professorâs little shabby-chic apartment had always impressed Grove as being like a set in a stage play, maybe some traveling road show of A Streetcar Named Desire . Situated above a sheet music store at the corner of Dumaine and Bourbon, the building had been a typical Spanish double-gallery with ivy-clogged wrought-iron balconies and chipped, pastel-colored trim ... before Katrina. The hurricane had literally denuded the storefront exterior, as though it were sandblasted. The street-level window was now a moldering slab of plywood with graffiti scrawled across it, and the outlines on the siding where sconces, gaslights, and signs once hung were now merely tangles of wires.
Inside, the place was a virtual curio emporium, with all manner of antiques, folk art, knickknacks, bric-a-brac, and various and sundry tchotchkies. But very few gadgets. No CD player. No TV. Nothing but an old rotary phone, an ancient Norge icebox, and an antique Apple computer dating back to the first Bush administration. His files, including his notes and journalsâDe Lourde had been a compulsive diaristâwere either saved on old floppy diskettes or scattered throughout the place, tucked into drawers, shelves, nooks, and crannies in every room. The details that Grove needed right now were hidden somewhereâhe was convincedâin these journals.
Which is why Grove was currently hunched over the keyboard of the old Apple SE, opening files, looking at documents and notes, trying to find something, anything, that might hint at a connection to the suspicious way the professor had died. Still clad in his Armani dress shirt, his tie undone, his sleeves rolled up, his caramel skin shiny with perspiration, Grove was especially interested in that expedition to the Yucatan that Miguel had mentioned at the funeral.
âOkay, hereâs something about him planning an expedition to South America,â Grove was reporting aloud to Maura, who was in the kitchen, brewing tea with the contents of a dead manâs pantry. Miguel had given them the keys, but what they were doing was probably illegal. âUnfortunately,â Grove added with a shrug, âitâs dated in the midnineties.â
âWhatâs the connection?â her voice called back.
âIâm not sure yet.â
There was an old dial-up modern on the table next to the Apple, and on a whim Grove decided go online. He tapped into a local AOL server, listened for the trademark toots and squeaks, then used the bureau account and Googled the following: de lourde + archeologist + expeditions.
Grove waited for the list to display itself. Within seconds a scroll of entries appeared, and Groveâs eye fell on one particular item:
From Professor M. De Lourdeâs journal: â... made base camp near Los Manos Negro ... all grad students and instructors back at TU ... learning more than we bargained for about the ancients and their nature gods.â
âSimilar pages
Grove stared at the entry. The word hurricane struck his eye like a beacon.
He couldnât resist double-clicking the heading. The screen flickered for a moment as the home page for some obscure academic journal unfurled across the screen. Nothing fancy. A few logos for charitable foundations at the top, and a menu of subjects ranging from offshore geological surveys to paranormal investigations. But at the bottom was a box with abstracts from Mose De Lourdeâs Yucatan expedition journals.
Pulse quickening a little, Grove quickly scanned the first few entries. The basic information could be gleaned fairly quickly: In early 2004, De Lourde had led an expedition of archaeologists and students to the Yucatan to establish a dig and study artifacts from the ancient Toltec civilization. But when Grove read the entry from day sixteen, the linkage started engaging in his brain:
DAY 16: Helena hit at around five this evening, and she is a royal bitch. I must say, the Greek allusion is a
Inside, the place was a virtual curio emporium, with all manner of antiques, folk art, knickknacks, bric-a-brac, and various and sundry tchotchkies. But very few gadgets. No CD player. No TV. Nothing but an old rotary phone, an ancient Norge icebox, and an antique Apple computer dating back to the first Bush administration. His files, including his notes and journalsâDe Lourde had been a compulsive diaristâwere either saved on old floppy diskettes or scattered throughout the place, tucked into drawers, shelves, nooks, and crannies in every room. The details that Grove needed right now were hidden somewhereâhe was convincedâin these journals.
Which is why Grove was currently hunched over the keyboard of the old Apple SE, opening files, looking at documents and notes, trying to find something, anything, that might hint at a connection to the suspicious way the professor had died. Still clad in his Armani dress shirt, his tie undone, his sleeves rolled up, his caramel skin shiny with perspiration, Grove was especially interested in that expedition to the Yucatan that Miguel had mentioned at the funeral.
âOkay, hereâs something about him planning an expedition to South America,â Grove was reporting aloud to Maura, who was in the kitchen, brewing tea with the contents of a dead manâs pantry. Miguel had given them the keys, but what they were doing was probably illegal. âUnfortunately,â Grove added with a shrug, âitâs dated in the midnineties.â
âWhatâs the connection?â her voice called back.
âIâm not sure yet.â
There was an old dial-up modern on the table next to the Apple, and on a whim Grove decided go online. He tapped into a local AOL server, listened for the trademark toots and squeaks, then used the bureau account and Googled the following: de lourde + archeologist + expeditions.
Grove waited for the list to display itself. Within seconds a scroll of entries appeared, and Groveâs eye fell on one particular item:
From Professor M. De Lourdeâs journal: â... made base camp near Los Manos Negro ... all grad students and instructors back at TU ... learning more than we bargained for about the ancients and their nature gods.â
âSimilar pages
Grove stared at the entry. The word hurricane struck his eye like a beacon.
He couldnât resist double-clicking the heading. The screen flickered for a moment as the home page for some obscure academic journal unfurled across the screen. Nothing fancy. A few logos for charitable foundations at the top, and a menu of subjects ranging from offshore geological surveys to paranormal investigations. But at the bottom was a box with abstracts from Mose De Lourdeâs Yucatan expedition journals.
Pulse quickening a little, Grove quickly scanned the first few entries. The basic information could be gleaned fairly quickly: In early 2004, De Lourde had led an expedition of archaeologists and students to the Yucatan to establish a dig and study artifacts from the ancient Toltec civilization. But when Grove read the entry from day sixteen, the linkage started engaging in his brain:
DAY 16: Helena hit at around five this evening, and she is a royal bitch. I must say, the Greek allusion is a