Page 14 of The Children of Eve (Charlie Parker #22)
CHAPTER XIV
Roland Bilas had never seen the interior of an interview room at LAX before and had hoped to without being able to say he’d had the pleasure. The room smelled of sweat and old coffee but was otherwise clean and tidy, even if the decor extended no further than various official notices in English and Spanish that told him little he didn’t already know.
Bilas didn’t panic. He was too experienced for that and had blustered, threatened, and lied his way out of tougher situations, some involving men who carried machetes as a matter of course and not because they were passionate about agriculture. When the customs officials ordered Bilas to go along with them, he hadn’t made any more fuss than might have been expected from an innocent man who believed an unfortunate error had been made, to be cleared up as soon as someone took the time to listen to what he had to say.
Bilas elected not to mention the Moche ceramics before determining the lay of the land. If they were the reason for the search, he would protest that he had the requisite invoices, and the paperwork was, so far as he was aware, completely legitimate. For the present, he made sure that when he spoke, he gave away nothing that might incriminate himself. He could have—perhaps even should have—immediately requested access to a lawyer, but again, he preferred to see what might unfold before committing. More to the point, he was aware that he wasn’t legally entitled to representation during primary or secondary inspection by Customs and Border Protection, so if he kicked up, they could tell him to go fuck himself. If they found something and elected to charge him, then they’d have to let him call a lawyer, and the contest would begin in earnest. So Bilas asked only for a glass of water, which was provided, and for the novel he was reading to be returned to him, which it was not. After that, he was left alone with his thoughts.
The room didn’t have a clock, but Bilas still had his watch. An hour went by before two female CBP officers entered the room, accompanied by a young guy in shirtsleeves who was prematurely balding and appeared too somber for his years, as though playing at being a grown-up. One of the officers placed Bilas’s laptop and both of his cell phones, an iPhone and a red Nokia 2660 flip, on the table between them.
“What were you doing in Mexico, Mr. Bilas?” asked the younger of the two CBP officers. Her name tag identified her as Flores. The older one, who looked like she chewed barbed wire for fun and profit, was tagged as Schroeder. Mr. Somber wore no badge at all. He was also sweating through his green shirt, indicating a recent, even hurried, arrival. Bilas instantly had him pegged for non-CBP, a specialist of some kind. Bilas’s worry meter crept up a notch.
“I had a consultation about dental work,” he replied. “I’m considering getting implants and don’t want to have to refinance my mortgage to pay for them on this side of the border. I have the appointment letter in my bag, along with the estimate for the procedure.”
“What about the contents of your baggage?”
Bilas decided to play a card, see what unfolded.
“You mean the pottery? What about it? They make those things by the thousands to sell to tourists. I mean, okay, mine might be a little risqué, but I’m a single man living alone and my mother is dead, so I don’t see who could be offended by them.”
“And you bought them all from the same store?”
“The same dealer, yes. I don’t think I’d describe his premises as a store. A stall, maybe, but not a store. If you’ve seen the ceramics, you’ve seen the invoice as well, because I made sure to pack it alongside them. You know, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” asked Schroeder.
“Just in case I was asked to prove they weren’t originals.”
“And why would that be a problem?”
“Look, I travel a lot in Latin America. I love the people, the landscape, the food, but most of all, I love the history. I know it’s illegal to export pre-Hispanic artifacts without a license, though been offered the opportunity to acquire items under the counter more than once. I don’t know a regular visitor who hasn’t.”
“And you’ve never accepted?”
Bilas decided he’d said enough.
“Please,” he said, “just tell me what this is about.”
Schroeder and Flores surrendered the floor to Mr. Somber.
“My name is Morgensen,” he said. “I’m attached to the Cotsen Institute of Archaeology at UCLA, specifically the UCLA/Getty Interdepartmental Program in the Conservation of Cultural Heritage. Mr. Bilas, it’s my opinion that only two of those Moche ceramics are replicas. The rest are originals.”
“That can’t be right,” said Bilas.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“But you said it was just your opinion. You could be mistaken.”
“I don’t believe so.”
Bilas shook his head in bewilderment.
“Huh,” he said. “Well, what do you know.”
“Actually,” said Flores, “we’re more interested in what you know, specifically about a pair of Nazca mantas concealed behind the padding of your suitcase.”
Which was when Roland Bilas went from suspecting he might be screwed to knowing for sure that he was.
“I’d like to speak to a lawyer,” he said. “Right now.”