Free Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 4) by Vincent Zandri Page A

Albany Rural Cemetery. Have you wheels, Mr. Baker?”
    “My rental truck’s parked down the road.”
    “What are we waiting for?”
    I hold out my hand, press it flat against the professor’s
    bulging sternum.
    “You know, Balkis,” I say, “I’m not that easy.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means I get that we’re after the same thing now, albeit
    for different reasons. You want that dress so you can communicate with
    Lincoln’s ghost or some such nonsense. Plus you want it for fortune and glory.
    I want to uncover it so that it can be proudly displayed in its rightful place.
    The Smithsonian. Or something like it. You see, Balkis, that dress isn’t yours
    or mine or even the Girvins, be they dead or alive. It belongs to the people of
    the United States of America and for which it stands and all that jazz.”
    “Oh, I agree,” he says, placing his right hand over his
    heart like he’s about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. But his act is a lie,
    and he knows that I know it. “I just want to see the dress finally revealed
    after all these years.”
    “Good,” I say. “Because otherwise, I’m gonna have to tie you
    up and leave you here until this thing is finished.”
    “Please don’t even think that way, Mr. Baker. You need me to
    assist you in the delicate task of exhuming Henry Junior, which I assume must
    be accomplished illegally. At the very least, you need a second set of eyes.
    Don’t you agree?”
    Mofo’s got a point. I’ll give him that. When Detective
    Miller handed me this job of finding the Girvins, he more than likely did not
    expect me to start looking for the dress instead, not to mention engage in
    something super illegal like grave robbing. But then, he didn’t exactly warn me
    against it either.
    “Okay,” I say. “But how do I know I can trust you? You’ve
    already knocked me over the head once, and tried to blow me up. Then there’s
    the matter of the missing Girvins.”
    He grows a grin. It tells me he’s already thought up a witty
    retort.
    “Well, the bomb was a fake, and you have also knocked me
    out. Or knocked Booth out, anyway. We’re even. And as for the Girvins, I
    already told you, I had nothing to do with their slipping off the radar.”
    Stealing a moment to think.
    “Tell you what,” I say. “Give me your phone.”
    His eyes open wide. “Why?”
    “Give me your phone and your wallet while you’re at it.”
    “And what, pray tell, difference does it make if I hand over
    these things to you?”
    “Insurance,” I say. “Simple as that. You try anything with
    me and I’ll make sure your personals get deep-sixed somewhere where you can’t
    get them back. Like Detective Miller’s inbox for instance.”
    He laughs.
    “Not for nothing, Mr. Baker,” he says. “But you’re unarmed
    and I’m quite a bit bigger than you.”
    My open-handed jab connects with his sternum a split second
    before he realizes I’ve even thrown a punch. He goes down hard, desperately
    trying to replace the air I’ve just knocked out of him.
    Down on bended knee, I proceed to empty his pockets of his
    wallet, phone, and even a nice tight little bundle of cash.
    “You’re wrong, Balkis,” I say. “You’re not bigger than me.
    You’re just fatter. And slower. And about as physical as a stick of butter.”
    He tries to nod while the soft skin on his face turns fifty
    shades of red.
    “Now, you can help me dig up the dress. But if it is, in
    fact, inside Henry’s grave or one of the empty ones beside him like I think it
    is, it goes to a museum immediately. Agreed?”
    “Agreed,” he mumbles.
    If I weren’t about to pull off an illegal exhumation, I
    might get on the horn with Miller, let him know that the real story behind
    Clara Harris/Henry Rathbone doesn’t even come close to matching the historical
    record. Maybe the murder/suicide aspect, but that’s about the extent of it. But
    of course, he’d scream at me for not being on the trail of