The Case of the Golden Buddha: A Sarafino Mystery

By Daniel T Stevens

A revered golden Buddha statuette is stolen in Tibet, and a priceless vase is stolen from an antique shop in Orlando, Florida. What do these two events have in common? Private detective Sarafino is hired to track down and return the vase. Little does he suspect that the case will also involve him tracking down the stolen statuette. Sarafino and his girl Friday, Molly Preston, become involved in a mystery that takes them from Orlando, Florida, to London, England, and to Lhasa, Tibet, and has them dealing with a beautiful antiques dealer, a shady insurance agent, and a tough and dedicated police chief who is not afraid to bend the law to get results.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728308340

Daniel T Stevens

Daniel T. Stevens is a retired electronics technician who is now writing mystery/detective stories. He has two books on Amazon.com. Daniel can be reached at [e-mail].

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THE CASE OF

THE GOLDEN BUDDHA

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A SARAFINO MYSTERY

DANIEL T STEVENS

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2019 Daniel T Stevens. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/29/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0835-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-0834-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019904481

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Prologue

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Epilogue

AUTHOR’S NOTE

T HIS NOVEL IS A work of fiction. All characters are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to any person—living or deceased—is purely coincidental and is not intended to offend or slander anyone.

Every effort was given in attempting to be accurate in describing real locations, but author’s license was taken to fictionalize such locations so as to avoid offending or embarrassing anyone.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

M Y PROFOUND THANKS TO my wife, Frances, for her support and her willingness to proofread my work. My thanks also to my fans for their encouragement during the long process of writing, editing and revising this adventure. I hope that I have fulfilled their expectations.

I also want to give thanks to Marsha Butler at Take Flight Literary Services for her time and expertise in editing this manuscript.

PROLOGUE

T HE OLD FORD FAIRLANE crept up the winding mountain road toward the Drakpa Monastery nestled in the Nyenchen Tanglha Mountains northwest of Lhasa. Though the sun was up, the fog that had engulfed the forest had yet to burn off. As a result, visibility was poor. Despite the cold dampness of the morning, the thin, frail monk hunched over the wheel was sweating as he tried to safely negotiate the treacherous mountain curves. He fought the desire to lie down and sleep, a condition that enveloped him more often nowadays. He was only in his seventies, but his mission was direly important to the Drakpa religious order and he had to complete it in spite of his weariness.

A jewel-encrusted, mahogany box nestled against the driver. In it was the most important icon to his sect. Whoever possessed the statuette inside was believed to be chosen by Buddha to be the Exalted Lama, ruler over their order and hopefully over all of Tibet.

The driver knew full well that he was not the Chosen One. He was content to be a courier tasked with delivering the artifact to the senior monk, believed to be the Chosen One. He could not be anointed and properly installed on the Exalted Throne until the statuette was present, its normal resting place was known only to two monks. The driver of the old Ford was one of them.

The roadway was steep in places and the old car coughed and wheezed, as tired as its driver.

The Exalted Lama will have to authorize us to buy a new vehicle. This one is on its last legs.

Around a sharp bend lay a tree, fallen across the road. This happened often when spring storms blew quickly into the mountains. Many of the trees were ancient relics of the past, older than the old monk himself; and were no match for the fierce winds.

He stopped the vehicle to see if he could move the large tree. He wasn’t strong physically, as his responsibilities to the order were mainly to protect the statuette and tend the vegetable gardens and fruit trees, their main source of food. It wasn’t a lifestyle that required much physical exercise.

The old man struggled with the tree, sweating more now despite the chill of the fog. He could only manage to move the heavy barrier a few inches at a time, but he worked doggedly trying to jockey the obstacle just enough to let his car pass by.

The approach of two men from behind went unnoticed by the old man. A sound behind him sent a momentary thrill of hope coursing through him. Help was here! As he turned to look at his savior, a muscular, hairy arm pinned the elder man’s arms at his side. The monk felt the prick of a hypodermic needle and the slight warmth of a liquid entering his arm. Then the strong arm released its grip. The monk hesitated a moment and tried to steady himself. He took two wobbly steps toward the car before crumpling to the pavement. A feeling of calm mixed with dread swept over him as a curtain of sleep overtook him. In his last waking moment, he watched in horror, unable to move, as a man removed the precious box from the car and walked away into the woods.

I have failed. How will the Exalted One ever be able to take the throne now?

1

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S ARAFINO SAT, TILTED BACK, in his comfortable chair with his feet propped up on the corner of his desk. Usually at this time of day he would be reading the local newspaper. Instead, all he could think about was his throbbing head and churning stomach, both symptoms of the worst hangover he’d had in quite a while.

He’d used half a cup of black coffee to wash down the aspirin he hoped would ease his pain. On a small paper plate, a chocolate frosted from Dunkin’ Donuts stared up at him. His stomach felt queasy at the sight of it.

For what seemed like the millionth time he vowed to give up drinking. Deep inside he knew that it wasn’t going to happen—not unless the nightmares went away. He believed the only thing that calmed the results of his recurring dream was Jack Daniels.

Sarafino sat up and put his feet on the floor. He stood up carefully, so as not to jar his head, and walked around his spacious office, hoping to speed the pain reliever through his blood stream. It seemed to help a little, and after a few more laps the pounding eased up a little. He actually was beginning to feel human again.

He sat back down at his desk, took another sip of coffee, and tried another bite of the donut. The coffee went down all right, but the donut made his stomach queasy again, and he begrudgingly tossed the rest of it into the waste basket. He picked up the newspaper and began to scan it.

Same old, same old: riots in China and Indonesia; harsh words between the U.S. President and the President of Iran; damaged homes and businesses in the Midwest caused by violent weather.

One short article on the back page reported that an important and priceless religious artifact had been stolen in Tibet, but few details were given. Lawless gangs and the black market made hopes of recovering the artifact slim.

The local news wasn’t any cheerier: home invasions, drive-by shootings, and other crimes.

Seems like these things are becoming more prevalent.

Molly Preston—his secretary, assistant and a pretty good sleuth in her own right—stuck her head in the door. There’s a lady here to see you, Fino, she said, calling him by the only nickname he allowed.

Show her in, Molly.

He ran his fingers through his hair and hoped that his eyes weren’t bloodshot.

Molly ushered in a lovely young lady. Fino judged her to be about five-feet-ten and in her early to mid-thirties. He was suitably impressed. She was impeccably dressed in an off-white, knee-length skirt and subtle orange short-sleeve blouse. Her shoulder-length auburn hair framed her face which, Fino noticed, was devoid of makeup, save for some light-colored lipstick that matched her outfit. She had aqua eyes shaded by carefully manicured, arched eyebrows. Fino caught himself thinking that a man could drown in her eyes. He was aware of those eyes evaluating him as well.

Being accustomed to treating others—especially ladies—with respect, Fino stood and winced as his head momentarily throbbed.

Hi, I’m Sarafino. Won’t you have a seat?

Thank you, she said as she took a seat and smoothed her skirt over her knees.

What can I do for you?

She seemed to consider her answer, staring at him for a few seconds. He felt slightly uncomfortable beneath her gaze. His twin scars, one on his jaw, the other on his right cheek, might give her the impression that he had seen his share of violence. On that score she would be correct, although they couldn’t reveal the level of the violence, he had been involved in.

When she gazed into his blue eyes, she seemed to see his very soul. Fino blinked, mildly embarrassed, and nervously focused on a sheet of paper on his desk, annoyed at his embarrassment.

Chill out!

He noticed that a little color in her cheeks and wondered what she was thinking.

My name is Roberta Sealey. I own Roberta’s Antiques down on Orange Avenue. I’d like to hire you to investigate a robbery.

A robbery, huh? What was stolen?

One of my antiques. It’s a very rare, hand-painted vase dating back to ancient Japan. It’s worth a small fortune. Someone stole it from my shop a few nights ago.

Did you contact the police?

She seemed a bit annoyed at the question. Of course. They investigated, but didn’t find any clues. They said the chances of recovering it are slim.

Well, if the police can’t turn up anything what makes you think that I can?

I don’t know, just a hunch. I know that the police are restricted by policies and territory, but a private investigator tends to have a little more latitude.

This lady is intelligent as well as beautiful.

I suppose that’s true, but why me, particularly?

Roberta smiled. Well, I used the Yellow Pages and your ad seemed sincere, so I chose you. Your picture caught my attention and inspired me to do a background check. I like to know who I’m dealing with, you see. Anyway, I discovered that S.J. Sarafino was an ex-Marine who had seen action in Iraq, been wounded in battle, earned him the Purple Heart, and a commendation medal for bravery. I thought that the man staring at me from the page had to be an honest man, having served his country so honorably, so, I decided to see this person for myself.

Fino grinned sheepishly. Now I know those expensive ads really do work.

So, can you help me, Mr. Sarafino? Roberta asked hopefully.

Sure, I think I can do that. But please, it’s just Sarafino, no mister.

Sarafino it is, then. Is there a first name? Your ad just used the initials S.J.

No first name. Sarafino will do just fine. My friends just call me Fino. Now, can you give me the particulars on the missing vase?

For the next quarter hour Roberta told Fino about how she had discovered the loss when she got to work two mornings before. She was certain that she had locked up and set the alarm the night before and had no idea how anyone could have broken in, stolen the vase, and left everything else undisturbed.

Did you notice whether or not the vase was there when you locked up?

Fino thought he noticed Roberta bristle a bit at what she may have taken to be a challenge to her efficiency, but she must have realized that he was simply doing his job because the persona quickly disappeared.

Yes, I did. I always walk through the store and make sure everything is in place before I leave. The vase was definitely there then.

Okay, then, I’ll see what I can do.

Roberta dug into her handbag and pulling out her checkbook and a pen. How much do you charge?

My rate is $500 per day plus expenses and I require a non-refundable deposit of $1,000 up front. I will apply that to the final bill.

He could tell that Roberta was momentarily taken aback. He guessed that she must not have known what to expect for his fee. Whew! That’s a little steep isn’t it?

Not really. Apparently, this lady was a little out-of-touch with the realities of his business. I think my rates are competitive with most other agencies.

Okay, then, I’m convinced, I guess. My research did indicate you’re a wise choice.

She handed Fino a check. Thank you for your help. That vase is irreplaceable, and I do want it back.

Fino looked at the $1,000 check and smiled. I will do my best. Where can I reach you?

She handed him a business card with all the information on how to contact her. I check my email several times a day and I’m usually at the store, so you should be able to reach me pretty quick. Thanks, Mr.—er, I’m sorry— Sarafino. I really appreciate your help, Roberta said sincerely as she stood up and smoothed her dress. By the way, she grinned deviously. I find that good old Excedrin works wonders for a hangover.

Well, thank you, Roberta, Fino groaned, putting his aching head in his hands. I’ll be by later to take a look around.

Fino’s new client turned to leave and said, Thanks, again. I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Then she was gone.

Fino sat down again admiring the check as if it were made of gold. Then, calling Molly in, he gave her the check to deposit and instructed her to send a receipt to Roberta Sealey.

Fino didn’t recognize the strange look on Molly’s face as she simply said, Okay. Then she quickly went out and closed the door.

Once again Fino leaned back in his chair and started formulating a plan while savoring the lingering scent of Roberta’s expensive perfume and wondering what this adventure would have in store. He felt that if nothing else, he would enjoy spending some quality time with Ms. Sealey.

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R OBERTA SAT AT HER desk, lost in thought, doodling on a Roberta’s Antiques scratch pad. Thomas, her right-hand man and store manager, startled her out of her contemplation.

Excuse me, Roberta, but Terry called while you were out—something about an ancient piece that you might be interested in.

Terry was Terrence L. Weatherbee, president and CEO of International Insurance, LTD. the firm that insured Roberta’s entire operation. He also dabbled in buying and selling of antiques—mainly statuary, vases and other relatively small items. If he had an item to sell, Roberta was sure that it was most certainly valuable. She’d bought several pieces from Terry over the past five years, and all of them had fetched a very handsome price when she resold them.

Did he say when he would have the item, Thomas? she asked.

Not exactly but said it was in the works and it should arrive any day now. He sounded excited and said that he figured it was a piece you wouldn’t want to pass up.

Give him a call and tell him to let me know when he’s got it and I’ll take a look.

Sure thing, responded Thomas as he left the office and closed the door.

~~~~~

Chong Dun was a guest professor of ancient art at the University of Central Florida, a job he disliked, but was forced into due to his position as Chief Professor of Art and Antiquities at the People’s University of Tibet. Trying to instill at least a minimal interest in arts and antiquities in students who weren’t really interested in the subject had been sheer drudgery, because he felt it was beneath his station. But now things didn’t seem to be quite so intolerable. His term would be over at the end of the semester and he could go home, letting some other hapless educator replace him. But that wasn’t the source of his excitement.

Three days before, he had received a phone call from a friend and associate in Lhasa, Tibet advising him of the theft of a golden Buddha statuette. His friend said that the word on the street was it had been sold to an American and was now on its way to the U.S.

Where in the U.S. asked Chong. It is such a large country.

I do not know, my friend, but I will try to find out for you. I know how much you want that Buddha and I will try to find it for you. I will call you in a few days.

Chong and Ho had been close companions since their school days. They talked about the most intimate things with each other; so, Chong knew that Ho would do his best to find the prize for him.

Chong’s excitement hadn’t abated in the three days since that call. Consumed with euphoria, he allowed himself a delicious drink of a very rare Japanese sake, noticing that the bottle was almost empty.

I can’t celebrate too much until I get another bottle, and I don’t have the Buddha yet.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, savoring the fiery liquid as it burned its way down his throat. He didn’t have that statuette yet, but he had no doubt that Buddha would smile on him. Soon he would possess that most revered and coveted treasure.

For years he had dreamed about being the one chosen to restore the Exalted Throne to his family and now it seemed those dreams might come true.

His great, great grandfather had been the last of his family line to occupy the throne. His successor, Chong’s great grandfather, had been killed in a bloody coup. An outsider seized the Buddha for himself and took over the Exalted Throne. The usurper’s descendants had followed him, securing his dynasty, and leaving Chong’s family totally out of the picture. Now there was a slim chance that Chong could reclaim the throne his ancestors had occupied for over a thousand years. So preoccupied was he with that possibility that he was barely able to teach his classes.

Later that afternoon Pan Ho called back with the news that the artifact had been sold on the black market to a dealer who he believed lived in Florida, but he wasn’t sure. Pan Ho insisted that his contacts weren’t always reliable.

What a coincidence, thought Chong as though Pan Ho’s message were an absolute fact. Earlier in the day, at Roberta’s Antiques, a shop he frequented in order to admire the beautiful antiques and surround himself with all that history, he overheard the store manager and Roberta talking about a rare and expensive artifact that was due to arrive any day from the Far East. He wondered if that could be the same artifact. It was a long shot, but if it were really the revered statuette, Chong would have to come up with a way to take possession of it by whatever means.

Chong had tried to have dealings with Roberta in the past, but she seemed to not trust him. Maybe it was the fact that he was always looking at the antiques in Roberta’s shop but never actually buying anything. Maybe it was his appearance.

He was short, almost completely bald, and wore large, thick glasses that accented his slanted eyes. There could be no doubt that he was Oriental. He spoke fluent English, albeit strongly accented, and gave people the impression that he was somehow a sinister individual. Maybe that was why Roberta wouldn’t deal with him. He wasn’t a wealthy man, but he was financially comfortable, and he could certainly have afforded Roberta’s wares, but he was cautious about his expenditures. Another strike against him.

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S ARAFINO FIGURED THAT THE best place to start would be Roberta’s Antiques, in hopes of picking up a clue that the police might have missed. A tinkling bell announced his arrival. Vases, figurines and other objects of art—all old, and most of them probably very expensive—filled the table and glass-fronted cabinets that lined the main aisle of the shop.

Good afternoon, sir, my name is Thomas, said an eager young man with a smile. May I show you some of our fine antiques?

Thanks, Thomas. My name is Sarafino and I’m here to see about the theft of that vase a few days ago.

Fino noticed Thomas’ countenance fall as his hope of a nice commission vanished. Oh, yes, I see, he answered. "Roberta isn’t here right now but she said that you would probably drop by. Feel free to look around and if you have any questions,