And the lake, so beautiful, too, was part of the history and grandeur of the city. It had been treacherous throughout history. Ships caught in storms had gone down since the days of earliest discovery.

Because of weather. Or collisions. Or…

She recalled her dream. Night on almost any body of water could be dangerous. Storms could be killers. And yet…

What was it that she’d seen in the dream? The large black thing that had loomed up suddenly from the depths? Did it mean anything?

No, it had been a dream. Just a dream.

They arrived back at the wharf late afternoon. Will was impatient to leave, wanting to visit the office of the Egyptian Sand Diggers, and they set off as soon as they’d divested themselves of their diving equipment. They returned to the hotel briefly to shower and change, then made their way to Michigan Avenue.

He found parking nearby and they walked down the street until they reached the address—a building that had a historical marker. They paused together to read it. The Shelby-Turner House. This Colonial Greek manor was built for the fur-trader Angus Turner in 1859. Purchased by the Shelby family in 1880, it was donated to the Society of Egyptian Sand Diggers in 1932.

They walked up the steps to the door. Will lifted the heavy brass knocker, and Kat almost jumped when a little peep-door above her head slid open and a pair of bright blue eyes surrounded by wrinkles stared out at her.

“Password!”

Surprised, Kat turned to Will.

“Um, Ramses?” Will asked.

The door started to close.

“How about FBI?”

“FBI!” the voice repeated.

The door opened. The man with the bright blue eyes was short and wizened but had the kindly, bearded face of a Santa Claus. “You’re with the FBI? And you need to speak with us?” Before they could answer, he hurried on. “Welcome, FBI. Which one of you is F and which is B and where is I?” He chuckled at his own humor. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. I’m Dirk Manning. President of the society, or Grand Vizier as we call it here in old Cairo!”

“May we speak with you?” Kat said. “I’m Agent Kat Sokolov and this is Agent Will Chan.”

“Come in, Agents. I’m alone here right now. We can talk in the parlor. Can I get you something to drink? You’re on duty, of course—coffee? I always have a pot brewing.”

Kat started to say no, but Will said, “We’d love some coffee. Can we help you?”

“I may be old, but I can pour coffee,” Manning told them, grinning. “But come along, follow me. You can see a bit of the place.”

The house had beautiful columns, a grand entry and a staircase that led to a balcony above. There were Egyptian pieces everywhere, covering the walls, in display cases here and there, standing sarcophagi, statues, death masks. Manning led them through the entry to an elegantly appointed parlor and, beyond that, a dining room that could easily fit thirty people and finally into a large kitchen. Even there, the wallpaper featured a series of hieroglyphics.

“This is…quite a place,” Kat commented.

“Yes, I daresay. Some of the pieces—the ones we’ve locked up—are real. Most of the others are copies of famous artifacts like the Tutankhamun death mask.” Manning winked at her. “We have some pieces of old Chicago history, too. Did you know that the city was originally called Chigagou, which means ‘wild garlic place’? Father Jacques Marquette and Louis Jolliet were the first to meet with the Illinois Indians and map the area. They weren’t the first to see it, but it was thanks to Jolliet’s foresight that the canals were dug. That’s what made Chicago—to my biased mind, anyway—the greatest city in the Midwest. At first, there were twenty miles of swamp and slush surrounding the lake. That had to be drained. Oh, and once upon a time that—” he gestured vaguely in the direction of the lake “—was known as Lake Chicago. Then Michigan won out. Oh, well, Michigan’s a beautiful state!”

There was a large old butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen with chairs around it. Will pulled one out for Kat, then sat beside her. The kitchen did seem a cozy place to talk, but she doubted they’d have to do much talking to get information from Dirk Manning.

“So. I guess you didn’t come to hear about Chicago’s history,” Manning said, growing serious as he sat across from them.

“Mr. Manning, we understand you had a party during which the society tried to encourage salvagers and divers to look for the Jerry McGuen,” Kat began.

“We did, we did! We invited archaeologists, salvage companies, film companies, divers we knew, charter captains…. Brady Laurie wasn’t the only one to suspect that our last massive storm might have shifted things in the lake,” Manning said. He shook his grizzled head slowly. “Brady was already working on that principle. A brilliant young man! We were trying to recruit him into our ranks.” He made a face. “He wasn’t like that skinny little witch, Amanda. He wanted to be a member. He told us that all history and investigation demanded scrutiny, and he believed that we loved the subject almost as much as he did. Sure, it’s not our vocation or our job—more like an avocation. Actually, keeping up this place is my job right now, but then I’m retired. Ah, I’m so sorry about that boy.” He shook his head. “Brady drowned. What does the FBI have to do with it? Ah! Black market!”

“Things haven’t gotten that far yet, Mr. Manning,” Will was saying. “We’re trying to find out if anyone else was going for the treasure.”

“What makes you think that?”

Some of Manning’s statements, like his insistence that Brady was practically one of them, contradicted what Landry had said, but Kat decided not to deflect the old man from his train of thought. Besides, Landry might well have his own agenda.

“We think someone might have helped Brady drown,” Kat said.

Manning shuddered visibly. “Oh, dear God! That’s horrible.”

“Yes, but we’d like to eliminate the possibility if we can—make sure no one out there is killing for the treasure…or the history,” Will said. “That’s why we need your assistance.”

“Well, we tried to get everyone interested in the shipwreck,” Manning told them. “Hmm. I was doing a lot of interviews with the press that night. If you want to know who really talked to our guests, it’s my dear friend Austin Miller.”

“We’d love to talk to him,” Kat said.

“I’ll give him a call.”

To her astonishment, the Santa-looking man whipped out the newest smartphone on the market and hit speed dial. A moment later he frowned.

“What’s wrong?” Will asked.

“I’ve been trying to reach Austin for the past few days. He hasn’t returned my calls.”

“Maybe we should just drop by,” Kat suggested.

Manning nodded distractedly. “I’ll go with you.”

“Sir, we didn’t mean—”

“If he doesn’t open the door, I can let you in,” Manning said. “I have a key. I feed his cat when he’s off on a jaunt.” He smiled, then grew somber again. “I guess I’m a little worried. He’s an old codger like me. At any rate, the house isn’t far.”

Manning was, for whatever his age might be, surprisingly agile and quick. He ushered them out, setting the alarm and locking the door, then marched purposefully down the street. Austin Miller’s house, a few blocks from the society’s headquarters, was similar—historic, beautiful, well-preserved. Situated on a corner lot, it was surrounded by a stone wall. Lovingly tended gardens and patios were visible through the wrought-iron gate.

“Austin, Austin, you old coot! It’s me, Dirk!” Manning said, talking into the speaker at the gate.

There was no reply.

“Humph!” Manning pulled out his key chain, sorted through several keys until he found the one he was looking for and opened the gate. They followed him up a long walk to a porch and then a massive front door. There, Dirk Manning rang the bell and pounded on the door. His expression became more and more concerned.

“I heard something,” Kat said.

They were still for a minute. She heard the noise again and realized it was a cat’s meow.

“Bastet,” Manning murmured. “His cat. She sounds…hungry!”

He opened the front door, and they stood in the entry, gazing around them. The house was exceptionally handsome, designed when molding was an art. There were numerous pieces of Egyptology as decoration, but the house also stood as homage to the Victorian era, rich with dark woods, a grand chandelier, an elegant staircase. They saw no sign of the cat.

The air conditioner was running, and Kat thought she detected a faint odor. She immediately felt a sense of dread.

“Austin! Hey, old man!”

No answer.

“Where’s his bedroom?” Will asked.

“Upstairs. But his gentleman’s den is just through that door to our left,” Manning said.

Kat and Will strode to the door. Will opened it.

The odor Kat knew all too well became intense.

At first, nothing seemed to be in disarray. Then she saw that the desk chair had fallen backward, and although she knew they were too late, she rushed around the desk.

They’d found Austin Miller.

6

Dirk Manning hadn’t just led them to Austin Miller’s house, he’d insisted on coming. That could have made him an instant suspect.

But Will had to hold Manning back when they found the corpse of Austin Miller. To all appearances, he’d had a heart attack while sitting at his desk. The massive explosion of pain had, it seemed, sent Miller falling backward in his chair. A pill vial lay on the floor near his right hand with tiny white capsules of what was probably digitalis scattered around it.

Kat glanced at Will and left him to deal with Manning as she carefully made her way to the body. She went down on her knees by Austin Miller’s side. Looking at her and then the corpse, Will saw that Miller’s eyes remained wide open.