Midnight Betrayal (Midnight #3)(4)

With questions whirling in her head, she stepped aside.

Jackson leaned over the magnifier. He stiffened, then straightened and knuckle-slapped his partner on the arm. “Take a look.”

Ianelli stared through the lens and grunted. “Damn. That looks close, but like Dr. Hancock said, there’s no way in hell that blade killed anyone. Looks like it would crumble if you touched it.”

Dread flooded Louisa’s belly. Her blood chilled, flowing through her limbs like the Atlantic in January. “The museum commissioned a reproduction of this dagger.”

“You had it copied?” Jackson asked.

“Not exactly. The reproduction is made to show how the knife would have looked when it was new.” Louisa returned the artifact to its box and shelved it. They left the collection storage room and walked down the hall to the elevator.

“Collection storage space is always an issue,” Cusack explained as he pressed the button for the third floor. “Maintaining a controlled environment to protect artifacts from deterioration is quite expensive. Items not of historical value are stored separate from artifacts.”

The elevator dinged, and they emerged from the elevator into an empty industrial-looking hall of ugly green paint and scratched gray linoleum. The museum spent the majority of its budget on the parts of the building that were accessible to the public. The third floor was a hodgepodge of small rooms. Halfway down the hall, Louisa opened the door and swept her hand over the wall next to the doorframe. Overhead florescent lights flickered and then held their brightness.

It has to be here.

Rows of metal shelves held the objects the museum used to round out displays, like the prop room of a movie studio. Like a studio, the museum portrayed slices of life throughout time. A dozen six-foot-tall shelving units formed aisles, and the shelves were packed full of items.

Louisa walked to the last aisle. A tag on the shelving affixed to the wall read CELTIC WARRIOR EXHIBIT. She scanned the labels on the containers and pulled down the correct box. “The dagger came in a few weeks ago. Here it is.”

She lifted the lid. The box was empty. Her knees weakened, and she nearly dropped the container. “It’s gone.”

Surely the weapon was simply misplaced. But where was it? The new Celtic Warrior exhibition was scheduled to open in three weeks. She replaced the empty box. Picking up a clipboard, she flipped pages of the computer printout. Her finger stopped on the line for the dagger replica. “It’s on the log sheet. It should be here.”

“How many copies of this dagger were made?” Jackson asked.

“We had one made.” Louisa wrapped her arms around her waist.

Ianelli scratched his forehead. “Could there be others?”

“I don’t think so, but it’s possible,” Cusack answered in a grim voice. “I’ll get you the name and number of the maker.”

“Is this replica sharp enough to kill someone?” Jackson asked.

“No.” Louisa pulled out the sword replica that arrived that morning. She handed it to Jackson. “The edge was dull like this one, but it could be sharpened like any other blade.”

Jackson ran a finger along the edge. “Is it valuable?”

Cusack shook his head. “Not particularly. We had to pay a design fee, but the actual value is nominal. You can buy museum replicas online for under a hundred dollars.”

Jackson pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Who has access to this room?”

Blood rushed in Louisa’s ears. External sounds dimmed. Eyes riveted on the empty box, she vaguely heard Cusack answering the detective.

“The items stored up here aren’t of high value. Security on the third floor is minimal. Most of the staff has access. We have a senior curator, three assistant curators, museum security, two curatorial administrative assistants, one intern . . .” His voice trailed off as he listed the people who had access to the weapon.

The detective scanned the ceiling. “Are there security cameras in here?”

“No,” Cusack said. “There’s a camera in the elevator.”

It appeared someone was killed with an item stolen from her museum. An image of Riki’s MISSING flyer popped into Louisa’s mind. Louisa had seen the pretty brunette in the corridors. The girl had always smiled in passing. Sadness filled her at the loss of a young, promising life.

“Who is the victim?” Louisa asked quietly.

The men stopped talking and turned toward her.

Jackson’s face tightened. “We can’t say at this time.”

“But do you know who it is?” Louisa gave Jackson a direct stare.

His lips flattened, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “We have a suspicion of who she is, but we’re waiting for confirmation to make an official ID.”

“The victim is female?” Louisa’s mind traveled back to the photos, then to her memories of Riki.

“Yes.” Detective Jackson frowned. “All I can tell you is that the victim is a Caucasian female, probably in her early twenties. A homeless man found her in the basement of an abandoned building a few hours ago. We were lucky to get a jump on the press, but the stories are breaking now.”

In the weeks since Riki disappeared, seven bodies had been discovered in the Philadelphia area. After the first three, museum employees had stopped speculating each one could be Riki.