The driver hit the gas, peeling out and coming straight for Heinrich.

He leaped out of the way with half a second to spare. The vehicle skidded around the corner and was gone.

But not before Heinrich had scoped the license plate.

He got on his cell phone and called the cops as he walked back inside. Someone else had already called 911, of course, but at least he could add the license number and a physical description of the perp. Unfortunately, he hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver except for the fact that he looked like a hulky Mediterranean guy too.

By the time Heinrich got back to the main floor of the convention center, the polyester donut boys had cordoned off the area and were interviewing various witnesses. He spotted the woman he had been trying to pick up. She was just turning away from one of the security men, who had been writing down what she said. She came face to face with Heinrich.

“You didn’t catch him,” she said. It came out as a statement and not a question.

“No I did not, but I got a good look at his face and license plate. I already told the cops. They should be here any minute.”

She shook her head, her raven tresses falling around her shoulders, her eyes brimming with tears. Yet her voice was steady as she said, “The police won’t find them. They always get away. I have no doubt they stole that car they used. They’ll be in another one by now.”

“And who is ‘they’?”

The woman studied him for a moment, then let out a sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”

Heinrich pulled out his identification, which showed he was a private detective.

“You can trust me.”

She studied him again, clearly considering whether or not she could. After a moment she said, “Professor Lukas Christodolou and I are archaeologists. We were investigating a large collection of artifacts that an organized criminal gang had stolen from regional museums and excavations in Greece.”

“And that gang decided to shut Lukas up?” Heinrich glanced at the body, which lay about ten yards away. One of the donut boys had enough presence of mind to cover it with a sheet. The dumbass had used a white sheet, though, and the top half was soaked crimson. He also hadn’t removed the statue. It made a clear, jagged hump on the man’s chest.

“We have received death threats before,” the woman said.

“Someone would kill for a few old artifacts?”

“Someone will kill for several million euros.”

“Oh. I see.”

The police arrived, and there was a long string of questions. Heinrich learned that the woman was named Thalia Georgiades and taught Classics at Columbia University. Professor Lukas Christodolou had worked for the Greek Antiquities Ministry and had come on government business, hiring Thalia as a local expert.

The guys from the club showed up and asked almost as many questions as the cops. Heinrich gave them his records for safekeeping and told them in the nicest way possible to beat it. He sensed a case coming on.

With the death of her colleague, Thalia’s dismissive attitude had disappeared. She accepted a ride in Heinrich’s car to her home, a modest place in Brooklyn. She collected a few things while he stood watch. Then, using his credit card, he helped her check into a hotel. She paid him back with cash.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked once she was settled in.

“I’ll be all right.”

“I didn’t mean, you know…”

Thalia managed a tired smile.