The Navigator (NUMA Files 7)

SUV. Virginia license plates. I always leave the door unlocked. They were inside going through my stuff.” He grimaced. “In case I pass out again, tell the cops there were four of them. All masked. All with guns. One was a real big guy. Think he was the leader.”

Austin and Carina exchanged glances.

“Did he say anything?”

Benson nodded. “He wanted all my negatives. I told him to go to hell. He laid the barrel of his gun across my head. Guess I should be grateful he didn’t shoot me. Only dazed. Played dead. Saw him and his pals go through my negative cabinets. Dumped all my stuff into plastic trash bags. They get my computer? Laptop.”

Austin glanced around. “Looks like they cleared the place out.”

“They figured I had done back-up. Every picture I ever took was on disk. Twenty-five years’ worth.” Benson chuckled. “Jerks. So busy beating up on me they didn’t know I had backed up the backup. What the hell did they want?”

“We think they were after photos you took of an archaeological dig in Syria,” Carina said.

He furrowed his brow. “I remember. Photographer remembers every shot he ever made. Nineteen seventy-two. Cover story. Hotter’n hell out there.”

“The backup disk. Can we borrow it?” Austin said.

“Help catch those bastards?”

“Maybe.” Austin lifted his shirt to show the bandage on his ribs. “You’re not the only one with a score to settle.”

Benson’s eyes widened. “Guess they really didn’t like you.” He grinned. “Check my barn. Third stall on the right. Steel door under the hay. Key’s hanging in the kitchen labeled BACK DOOR.”

Carina said, “There was a big statue excavated in Syria. It was called the Navigator.”

“Sure. Looked like a cigar-store Indian with a pointy hat. Don’t know what happened to it.” His eyes rolled as if he were about to pass out, but Benson pulled himself together. “Check out the living-room mantle.”

Austin found the key to the disk-storage safe in the kitchen and went into the living room. The fireplace mantle was crowded with hunks of rock and figurines Benson must have collected on his travels. One figure caught Austin’s attention. He picked up a scale model of the Navigator about four inches high.

Tires crunched in the driveway. An ambulance was pulling in with its red-and-blue lights flashing. Austin slid the figurine into his pocket and went to welcome the EMTs. There were two emergency medical technicians, a young man and a woman. Austin led them to the studio.

The female EMT glanced around at the chaos. “What happened?”

Carina looked up from her charge. “He was attacked and his studio vandalized.”

While the EMT examined Benson, her colleague put a call in to the police. After checking Benson’s vitals, and applying a compress, they eased the photographer onto a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. They said Benson would be sore for a while, but his excellent physical condition should pull him through.

Austin told the EMTs that he and Carina would wait to talk to the police. As soon as the ambulance drove off, they went out to the barn. They swept aside the hay in the third stall to reveal a metal trapdoor, which Austin unlocked and opened. A short set of stairs led down to a temperature-controlled room about the size of a walk-in closet. The walls were lined with drawers labeled according to year. Austin found the disk inscribed HITTITE DIG, 1972, SYRIA.

Austin slipped the disk into his pocket. He and Carina walked back to the house. Minutes later, the police car came down the driveway. The lanky man in uniform who exited the driver’s side was straight out of Mayberry USA. He approached them with a slow, shambling walk, and introduced himself as Chief Becker. He jotted their names down in a notebook.

“EMT said Mr. Benson was attacked.”

“That’s what he told us,” Carina said. “He returned from a walk and found four men in his house. He tried to stop them from stealing his photos and was beaten with a gun.”

The chief shook his head. “I knew he was a big photographer with the Geographic, but I’d never guess the photos were worth a B and E in the daytime.” He paused for a moment, trying to figure out where the exotic woman and her brawny companion fit into the picture. “Mind saying what your business with Benson was?”

Austin said, “I’m with NUMA. Miss Mechadi works for the UN, investigating stolen antiquities. Mr. Benson took some photos years ago of a missing artifact, and we thought he might be able help in its recovery.”

“Think that had anything to do with him getting beat up?”

The chief was shrewder than he looked. He was watching their reaction closely. Austin told him the truth. “I don’t know.”

The chief seemed satisfied with the explanation. “Care to show me where you found Mr. Benson?”

Austin and Carina led the way into the house. The chief let out a low whistle when he saw the studio mess.

“You touch anything?” he said.