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“They aren’t the same.The peace medal, the moccasins, and leggings on the other hand are real.”
“Jesus. When did you figure this out?”
“Around three this morning, but it was too late to call.”
“And you’ve told nobody?”
“Nobody. But I was going to ask—what do I do now?”
Coldmoon thought about that. The fingerprints of “George Smith” had been collected from the museum’s palm reader and sent to Quantico. He would hear later that day if there was a match. In the meantime, they’d have to get a warrant to seize the fake shirt and headdress. There might be DNA and other forensic evidence recoverable from them—maybe even Twoeagle’s.
“What you do right now is nothing,” said Coldmoon. “Don’t tell anyone and leave the artifacts sealed up. Nobody should be allowed to access them—they’re evidence in a homicide investigation. You got it?”
“Yes.”
“So just keep it to yourself and go about your day as usual. We’ll get a warrant to take those two items as soon as we can. We don’t need to involve you in it—at least, not now.”
“I understand.”
“Good work. Thank you.”
“I just hope you can get the originals back. This really burns me up—it’s bad enough these things are kept locked in the dark, but now they’ve probably gone off to some rich bastard’s private collection in Dubai or wherever.”
“We’ll get them back,” said Coldmoon, and hung up, surprised at how the young man’s pointed comments provoked his own surge of outrage.
He considered this remarkable turn of events. There was someone out there with big bucks and an obsession with Sitting Bull—and ruthless enough to kill for it. He hoped to hell they’d get a hit on those fingerprints.
He dialed D’Agosta.
Later that day, as D’Agosta drove Coldmoon to the museum to serve a warrant for the two fake items, Coldmoon received a ding on his cell phone, indicating an email from Quantico. He pulled out his phone and looked. It was from Latent Print Operations: the report he’d been waiting for all day.
“Holy shit,” he murmured, opening the email and scanning it.
D’Agosta was just turning the squad car into the museum’s security entrance. “What you got there?”
“The report from Quantico.”
“Yeah?”
“They got a hit on those prints.”
“Tell me.”
“They belong to a Venezuelan named Ramón Armendariz y Urias. We’ve got his prints on file because he passes through U.S. customs several times a year—where, of course, they collect fingerprints of foreign nationals.”
“So who is he?”
“We don’t have a file on him, but International Operations slapped together some info. Armendariz left Venezuela years ago, during the Chávez regime. It seems he made a lot of money in oil before the Venezuelan petroleum industry collapsed, got the dough out of the country and well hidden in overseas accounts. A quiet guy, but…” He grinned. “He frequents the auction houses. And guess what he buys?”
“Native American artifacts?”
“Bingo.”
“So where do we pick this scumbag up?”
“That’s a problem. He lives in Ecuador.”
“Oh yeah? Do we have an extradition treaty with Ecuador?”