The Turin Shroud Secret Read Online Free Page B

you’ve got a number, call it.’
    Nic picks up the phone again, finds the entry and presses call. The room falls silent. All eyes are on him as he listens to
     the dial tones roll out across the airwaves. No number is displayed, just the name Dylan Jacobs – he could be a mile or a
     whole continent away. Nic’s heart thumps with anticipation.
    The tones stop.
    A deep baritone voice speaks. ‘This is Dylan, I can’t talk at the moment, leave your name and number and I’ll get back to
     you just as soon as I’m free.’
    Nic kills the call. ‘Went to messages. I’ll try again from the office where I can record it.’
    Mitzi nods. ‘Okay. Take that home phone away with you, check the callers and process it. I can do the rest of this search
     without you.’
    He unplugs the telephone and waves a hand as he heads for the door. A thought stops and turns him. ‘No pictures.’
    She throws a frown across the room. ‘Say again?’
    ‘There are no pictures around the house of husband and wife. Not in the study, not in the bedroom or anywhere.’
    Mitzi casts her mind back to the rooms upstairs. ‘You’re right. There were no male clothes in any of the closets either, no
     shaving gear or toiletries save female stuff. In fact, no trace of Dylan Jacobs ever being here.’

9
    SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
    Twenty-seven-year-old Viktor Hegadus shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the sun lounger only feet from the private pool.
    He has a lot on his mind.
    No wonder he has a headache. The kind that will become a migraine. He just knows it will. His only hope is to take a snooze
     for a while – a little power nap – but he can’t. Not with so many things troubling him. The builders arrive tomorrow and he’s
     wondering if he should put them off until he’s had another think about the plans for the extension – a separate guest wing
     complete with its own pool and courtyard.
    The midday sun creeps over his feet. He gets up and adjusts the parasol so he’s safe in the shade. He’d hate to burn. It would
     be awful to have red and dry skin.
    The cell phone under the lounger next to him rings. He tries to ignore it, as he’s done for most of the morning. A twinge
     of guilt finally makes him grab it. ‘Dylan’s phone, who’s calling?’
    There’s no answer. Just a click and a clunk, like the call is being transferred.
    ‘Hello,’ Viktor scowls into the phone.
    ‘Is Mr Jacobs there please? I need to talk to him.’
    ‘Not possible. Who is this?’
    ‘My name is Karakandez, Nic Karakandez. I have some important business to discuss with Mr Jacobs. Can you please put me through
     to him or tell me what number I can get him on?’
    ‘He’s meditating at the moment. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.’ Viktor abruptly finishes the call, turns the phone to mute
     and throws it angrily beneath the lounger.
    If Dylan can’t spare the time to
be
with him, then he’s certainly not going to let him spend it talking to strangers.

10
    77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES
    The Trakscan software on Nic’s terminal generates a pop-up window showing the call was received at a private villa off Tower
     Street in Gordon’s Bay, New South Wales. He searches the computerised Interpol directory and finds details for the New South
     Wales police. He toggles through until he pinpoints the area covering Gordon’s Bay and then dials the contact number.
    ‘Chief Superintendent Hawking – how can I help you?’
    Nic tells him exactly how.
    Thirty minutes later, armed police slip into position aroundthe multi-million-dollar villa overlooking the tropical waters of the Tasman Sea and Nic receives a call back.
    ‘You’re good to go, Detective,’ says the Chief Super. ‘Your fella hasn’t left in the past half-hour and now he has nowhere
     to run but into the welcoming arms of my officers.’

11
    DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES
    The dark-haired young man zaps open his old Ford Explorer and dumps his tired frame behind the well-worn steering wheel.