case

by

Dolores Esteban

"A case of burglary," Steve Mills said.

He placed a folder on Adam’s desk. Adam Johnson looked up with surprise. It was his first day in the office. Adam had just joined the cold case team.

"A case of burglary?" he asked back in confusion.

Steve gave a nod. He opened the folder and took a bunch of photos out of it.

"Two years ago, someone broke into Derek Peterson’s house. The house was empty. Peterson is a wealthy banker. He was on a vacation, in some exclusive club in Spain. The alarm system went off at 3am. An automatic call alarmed the local police station. They sent a car to Peterson’s house, but the burglar had already run. He had stolen several vases and had broken another," Steve said, placing a photo on Adam’s desk.

Adam looked at the photo that showed a shattered vase.

"He left no traces, unfortunately. We investigated all carefully," Steve carried on.

"A professional," Adam replied.

"Not so much," Steve said. "He didn’t deactivate the alarm system. He risked the alarm system going off, probably because he knew exactly where to find what he wanted."

"The vases," Adam said. "Are they expensive?"

"According to Derek Peterson, five antique Aztec vases are missing, each worth about 100,000 English pounds," Steve said.

"The burglar most likely is someone who knew the house well. He most likely knows Derek Peterson. Let me guess. You checked everybody. Each suspect has a watertight alibi," Adam said.

"Exactly," Steve replied with a nod. "No traces, no suspects, nothing."

"I suspect his insurance paid in the end," Adam said. "Why is this case a cold case then?"

"Yes, his insurance paid," Steve said.

Adam gave him a questioning look.

Steve handed him another photo that showed the face of a very young man.

"Timothy Baker, a fifteen year old boy, called the police and told them that he had seen the burglar get out of his car at about 3am. However, Baker’s descriptions were vague. He said the man was neither small nor tall, neither slim nor thick. The car was not an old car and not a new one," Steve said.

Adam’s look was puzzled. "I thought you had no traces. But you even have a witness," he said.

Steve sat down in a chair and looked at Adam. "It’s just that Timothy Baker was thirty kilometers away when the man broke into Derek Peterson’s house. Timothy Baker had a vision. He’s sort of famous for it," he said.

Adam looked at Steve in disbelief. He leaned back in his chair and watched a small spider crawling down the window pane. Finally, he turned his eyes back to Steve. He opened his mouth, but Steve raised his hand and stopped him.

"He’s sort of famous for it. 90% of his visions prove to be correct, but his statement was not considered a reliable fact, of course. The boy was laughed at instead," Steve said. He leaned forward and fixed his eyes on Adam. "The case of burglary was officially closed. However, I’ve never closed it. I know that there’s more to it," he said with an intent look.

Adam shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Why?" he asked. "Even if the boy’s vision was true, it would not help us a lot. A man, neither small nor tall, neither slim nor thick, in a car, neither old nor new. I beg you, Steve, you cannot make anything of it."

Steve’s look was serious. "So far, I was not able to make anything of it. But I will," he said in a determined voice. "I talked with Timothy Baker again a couple of weeks later. He said that the burglar had not only stolen the vases, he had also stolen an obsidian knife that Derek Peterson did not miss because he did not know it existed. The knife had belonged to his father who had hidden it in the library. The burglar must have known of the knife and he must have known of its hiding place."

Adam measured Steve. "I fear I don’t get it," he said. "I can’t see what you’re aiming at."

Steve leaned back and smiled at Adam. "Well, a week ago, a man was murdered in Rome," he said. "The murderer cut out his heart and threw his body down the Spanish Steps. He left a red hand print on the man’s abdomen. The dead man’s name is Jeremiah Irons. He was a dealer in Aztec artifacts. They performed an autopsy and concluded that his heart was cut out with an obsidian knife."

Steve leaned forward. Adam fidgeted in his chair.

"I investigated a bit," Steve continued. "Derek Peterson’s father had bought the Aztec vases from Jeremiah Irons eleven years ago. I have found a trace, finally." He measured Adam. "I read your application papers and I investigated a bit on you as well. I was happy to learn that your father is a renowned archaeologist and that his special field is Aztec and Toltec culture."

Steve smiled triumphantly. "Do you get it now, Adam?" he asked. "You’re my perfect partner. We will be investigating the crime. I always knew that there was more to the case. I was right. I have booked two flights. We’re flying to Rome in two days."

Adam didn’t show his urge to instantly make a call. He folded his hands on his belly as if protecting his body or hiding something from Steve’s sight. It was an unnecessary gesture as a pristine white shirt covered Adam’s skin. Adam looked at Steve. He forced himself to focus on the man.

"In two days?" he asked calmly.

***

Hot. It was the only word Adam could think of when he climbed out of the taxi that had taken them from the airport to their hotel in the city of Rome. Adam was feeling dizzy, not only from the blazing summer heat, but also from the flood of words Steve had overwhelmed him with during their flight from London to Rome. Steve had presented his speculations and theories on the murder. He was feeling enthusiastic about them and he was most likely right. According to Steve, they were on the scent of the Antique Mafia. Jeremiah Irons had either been killed by a dissatisfied customer or a competing dealer. Antiques were highly sensitive to market fluctuations. Steve had read about it on the internet. Antiques were a high-risk form of investing and entirely unapt to secure one’s financial future or make fast money. Perhaps a disgruntled costumer had lost a large amount of money or perhaps Jeremiah Irons had cheated. Steve suspected the latter.

Adam winced when someone addressed him. The receptionist was talking to him. He handed Adam a piece of paper and asked him to fill in the form. Adam glanced left and right. He had followed Steve into the lobby without perceiving much because he had been entirely absorbed in his thoughts. The hall was small. The décor was sedate: oak furniture, maroon plush chairs, mirrors with golden frames on the walls, and the occasional pot plant here and there. Adam turned back to the reception, filled in the form and handed it to the receptionist. The man asked for Adam’s passport and then handed him a key card. Adam picked up his small suitcase and followed Steve who had already moved to the elevator.

"Room 202, second floor," Steve said cheerfully, looking at his key card.

"208," Adam replied.

Steve looked up, smiled briefly, and then pressed the button to call the elevator. The doors opened an instant later. They entered and Steve pressed another button. The elevator moved up.

"I’m pretty sure we’ll find out that the Antique Mafia killed him," Steve said again with a meaningful look at Adam while they were moving up to the second floor. "I arranged a meeting with Commissario Sassetti at 1pm," he continued, looking at his watch. "One hour to refresh ourselves and eat. They offer lunch in the restaurant. I asked the receptionist. How about we meet up in the lobby in fifteen minutes, Adam?"

Adam gave Steve a brief nod. The doors of the elevator opened. They stepped out and walked down the corridor. Steve read aloud the room number of every door that they passed. They finally reached room 202. Steve opened the door and gave a whistle at the sight of the interior. Without looking back at Adam, he threw the door shut. Adam straightened in annoyance, but then moved on to his room. He entered and flung his suitcase on the single bed of the room, reached into the pocket of his jacket, took out his cell phone and opened it. Nothing.

Adam gazed at the phone for an instant, and then threw it on the bed. He walked to the window, drew the curtains aside and looked out on the narrow street in front of the hotel. A solid line of cars and blaring horns. Adam shrugged. Rome, like he had expected it. Adam raised his eyes and stared at the opposite building without really perceiving it. He had set off his first call two days ago, right after Steve had presented the cold case to him in the office. He had set off another five or six calls and had written three text messages. Adam subconsciously clenched his teeth. Almost two days had passed without a response. He continued looking out of the window, and then straightened abruptly and looked at his watch. He hurried into the bathroom.

Adam grabbed his cell phone from the bed, looked at it again, and then left the room. He hastened down the corridor, looked at the doors of the elevator, yet turned to the staircase and hurried down the stairs. He spotted Steve Mills in the center of the lobby. Steve raised his hand at Adam’s sight and pointed at the far end of the hall.

"The restaurant’s over there," he said when Adam had joined him.

***