Page 17 of The Burnt (The Declan Hunt Mysteries #3)

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 a matryoshka doll, 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 memoir The Tomb of Tutankhamen .

There was the comforting click of a latch and the bookcase 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’t bothered 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.

Simon shook Tom’s hand, then waved down their server. His name tag identified him as Wolf. He was a handsome man in his twenties. “A scotch, neat, for my friend. Same as mine.”

The server nodded and left without a word. Tom admired the view as the server walked away from him.

“More to your taste than the hostess?” Simon asked.

“He’s a little young, but he’d do in a pinch. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this dinner?” Tom asked.

Simon sipped at his drink. “I wanted to thank you for your help. I signed the contract with that fellow you recommended. I think his firm is just what we need to find Milo or, at least whoever is pretending to be him.”

“Good,” Tom said .

Simon settled back into his chair. “But it won’t be Declan handling the case. I went to the office and the young man who I spoke to will be doing the work. His name is Charlie Watts and apparently he’s highly skilled at finding people.”

“I referred you to Declan,” Tom said, more sternly than he’d meant to. “How do you know this Charlie guy can be trusted?”

“I signed a non-disclosure agreement and Declan himself personally assured me that I’m in good hands. I know the stakes are high, but sometimes, you’ve just got to follow your gut.”

“Follow your gut? I wish I’d been there when you had your meeting.”

“Tom, we need fresh young eyes on this,” Simon said with a cold edge to his voice. “Don’t forget, you had ten years to find Milo, and nothing. Be grateful I took your advice in the first place. This is a huge risk, and for both of our sakes, I hope it works out. Do you understand?”

Tom gritted his teeth and nodded.

Wolf returned and silently placed Tom’s scotch on the table.

Simon smiled and turned to the server. “So Wolf, my gut instinct says that the filet mignon special tonight would be an excellent choice, but my companion doesn’t always trust my instincts. What do you think?”

“It’s an excellent choice sir,” Wolf replied.

“Wonderful,” Simon said. “We’ll both have the filet mignon . Rare.”

The waiter took the order and left the two alone.

“Now,” Simon continued, “let’s talk about something else. You might be interested in hearing about my most recent acquisitions.”

* * * *

The rest of the dinner was without incident. It appeared to Tom, that for Simon, fences between old friends could be mended as quickly as they were broken. The bill was paid and the handsome server Wolf was left a hefty tip.

Tom and Simon left the restaurant and walked toward their cars.

As they rounded the corner of the building, Simon stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked as if he had seen a ghost. Simon slowly raised his hand and pointed at his car.

There was a letter ‘M’ crudely gouged into the driver-side of his beloved Bentley.

Simon let loose an unholy cry.

“Whoever it is, I’ll kill him!” he yelled out. “I’ll find him and I swear I will tear him to shreds.”

Tom moved closer. Something was tucked under the windshield wiper. It was a piece of paper. He carefully extracted and unfolded a printed message.

Everything of value will be taken away from you.

It’s time for the truth to come out.

I’m watching you.

Simon snatched the paper from Tom’s hand.

It was then that Tom noticed a piece of paper on his windshield. He opened it.

I know what you did!

Simon pulled out his phone and started to place a call.

“What are you doing?” Tom demanded.

“I’m calling Monarch.”

Tom tore the phone from Simon’s hands. “You can’t.

Don’t do anything you’ll regret. Now is not the time to act rashly.

” Tom took a deep breath. “Look—the car can be repaired easily enough. This”—he held up the notes—“this is something entirely different. I’ll follow you home and we’ll discuss what to do about these. But Monarch cannot know about this.”

Simon nodded his head and got into his car.

As Tom followed Simon back to The Paddock, one thought kept rolling around in his head— I need to take control.