Free The Florentine Deception by Carey Nachenberg

nod.
    Less than a minute later, we’d slipped through the basement door and flicked on the overhead light. The narrow stairwell led down about twenty feet, surrounded on either side by cinderblocks covered in chipped, graying paint. Two-thirds of the way down, the stairs’ oak planks became noticeably brittle and discolored, undoubtedly the consequence of a prior basement flood. Here, two stairs had caved in, exposing a crisscross of spider webs anchored between the stairway’s structural beams.
    â€œGive me your hand,” requested Steven. I obliged, and he gingerly placed a foot onto the plank below the cavity. “It feels sturdy enough.”
    Once safely on the lower stairs, Steven stabilized me and I duplicated his descent. A quick scan of the void beneath the stairs revealed little reason for excitement in our diamond hunt, so we descended the last few steps to the limestone cellar floor. A humid mustiness greeted us.
    Upon the right wall at the base, we found another light switch, which Steven toggled several times to no effect. It was difficult, therefore, to gauge the extent of the cellar, for the single bulb of our narrow corridor illuminated only a small circlet of limestone at the top of the stairs. Steven pulled a flashlight from his utility belt and, turning the corner, panned the light around the room. He handed me a second, smaller flashlight.
    â€œNot much to get excited about,” I commented. With the exception of a row of built-in, riveted-steel shelves along the wall farthest from the stairwell, the room was entirely empty and surrounded by the same dingy cinderblocks—not much opportunity to hide a safe or a secret room. I walked the circumference of the room and, playing Sherlock Holmes, tapped each of the walls with my fist, hoping to find a secret door or perhaps a façade covering a safe. I avoided looking back at Steven, fearing the look he was probably giving me right now, and not for the first time, I was beginning to doubt the perspicacity of my treasure hunt. But, being a kid at heart, I quickly banished the idea and continued my sonar.
    â€œDo me a favor and check the floor stones too,” I suggested.
    The remainder of my inquiry yielded no fruit, so I walked over to Steven who was hunched over, minutely investigating a pair of grubby stones next to the shelves.
    â€œGot something?” I asked hopefully.
    â€œThere’s a fossil clamshell embedded in the limestone over in the corner.”
    â€œWonderful.”
    â€œAnd this stone is definitely loose. And there’s no grouting around it.”
    â€œCan you move it?” I asked.
    â€œI’ll need a screwdriver. I don’t think I can lift it with my …” Steven dug his fingernails between the two stones and grunted, “fingers.”
    â€œDon’t you have a screwdriver in your Batman belt?” I asked.
    â€œDammit Jim, I’m a home inspector, not a handyman.”
    â€œAll right, McCoy—”
    â€œExcuse me.”
    I turned in horror.
    â€œExcuse me,” repeated the stern voice above us.
    Steven walked to the base of the stairs. Regina was standing at the top of the stairway, bathed in the harsh glare of the hanging bulb.
    â€œYes ma’am?”
    â€œIs Mr. Fife down there with you?”
    I turned the corner. “Hi, Regina. I was just watching Mr. Crouch inspect the basement.”
    â€œI’m very sorry, but I told you—you can’t be down here. The seller doesn’t want any injuries and the last thing he needs is a lawsuit.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I’ll be right up.”
    â€œTurn on your walkie-talkie. I’ll call you if I find anything,” said Steven in a low voice.
    With Steven’s aid, I bypassed the chasm and joined Regina at the top of the stairs.
    â€œI’ll be up in just a minute, ma’am. I need to finish documenting the damage down here.”
    Regina frowned. “Like I said, Alex,