Mystic Warrior

Annja hadn’t lost any sleep over not getting to see the crystal—even if that seriously hampered the job she’d been paid to come here and do!—but the possibility that it might be authentic kept scratching at her mind. Los Angeles—California in general—was a melting pot of the world’s history.

Annja had planned on taking advantage of the movie deal to pursue research into Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo, the Portuguese explorer who had sailed under a Spanish flag to explore the West Coast of North America. Annja had turned up some rumors on the alt.history and alt.archaeology sites she’d wanted to check out while she was in town. And Doug Morrell, her producer on the television show, had wanted her to investigate sightings of “ghost pirates” he’d heard about on some late-night radio show.

The research she’d done on Cabrillo had actually led to her interest in Krauzer’s so-called prop, but she hadn’t told him that.

And now the scrying crystal had been stolen and might disappear before she got to find out.

“If Melanie took the scrying crystal—” Annja began.

“Which she did!”

“—then she might think of selling it on one of those sites. How much do you think it’s worth?”

Krauzer cursed. “Fans are idiots! Do you remember when that comic-book artist, the guy who drew Spider-Man or something, paid over $3 million for a baseball?”

“That was Mark McGwire’s seventieth home run in the 1998 season.”

“You’re a baseball fan?”

Annja shrugged. “I live in Brooklyn.”

“Baseball. Bunch of guys standing around waiting for stuff to happen.” Krauzer blew a raspberry. “My point is, this comic-book-sketch guy blew the prices for collectible baseballs for a long time. And they’re baseballs! They sell those everywhere. You can write anybody’s name on them. But that scrying crystal? That’s one of a kind. I made sure of that.”

Annja believed it was one of a kind, too. She needed to study it. “If she was smart, she’d sell the crystal back to you.”

“Me?”

“You’d pay for it if you had to, and you’d pay a lot. You’ve got it insured, right?”

“Of course I’ve got it insured. Do you think I’m some kind of idiot?” Annja ignored the question, certain Krauzer really didn’t want to hear her answer.

“Insurance companies routinely pay off on buyback situations.”

“This is something you know about?”

“Yes.”

“How?” Behind the sunglasses, Krauzer’s features knotted up in suspicion.

“Insurance companies have sometimes hired me to verify a certificate of authenticity on objects that were stolen and bought back. Sometimes thieves have created copies of the stolen items and attempt to sell those to insurance companies, doubling down on the original theft.”

“That cannot happen. I cannot shoot this movie with a counterfeit. Do you know what would happen to my reputation if I did something like that? When fans go to see a Steven Krauzer picture, they see a genuine Steven Krauzer picture. There’s nothing fake about it!”

Krauzer slammed on the brake hard enough that the seat belt cut into Annja as it held her to the seat. The tortured shriek of shredding rubber echoed through the neighborhood, and the Lamborghini came to a stop half on the street and half on the sidewalk.

Leaning over, Krauzer popped open the glove compartment and took out a nickel-plated revolver with a six-inch barrel. “Let’s go.”

He opened the car door and got out.

2 (#ulink_cbdb4f6c-6ff4-507f-a57f-a327918e1a56)

Shocked at the sight of the gun and the director’s apparent willingness to use it, Annja was a step behind Krauzer as he strode toward the building. She caught up to him as he slid the big pistol in his waistband at his back and covered it up with his shirttail.

“A gun?” Annja asked. “Seriously?”

“Having a gun makes people listen to you.”

“Do you even know how to use it?”

“Of course I do.” Krauzer shook his head. “I cut my teeth on guns-and-ammo movies. Action stuff. Science fiction. I had to know how to use guns so I could film actors using them. You wouldn’t believe how many times directors get it wrong because they don’t know how to use a gun and the actors don’t know, either. Big case of the blind leading the blind.”

“This isn’t ‘Grand Theft Auto.’”

“That woman stole my scrying crystal and she’s delaying my film! She’s not smart enough to do that on her own. She has partners. Trust me.”

Annja was beginning to think Steven Krauzer lived inside a movie in his head. “Melanie Harp is not a master criminal.”

“Exactly my point. She couldn’t have thought of this on her own. She had help.”

“I don’t think she knows any master criminals, either.”

“Do you know that for a fact? Because I don’t.”

Annja didn’t bother to argue, because she knew she wouldn’t win. She just hoped no one got hurt.

A green awning covered the double-door entrance, which had seen better days. Gold lettering on the door announced The Wickersham Apartments. The red carpet leading up to the doors was thin and worn.

There was no guard on the door, but another sign promised Security.

An older woman wearing a sundress, a floppy hat and big sunglasses and holding a small dog came through the doors. She wrapped her arms protectively around her pet as Krauzer barreled toward her.

“Don’t shut that door,” Krauzer barked.

The woman blocked the closing door with her sandaled foot.

Krauzer caught the door, pulled it wide and entered the apartment building.

“Thank you,” Annja told the woman.

The woman looked at her conspiratorially and leaned in to whisper, “Is he somebody?”

“He likes to think he is,” Annja replied.

Shaking her head, the woman said, “So many people in this town think that. They do one cat-food commercial and they think they’re stars.” She waved dismissively and continued her walk.

She smiled at the woman, then hurried after Krauzer.

Annja reached the landing with Krauzer and went up the next flight. “Do you know which floor Melanie lives on?”