Page 17 of The Children of Eve

Partly, Bilas blamed his internist. The previous year, Bilas had been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation, which caused the internist, Dr. Minhas, to inquire whether Bilas was dealing with high levels of anxiety. Bilas was tempted to reply that, as a smuggler, anxiety was part of the job description, but decided that Dr. Minhas might have filed that under TMI: too much information. Still, Bilas admitted that, yes, his line of work—“I’m in imports and exports”—did have its associated pressures, though he believed he’d been handling them well, all things considered. Dr. Minhas begged to differ and indicated that Roland Bilas was well on his way to a stroke unless he instituted some profound life changes. Dr. Minhas’s recommendations included regular exercise,a better diet, and practicing mindfulness, none of which appealed to his patient.

But Dr. Minhas also advised that, at fifty-seven, Bilas might like to consider working less if he could afford it. The difficulty was that Bilascouldn’tafford it. True, he made a decent living, but laundering the proceeds to hide them from the IRS meant taking a hit of twenty-five to thirty percent, and he had overheads in the form of travel expenses, bribes, and losses due to breakage, theft, and seizure. If Bilas wanted to relax, never mind retire, he needed to begin properly feathering his nest, and fast, before a blood vessel burst in his brain. In this regard, as in others, he and Antonio Elizalde had much in common.

So Roland Bilas, like Elizalde, had involved himself in the sourcing—well, theft, to be scrupulously honest about a dishonest act—and transportation of an unusual hoard, for which he’d been generously recompensed. Bilas subsequently reinvested a generous percentage of those funds in a selection of fine erotic Moche pottery dating from AD 100 to 700, with accompanying paperwork and invoices describing them as replicas, nothing to see here, Officer, etc. To further obscure their origin, Bilas acquired two additional pieces thatwerereplicas, with similar paperwork, from one of which he’d permitted the tape to come away, making it more accessible in the event of a search. One of those replica pieces was in his carry-on bag along with a genuine ceramic, and the other was with the three remaining originals in his checked baggage. An expert with time to compare and contrast would be able to spot the difference between the real and the fake, but fingers crossed, it wouldn’t come to that. Customs and Border Protection had more important matters with which to occupy their time, given that some five thousand pounds of drugs were seized at U.S. ports every day, with ten times as much getting through undetected. A little perspective here, fellas.

But the ceramics were the support act, not the main show. That honor fell to a pair of immaculately preserved mantas from thepre-Incan Nazca culture, for which Bilas had paid $35,000 apiece, with the expectation of earning five or six times as much from the right buyer. Bilas had wrapped the textiles in polycaprolactone/polystyrene sheaths infused with extract of chamomile oil to guard against contamination by microorganisms before fixing the resulting packs between the interior hard shell of his suitcase and a layer of padding, ostensibly to protect his “replica” ceramics from damage. Finally, he had arranged for the goods to be transported from Peru to Mexico because Mexican customs officials were less watchful than the Peruvians.

It was set to be among the more lucrative runs of Bilas’s career. He’d taken a chance by returning south of the border so soon, but the mantas were special. If he didn’t move on them immediately, the seller would try to offload them elsewhere, which wouldn’t be difficult. And it wasn’t as though Bilas could just wire the money and ask for the mantas to be FedExed to him because a) the seller had no interest in leaving a trail at his end and b) Bilas might as well have sent a personal invitation to the FBI’s Art Crime Team to come visit him and make themselves at home.

So Bilas had gone to Mexico City, but stayed only two nights. He’d also made an appointment with a private dental clinic in Polanco for a consultation about possible implants and crowns to provide a plausible reason for such a short trip, should anyone elect to question him upon his return. As for the officials at Mexico City International Airport, they’d displayed no interest in the Moche ceramics as the items passed through the scanner in his carry-on bag. Similarly, the checked baggage had been placed in the hold without a hitch, although Bilas didn’t start to relax even a little until the wheels left the ground.

Then he landed at LAX, and from the moment he entered the terminal, he felt eyes on him. He couldn’t pinpoint the source and therefore couldn’t be sure he wasn’t overreacting because of the value of the cargo. But that cargo, and the money tied up with it, meant he couldn’t just walk away. Even if he did, they’d take him before he left the terminal, whether he picked up his bag or not. Bilas knew that random searchesby customs officials rarely uncovered high-value goods; targets were usually identified before they even took their carry-on bag from the overhead lockers on the plane. If they were onto him, there was nothing he could do about it. He could only hope that the false paperwork would cut the mustard, and the mantas’ sheathing, which had been constructed as a perfect fit for the case, would remain unrevealed. But with each step he took, more hope fell away, so that by the time he reached the baggage carousel, he was resigned to his fate. When they came for him, just as he began walking toward the exit, he was almost relieved.

CHAPTERXIII

In Howie’s, I looked again at the single-word text message on Wyatt Riggins’s phone. The sender’s number was listed.

“Did you try calling the number it came from?”

“I got an out-of-service response,” said Zetta. “It was probably sent using an anonymizer app. One of my exes stayed in touch with his other girlfriends that way.”

I didn’t know how to respond so I said nothing, which seemed safest.

“And a boyfriend,” Zetta added. “Though I’m not judging.”

I waited for further relationship revelations. Thankfully, none were forthcoming.

“It may not have been an app,” I said. “The only reason for carrying around one of those old phones is to limit the possibility of being monitored. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s better than using a smartphone, unless the smartphone is heavily secured. A Nokia is a simpler, cheaper option. The fact that Wyatt kept it close and reacted decisively to the only communication he received suggests that it was a warning device, with the sender using a similar phone. It would make sense to be consistent and not risk compromising the system in any way by introducing apps. You’re sure you have no idea why Wyatt would be part of an arrangement like this?”

“None. I’d tell you if I did. I’m genuinely worried about him, and lying to you won’t help.”

“No,” I told her, “it won’t. Did you, by any chance, make a list of those earlier contact numbers?”

“I didn’t. I would have, had I thought something like this was going to happen.”

“Don’t let it bother you. I couldn’t have done much with the contacts anyway, not without going to a lot of time and expense. I doubt anyone would have answered had I called, or cooperated if they did.”

“Because whatever Wyatt’s involved in is presumably illegal, right?”

“Which doesn’t necessarily make Wyatt a criminal. He and at least one other individual—whoever sent the message—might have crossed paths with the kind of people who are better avoided. That can happen through bad luck alone, though it’s rare.”

Zetta touched the index finger of her right hand to an area of uninked skin on her left arm.

“I’d been thinking about getting his name tattooed here,” she said, “if things worked out between us.”

“Lucky you didn’t rush into it.”

“Actually, I might have stuck to initials. They’re easier to alter later. Will you look for him?”

I informed Zetta of my hourly rate and the weekly minimum. She didn’t blink hard or start laughing, which was always a good sign. She even offered payment in advance without being asked, putting her in the running for Client of the Year.

“I’ll need a list of friends, acquaintances, anyone with whom Wyatt had even passing discourse,” I said. “Did he use social media?”

“Never. He claimed only chumps put their lives online.”

I wasn’t about to disagree, but it removed what might have been productive lines of inquiry.

“I’ll also want to go through whatever he left in the apartment,” I said. “If you could put together any paperwork—bank statements,employment records, anything official or, better still, unofficial—that would be useful, along with a list of his email addresses, his regular cell phone number, his hat size—”

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