"In the Raines Gallery in Boston."

"Great. What else?"

"Large silver jug. Circa 900 B.C. Shandihar. On loan from a private collector, 1998. The William Joseph Peaks Gallery, St. Louis."

"Silver jug...large. Yes, got it." She tapped her pen on her bottom lip. "I wonder if we can get the gallery to tell us who the owner is."

"If you can't, we can." He leaned against the back of the chair. "I'm still not sure we shouldn't turn this over to the art-theft people. I understand all your reasons, and I respect the fact that you want to protect the owners. But the more I think about it, the less I think anyone is going to simply hand something over to you. I mean, why would they?"

The pen continued to tap away on her lip.

"Because somewhere along the line, these artifacts came into the mainstream through the back door. At some point, there was an illegal sale, and no respectable collector or gallery wants their name sullied. No one wants to be suspected of having bought from the black market, or from a shady dealer."

"These people, who probably paid large sums of money for the pieces they bought, are going to believe you...why?"

"Because I'll have the journals with me, I can show them-"

"Yeah, yeah, the journals. The inventories. Daria, that sort of thing can be faked."

"Well, then, I'll have you with me."

"You are very naive if you think that you're going to walk out of anyone's house with any of these artifacts in your hands."

"I never expected that to happen. What I expect is that people will call their lawyers, who will then call the university, their lawyers will talk to Howe's lawyers, and things will go from there. There will be meetings, negotiations, that sort of thing. In the end, I suspect that some of the pieces will be 'donated' to the university by the present owners. Besides giving them the cachet of being donors, it gives them a healthy tax write-off and the opportunity to get some very positive press when the museum is ready to open. Howe is more likely to see the return of at least some of the items that way."

"That makes sense. I think."

"Look, you have to understand the people who collect these things. They invest a lot of money to have something that no one else has."

"All the more reason not to hand it over because some very pretty woman rings the doorbell and asks for it."

"They'll respond better to me-someone who understands the piece, who understands the way the market works-than they will to having a couple of badges waved in their face. One badge makes it official business. More than one badge makes people think they're about to be arrested. Plus, when given the choice between having your reputation damaged and the chance to come out looking like a philanthropist, most people are going to choose door number two."

"All right. We'll try it your way and see what happens." His eyes dropped to the report. "A pair of bronze griffins...are these the ones you mentioned earlier?"

"No, those were gold. Where are the bronzes?"

"The Hollenbach Gallery in Chicago. Purchased through the gift of Emory and Doris Wilc.o.x, 1951."

"They're not going to want to give those back if they purchased them. That one might have to go to your team of experts," Daria told him. "If the piece is on loan, the gallery or museum doesn't have to make a decision; they can just refer back to the owner. But if funds were spent to purchase the item, you have a board of directors to be dealt with, and you might have corporate issues. Those pieces could end up in litigation."

"So let's put together a list of the items we're going to go after, and I'll turn the others over to the Bureau."

"All right," she said with some reluctance. "It's probably for the best. Let's see what else you have."

They worked through the rest of the list and by two-thirty, Connor had called John Mancini, explained the situation, and promised to e-mail a list of the items and their present locations when he got back to his motel room.

When he got off the phone, he told Daria, "I know you hated having to do that, but look at it this way, once the Bureau gets involved, you can use that to reason with the private collectors."

"You can deal with me quietly now and we can resolve this, or I'm going to have to turn it over to the FBI. They're already on the case, but I thought it better for you personally if we handled this matter between you and the university..." She talked it out. "Makes them feel as if they're being given special treatment."

"Exactly."

"All right. We'll try that." She slid the folder into her shoulder bag and said, "So we're headed to Centerville first, right? Damian Cross and his statue of the G.o.ddess?"

"That's a good place to start. You know how to get there?"

"Roughly."

"Roughly, eh?" He stood and gathered the papers from the table. "I don't suppose that rental car of yours has GPS?"

She frowned. "What does GPS mean?"

"It means we're taking my car."

EIGHT.

T he main road leading to Centerville, Delaware, was tree-lined and cool, even under the August sun. Many of the houses Connor drove past were set on wide lawns, the air of wealth and privilege more pervasive than the humidity. Here and there, private lanes led over gently rolling hills that hid handsome homes from curious eyes. Large estates, their boundaries marked by the ubiquitous split-rail fences, sat quietly in the distance.

"I've been through this area before," Daria noted, "when I was younger. One of my aunts took Iona and me."

She pointed to a sign on the left side of the road.

"That's Winterthur, down that lane. It's a museum. It was the home of one of the DuPonts, but I don't know which one," she told him. "It houses a world-famous collection of American art and furniture. The grounds are magnificent."

"Open to the public?"

"Yes." She turned in her seat as they pa.s.sed what seemed to be endless fields surrounding the old estate, which wasn't visible from the road. "I'd like to go back while I'm in the area. I'd like to see it through adult eyes. I imagine I'll have a different sort of appreciation for their displays. I remember being so impressed with the house, the one time I was there. I must have been nine or so, and we'd just come back from a summer trekking around some ruins somewhere in the Mediterranean, I can't even remember which ones. So when our aunt told us she was taking us to see a famous old American house, well, of course, we were expecting something completely different."

"You expected to find ruins." Connor's mouth tilted in a smile.

"Exactly." Daria grinned. "Imagine our surprise when we arrived at this very elegant, gracious manor house, surrounded by beautiful gardens and woods. And inside, the loveliest furniture, paintings, china. My sister and I felt like total b.u.mpkins."

"Maybe we'll get to go sometime soon. You can take me on a tour." Connor glanced at the GPS monitor. "We take the next left."

"Amazing little device, isn't it?" Daria stared at the small screen. "Like having a tiny person in your car who always knows exactly where you're supposed to go."

"That's the idea." Connor put on his turn signal and waited for a truck to pa.s.s.

"This is one zippy little car, isn't it?"

He smiled. "Would you like to drive home?'

"Uh-uh. My most recent driving machines have been a centuries-old Honda and that little Ford I got from the rental place. Very basic transportation. Nothing at all like this." She touched the dash appreciatively. "I've never driven a Porsche before."

"Then you should take the opportunity while you have it."

"Maybe another day." She pointed to the monitor. "If I'm reading this correctly, Damian Cross's house should be right up there on the left."

"I believe you're right." Connor slowed and turned onto a cobbled drive. He parked in front of a stand-alone garage and turned off the ignition. "Let's see if Mr. Cross is around."

"There's no car, but he has"-she counted-"four, five garage bays to park in. He must own a lot of cars."

Connor inspected the outside wall of the garage.

"A lot of cars or a lot of something he likes to keep at a controlled temperature." He pointed to the gauges. "Looks like it's air-conditioned and heated. Must have something good in there."

"Too bad the windows have those pesky shades, otherwise we could see." Daria looked around. "And he sure does like these cobbley stones. Not just the driveway, but the walkway, and it looks like a patio out back and that area around the pool are all made of the same stones."

Connor followed her gaze. "He's got quite a place. Old restored farmhouse set nicely off a narrow country road, pretty gardens out back, looks like fruit trees on the other side of the house. Mr. Cross seems to have his own little Eden here."

"I can't wait to see the inside of the house." Daria smiled and tugged on Connor's arm. "As beautifully restored as the exterior is, I bet the inside is just gorgeous."

They walked around to the front of the house.

Daria pointed to the foundation plantings. "The landscaping is impeccable. I'd say Damian Cross is a man of some means. Probably has lots of really nice antiques in there."

"We'll know in a minute," Connor said as he rang the doorbell. Immediately, a dog began barking wildly on the other side of the door.

When no one answered the door, Connor rang the bell again.

"I don't think anyone is home, Connor," Daria told him. "Between the doorbell and the dog, I think anyone inside would know we're here."

The dog continued to bark and scratch at the door.

"Dog doesn't sound too friendly." Connor noted. "Think I should leave a card?"

"I think coming home and finding a business card from the FBI might spook him. He might not call. Why don't we just drive up to Gladwyne and see if the Blumes are home, then check again on our way back?"

"Cross could be at work at this hour. Let's see how far we are from the Blumes."

They walked back to the car and got in. Connor turned on the engine, then entered the Gladwyne address into the GPS system.

"A little over an hour," he said. "It's almost three. Want to give it a try?"

"Sure."

He started back the way they'd come, and Daria said, "I guess the new security people should be arriving at the museum right about now."

"Were you supposed to be there?"

"No. Louise and Stefano Korban, the only archaeology professor on campus this summer, will be meeting them. Louise thought my time was better spent tracking down the artifacts at this point, and I totally agree."

"Have you met Korban?"

"No. I'm sure I will soon, though. Louise thinks highly of him." She watched out the window as the scenery changed from country fields and quaint antiques shops to restaurants and gas stations. Up ahead was the Brandywine Battlefield, and farther still, several more restaurants and a small strip mall. Connor swung into the left lane to turn onto a highway that led northwest.

"It's interesting that for a small school with no money and no real reputation to speak of, Howe has several people on staff who are well-known in the field of archaeology."

"This Korban guy?"

"Yes. He and the head of the department, Sabina Bokhari. You'd expect to find professors with their credentials at places like Penn or Yale. Not Howe."

"Why do you suppose they're here?"

"I don't know."

"You could probably ask them."

"Maybe I will." She smiled and leaned back against the seat.

Forty minutes later, Connor pulled up in front of a large colonial-style home situated on a wide, gra.s.sy lot in a very upscale neighborhood. A for sale sign spelled out the name of a real-estate company in red letters, above which a likeness of the realtor, Nancy Keenan, beamed. A phone number ran across the bottom of the sign.

"Well, at least we caught them before they moved," Daria said as they got out of the car and started across the lawn.

"I'm not so sure of that," Connor replied. "The house looks vacant. You can see through the front windows clear to the back of the house."

They walked up to the front door and peered through the side lights.

"You're right, I spoke too soon," Daria said. "The house is totally cleaned out."

"Let's walk around back." Connor gestured for her to follow him.

The Blumes' backyard was a peaceful oasis consisting of a stone patio with a wall on three sides and a koi pond at one end, and quiet, lush gardens in shades of cool greens.

"It's lovely," Daria said. "I'd sure be hard-pressed to leave a house like this."

Before Connor could comment, a car pulled into the driveway at the house next door.

"Let's see if the neighbor knows anything," Connor said as he took off across the lawn.

Daria caught up to him just as he was introducing himself to the neighbor, a pet.i.te blond woman wearing a short denim skirt and a coral T-shirt. Her face was mostly hidden by very large dark gla.s.ses, and she wore sandals of braided leather.

The woman placed a shopping bag bearing the name of a tony-sounding store on the ground next to her car. "I'm happy to see someone looking at the house. We'd love to have new neighbors. With the houses spread out the way they are here, and us being one in from the corner, it's gotten a bit lonely. We'd love to see the house inhabited again."

"Did you know the previous owners well?" Connor asked.

"I'd say we knew them fairly well," the neighbor seemed to choose her words carefully. "They were about twenty years older than we are, so we didn't socialize a whole lot, except for holidays. Someone in the neighborhood always had a big open house, so we'd see them then. And sometimes I'd see her out on the patio and she'd invite me over for a cup of coffee or something, and we'd chat. So we were friendly, but not the best of friends, if you follow. Still, we really do miss them. They were lovely people."

"How long ago did they move?" he asked.

"They didn't exactly move," she said with some apparent discomfort.