“For owning something that was stolen from the goddess,” Daria said. “Those griffins were from one of the tombs in Shandihar, a tomb where one of the high priestesses was buried.”

“Who the hell would know that?” Connor frowned.

“Someone who read Alistair’s journals would know,” she replied. “He went into quite a bit of detail about finding them and how he removed them from the tomb. I’ll show you the passage when we get back to Howe.”

“How many other people do you think might have read that same passage over the years?

“I have no idea. I don’t know where they were kept, or how accessible they were.”

He took a left turn instead of heading toward the expressway.

“We’re going to make a quick stop at Mr. Cavanaugh’s and see if he sold those griffins to either Mr. or Mrs. Sevrenson. If he was the dealer, he’d remember where he got them.”

“And when,” she pointed out. “The when is important. I think the farther back in time we go, the harder it’s going to be to figure out who stole them originally, and how many hands they’ve passed through since then.”

“Like I said, first things first. And the first thing we need to figure out is where Cavanaugh got the griffins. Next up, did the person who sold them to him realize the significance of the pieces? Where they came from, and that somewhere along the line they were stolen?”

Rush-hour traffic had just eased up, and within minutes, Connor was driving around Rittenhouse Square, looking for a sign for Cavanaugh and Sons.

“I don’t see it,” Daria said. “Go around again.”

“Do you remember the address?” Connor asked.

“I didn’t really notice,” she admitted. “I take it you didn’t, either.”

“I figured Rittenhouse Square, how hard could it be to find?” He pulled into a parking spot on Walnut Street that was just at that moment being vacated. “Let’s just get out and look around. It has to be here someplace.”

The hazy August stew of heat and humidity clung to even the smartly dressed women who passed by on their way to the corner where they crossed the street. Nearby, a genteel-looking storefront announced the home of Cavanaugh & Sons, Purveyors of Antiques, in tasteful gold script. In the window, an elegant Victorian settee with red silk upholstery stood next to a delicate candlestick table, upon which sat a Deco-era vase.

“Looks like Cavanaugh’s tastes pretty much run the gamut,” Connor observed.

“I guess the antique-furniture market might be a little busier than the market for antiquities these days, especially since there’s less and less available in the legitimate marketplace. Most collectors really are ethical when it comes to what they buy. They want to know it’s come cleanly, so I’m not surprised to see dealers mixing up their stock. I would imagine one would have to, in order to make a living.”

They walked to the door and as Connor reached for it, a young woman opened it and collided with him in the doorway.

“Oh! Sorry!” she exclaimed, looking up. “I didn’t see you.”

“My fault.” Connor smiled at her.

“I was just about to lock up.” She flushed red and glanced at her watch. “We close at seven on weekdays. Would you mind stopping back tomorrow?”

“Actually, we would.” Connor nodded and reached into his pocket for his credentials. He held the ID up for her inspection.

“Oh. FBI?” She glanced from Connor to Daria and back again. “You’re with the FBI?”

“Yes. We were hoping to speak with Mr. Cavanaugh,” he told her.

“Which one?” the young woman asked.

“How many are there?”

“Three. David, Colin, and Mr. C.”

“David and Colin are the sons, Mr. C. is the Cavanaugh?” Connor guessed.

“Right.”

“I’m thinking Mr. C. might be the one I’m looking for. Would he have handled any dealings the shop had with Mrs. Sevrenson?”

“Oh, Mrs. Sevrenson.” The woman’s face clouded. “Yes, she and Mr. C. went way back. It was just terrible what happened to her.”

“It was. How can I get in touch with him?” Connor asked.

“He’s in Maine, on vacation. Is there something I might be able to help you with?”

“We just wanted to ask him a few questions about some pieces from Mrs. Sevrenson’s collection.”

“I helped Mr. C. catalog the items. I helped pack and unpack them, too, so if there was something in particular you were looking for…?”

“Ms. DiPietro mentioned that there were two items stolen from her aunt’s house the night she was murdered. We were hoping Mr. Cavanaugh could tell us something about those two items.”

“I know that something was stolen, and I know he had to fill out something for the insurance company about the theft, but you’d really have to talk to him about that. I’m afraid I wasn’t that familiar with the pieces.” The young woman seemed to backtrack from her previous statement. Clearly, this was something she didn’t want to be involved with.

“Do you have a phone number for him?” Connor asked.

When she hesitated, he took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Could you give him a call and ask him to contact me at this number?”

“Sure.” She glanced at the card. “I’ll let him know.”

“Please tell him it’s very important that we speak as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Connor took Daria’s arm and walked back to the car.

“Connor,” she said when they’d set off for the Schuylkill Express-way, “I’m wondering if maybe we should talk to Damien Cross. Maybe he should know what’s going on, what’s happened to the Blumes and Mrs. Sevrenson.”

He handed her his phone. “His number should be under last numbers dialed. If he answers, just let him know we’d like to speak with him.”

She scrolled through the numbers until she found it. She dialed, then waited.

“I got the answering machine,” Daria whispered. “Should I leave a message?”

Connor shook his head. “Let’s just head back there. I have a really bad feeling…”

“I was hoping it was only me,” she said as she disconnected the call. “What if…”

“Like I said, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. For all we know, Damien Cross took a week at the beach.”

“I don’t think he would have left his dog alone inside the house if he went away for that long.”

“A day trip, maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced.

Connor made a call to his boss, but had to leave a detailed voice mail. He hung up hoping that John wouldn’t pull him off this case just yet. It was just starting to get interesting.

By seven-thirty, they were back at the Cross property and ringing the doorbell once again. And once again, the only sound of life came from the barking dog on the other side of the door.

“Let’s walk around the back,” Connor suggested. “Maybe there’s a door unlocked.”

“Are you going to go in?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

He didn’t answer.

Daria followed him around the corner of the house. At the rear, they found a patio with French doors that led from the kitchen. The brown-and-white dog scratched wildly on the other side of the glass.

“Connor, that dog wants out badly.” She walked to the door and leaned down to the dog’s level. “What’s wrong, pup? Have you been locked inside the house all day?”

I’d bet money it was more than one day, Connor thought, as he took in how skinny the dog looked.

Daria was just about to say something else when she jumped back from the glass. “Oh, God. Look at the glass.”

Smears of red streaked down the outside of the door like ribbons.

Connor knelt down and studied it.

“It’s on the outside of the glass. Looks like a really clear handprint right here, but there’s nothing on the handle.” He took something from his pocket, turned his back on her and did something to the door.

“Do you have a tissue?” He asked.

She looked through her bag. “Here’s a napkin.”

She handed it to him. “Are you going in there?”