“We found it in the office of his apartment,” he said. “We almost missed it. It was in his fax machine. It’s the report—”
“I know, I know,” I interrupted. “Good God.” I reread it, just to be sure I hadn’t misunderstood. “Or maybe I should say ‘Jesus Christ’ instead.” What I held in my shaking hands was the report from Beta Analytic, the Miami lab where we’d sent the teeth for C-14 dating. The figures practically leaped from the page: “1,950 +/- 30.” According to the lab, the teeth—the teeth I’d pulled from the skull in the ossuary—dated back to the year A.D. 62, plus or minus thirty years: the century in which Jesus had lived and died. “So they might be the bones of Christ after all.” My mind was racing as fast as my pulse. “You said you found this in his fax machine. Had it been faxed to him, or had he faxed it to someone else?”
He smiled. “You would make a good detective, Docteur. The answer, I believe, is both. We looked at the machine’s archive, the log, I think you call it. He got a fax from Miami around eight P.M. on Saturday. Right after that, between nine and nine thirty, he sent three faxes.”
“Three? Did the first two fail?”
“No. All three went through. They were to three different places. Rome, London, and the United States.”
“Damnation,” I said. “I think Miranda was right—I think Stefan was up to no good. He made such a big deal about keeping the bones secret, but the minute he got the lab results, he ran to the fax machine. Have you tracked the numbers yet?”
“We’re working on it.” He frowned. “There’s some bureaucracy we have to go through to get the records.”
“Do you know where in the United States?”
“Ah, oui. The city is Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?” I was stunned. “My God. Some guy in Charlotte got in touch with me a week ago. Asked if I would examine some bones and artifacts from the first century.”
Descartes sat up straight, no longer sunbathing. “Who is this guy? Where do we find him?”
“His name”—I rummaged through my mental trash bin—“is Newman. Dr. Adam Newman. Director of the Institute for Something-or-other. Ah: the Institute for Biblical Science.”
He took out his notepad and wrote down the name. “You know this place, this institute? It’s a serious scientific institution?”
I shook my head. “I’d never heard of them.” Suddenly I made a connection. “But Stefan had heard of them. I showed him the letter they sent me. He warned me to stay away from them—said they were religious nuts, and if they disagreed with my work, they’d try to damage my reputation.”
“Interesting,” Descartes mused, “that Monsieur Beauvoir knew more about this American group than you did.”
“You think that’s who he faxed in Charlotte about the bones?”
“Peut-être. Maybe so. It’s a good place to start.”
“What about the London and Rome faxes? Who was he faxing there?”
He shrugged. “Other people he wanted to know about the age of the bones. But which people, and why? Sais pas—don’t know.” He selected a crimson strawberry from the plate and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, as if testing the strawberry, and an appreciative smile dawned across his face. “Ah, délicieuse,” he breathed. “The food and wine in Provence are so wonderful. If I weren’t living on a policeman’s salary, I would love it here.” He cast a swift, wistful look around the garden and at the lovely buildings. Then, to my astonishment, he took a croissant from the platter, wrapped it in a napkin, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Seeing the expression on my face, he raised his eyebrows. Was he inviting me to tease him? Daring me to challenge him? I did neither, and after a pause he continued. “Perhaps, Docteur, you can help us find out who he was faxing. If you are willing.”
“Me? Help how? Does it require me to do anything illegal, immoral, or dangerous?”
“Illegal, no. Immoral, also no.” He smiled. “Sorry if that disappoints you.”
“You didn’t say it’s not dangerous, Inspector. I’m guessing that means it is?”
He held out a hand and waggled it. “Perhaps.”
“Does ‘perhaps’ mean ‘definitely’?”
“You can say no, of course.”
“You think someone killed Stefan for the bones?”
“Unless someone killed him for screwing your assistant.”