“Sir?”
“A semicomplete skeleton from the Gobi Desert. The imbeciles listed it on two different importation documents. As if we wouldn’t check.” Yep. Dew actually sniffed in disdain. “They declared reptile heads, broken fossil bones, and a couple of lizards.”
“What was the tip-off?” I picked up and started flipping a pen on my blotter.
“The materials were wildly undervalued. But the flashing red was the information entered as country of origin.”
“Which was?”
“England.”
“Tyrannosaurus-on-Thames?”
“Yes. The Mongolians had a giggle over that.” Delivered without a hint of a laugh.
“Good work.”
“The American people don’t fully appreciate what ICE does for international relations.”
“I’m sure the Peruvian government is thrilled you recovered their artifacts.”
“Which brings up a good point. Their head archaeologist is quite anxious to have the specimens returned promptly. And he very much hopes your examination can be as noninvasive as possible.”
“Of course. I’m hoping I can see all that I need to with X-rays.”
There was a long pause. Then, “I suppose I can share some facts, since you are involved in the case. The mummy bundles arrived as part of a shipment of pottery. Apparently Mr. Rockett thought we couldn’t tell bones from ceramics.”
“Seems pretty amateurish. Has Rockett been in the import business for long?”
“Since the early nineties.”
“In all that time he’s never been caught with illegal goods?”
“Mr. Rockett has either been straight, careful, or extraordinarily lucky. But the gentleman’s luck ran out on this one. The bundles turned up in a random check.”
“What’s his explanation?”
“He says he bought them from a farmer who owns the land where his son dug them up.”
“If he’s a successful importer, why risk smuggling antiquities?”
“He claims he had no idea they were old.”
Dew made one of those thinking-with-your-lips-or-teeth sounds. Deciding how much more to share?
“Are you familiar with Mr. Rockett’s background?”
“Only that he collects and sells indigenous arts and crafts from South America.”
“Have you met him, Dr. Brennan?”
“No.”
“Seen him?”
“No.” What the hell?
“Mr. Rockett is a veteran of Desert Storm. 1990.”
“The first Gulf War.”
“I’m not certain of the whole story. Perhaps a Scud missile, perhaps burning oil. Rockett suffered severe burns, leaving him badly scarred.”
I said nothing.
“War is cruel, Dr. Brennan. Mr. Rockett returned to a country where no one would hire him because of his disfigurement. Or so he believes.”
Still, I just listened.
“He couldn’t find a job. He was frustrated. Then Mr. Rockett remembered the souks of the Middle East, the goods available for next to nothing. Jewelry. Clothing. Household items. He formulated a plan. Buy overseas, sell stateside at tenfold the purchase price. Trinkets for the undiscerning.”
“Wouldn’t Rockett have a military pension, and disability?”
“Of course. But his import business provides a nice subsidy.”
“But the mummy bundles came from Peru.”
“Some time back, Mr. Rockett shifted his focus to South America.”
“Why?”
“Geographic proximity? Ease of operation? Personal safety?” I heard the swish of fabric, pictured impeccably clad shoulders rising in a shrug. “I really couldn’t say.”
“Americans aren’t popular in the Middle East these days.”
“Uprisings, revolutions, civil wars, kidnappings. Political instability negatively impacts any enterprise. Perhaps upheaval in the Middle East made South America more appealing.”
“Let me ask you something.” Casual, as though the thought had just entered my mind. “I’ve got a girl here, fourteen to fifteen years old, possibly Latina, possibly undocumented. She was killed in a hit and run near Old Pineville Road last night. We’re having trouble getting an ID.”
“Go on.”
“She had a pink kitty purse and hair barrette, and was wearing a short denim skirt, red blouse, and embroidered boots.”
“Sounds like any teenager. What makes you think she’s illegal?”
“She had a note in her purse about English language classes at a local Catholic church. The note was written in Spanish, and the parish also holds Spanish language mass. That, plus the fact that she had no form of ID, no keys, makes the lead investigator suspect she’s Latina.”