She turned it over. On the back was a piece of paper, held to the frame by cellulose tape almost as age-stained as the varnish.

Carefully, she peeled it away from its hiding place. But even as she did, the tape broke into pieces and the paper fell away. She caught it deftly in midair and—trying to touch it only by the edges—turned it over. It was an old blackand-white aerial photograph of a desert landscape of valleys, canyons, and arroyos, photographed from a considerable height.

More quickly now, she walked over to her carryall, removed a Ziploc evidence bag, and slipped the photo inside. She took several photos of the framed picture, front and back, as well as the stained rectangle on the wall that marked where it had hung for many decades. Then she hung the frame back on its peg and looked around once again. Her gut told her the room had no more secrets to yield. After another moment, she picked up the pack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the front door and the ride back to the transportation office.

28

IN HER COMMODIOUS, relic-decorated office in the Old Building of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, Nora Kelly snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and carefully slipped the photograph out of its evidence bag.

“This is the original?” she asked, looking quizzically at Corrie.

The FBI agent—who was sitting restlessly on a nearby stool—nodded. “I wanted you to see it, just in case there was something a reproduction would miss.”

She turned the photo over in her hands a couple of times, looked at it closely from a variety of angles, held it up to her nose, and took a gentle sniff. “Old-school photographic paper. Even smells kosher.”

“Our lab identified it as being seventy to eighty years old,” Corrie said. “They’ll be able to provide more specifics when I get it back to them.”

So that’s why she’s in a hurry, Nora thought. This time, when Corrie had called, Nora had simply been unable to stop work wrapping up her analysis of the Tsankawi dig site and come down to Albuquerque at a moment’s notice. So Corrie had brought the evidence to Santa Fe.

“And this?” she asked, pointing to a small line of old adhesive tape clinging to the back of the upper edge.

“Scotch-brand cellulose tape made by the Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Company, approximate date of manufacture 1940.”

Nora nodded as she continued her examination. “You’ve got a good lab to be able to date that.”

“We have the best.”

Nora smiled. “Do you know why 3M called it Scotch tape?”

“No idea.”

“Because when it was first being developed, adhesive was applied only along the edges, instead of the entire strip. Someone joked that such parsimoniousness was typically Scotch—the Scottish people being stereotyped at the time for their, shall we say, excessive frugality.”

“Hey, I’m Scots and I take offense,” said Corrie, laughing.

“In the 1950s, Studebaker even put out a car called the Scotsman, named for its low price and lack of frills.”

“Imagine a corporation trying that today,” said Corrie. “How is it you know such an odd piece of trivia?”

“We Kellys hail from Dublin, and—” Nora switched into an Irish brogue—“me granda loved to slag them what lived across the channel.” She returned her attention to the photo. “Too bad there’s no information or legend on the verso to give this photo some provenance.”

“Our lab technician in Phoenix was especially disappointed there was no handwriting. They’re actually able to identify not only how old an ink formulation is, but how long ago it was written on a page.” She paused. “One other thing of interest—there are no fingerprints.”

“That’s strange, isn’t it?” Nora held the image out in front of her thoughtfully. “But you think this was taped up there by James Gower?”

“Yes. Him or one of the Gowers. Based on the age of the tape and the date on the magazine cover. Hidden there, maybe, for their expected return.”

“Poor old Gower.” Nora glanced at her. “Well, you didn’t bring it here for a forensic exam—you were hoping for a location.”

“It’s a little blurry. But you know the landscape of New Mexico like the back of your hand, so I was hoping you might recognize it.”

“Flattery, flattery. But you’re right, it is blurry—too blurry to be useful in an aerial survey. Maybe the plane, or whatever, encountered turbulence just as the camera exposed the shot. Anyway, let’s take a closer look.” She cleared a spot on her desk, put the evidence bag on it, then carefully placed the photo atop that, taped edge away from her. “Looks like typical New Mexico, all right—I can see canyons, arroyos, and a scattering of pi?on-juniper. Taken from a relative altitude of maybe, what, three thousand feet?”

She looked at the photo for a long time, frowning. Then, hunting around the stuff on her desk, she plucked out an illuminated magnifying glass and held it over the image, moving from top to bottom, left to right, so close she could see her own breath faintly mist the glass. She cursed under her breath.

“What is it?” she heard Corrie ask over her shoulder.

“I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”

“Wrong? I know it’s blurry, but—”