Something had definitely put Pendergast into a black mood. The guy was moody, but this was the darkest he had ever seen him. O’Shaughnessy still had no idea why Pendergast was suddenly so interested in this new murder, interrupting his work on the nineteenth-century killings. But somehow, this didn’t seem to be the time to ask.
“We will drop the sergeant off at the precinct house,” said Pendergast to his chauffeur. “And then you may take me home.”
Pendergast settled back in the leather seat. O’Shaughnessy looked over at him.
“What happened?” he managed to ask. “What did you see?”
Pendergast looked out his window. “Evil.” And he spoke no more.
THREE
WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR., in his best suit (the Armani, recently dry-cleaned), crispest white shirt, and most business-like tie, stood on the corner of Avenue of the Americas and Fifty-fifth Street. His eyes strayed upward along the vast glass-and-chrome monolith that was the Moegen-Fairhaven Building, rippling blue-green in the sunlight like some vast slab of water. Somewhere in that hundred-million-dollar pile was his prey.
He felt pretty sure he could talk his way into seeing Fairhaven. He was good at that kind of thing. This assignment was a lot more promising than that tourist murder in the Ramble his editor had wanted him to cover today. He conjured up the grizzled face of his editor, red eyes bug-big behind thick glasses, smoke-cured finger pointing, telling him that this dead lady from Oklahoma was going to be big. Big? Tourists were getting smoked all the time in New York City. It was too bad, but there it was. Homicide reporting was hackwork. He had a hunch about Fairhaven, the Museum, and these old killings Pendergast was so interested in. He always trusted his hunches. His editor wouldn’t be disappointed. He was going to cast his fly onto the water, and by God Fairhaven might just bite.
Taking one more deep breath, he crossed the street—giving the finger to a cabbie that shot past inches away, horn blaring—and approached the granite and titanium entry. Another vast acreage of granite greeted him upon entering the interior. There was a large desk, manned by half a dozen security officers, and several banks of elevators beyond.
Smithback strode resolutely toward the security desk. He leaned on it aggressively.
“I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”
The closest guard was shuffling through a computer printout. “Name?” he asked, not bothering to look up.
“William Smithback Jr., of the New York Times.”
“Moment,” mumbled the guard, picking up a telephone. He dialed, then handed it to Smithback. A crisp voice sounded. “May I help you?”
“This is William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times. I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”
It was Saturday, but Smithback was gambling he’d be in his office. Guys like Fairhaven never took Saturdays off. And on Saturdays, they were usually less fortified with secretaries and guards.
“Do you have an appointment?” the female voice asked, reaching down to him from fifty stories.
“No. I’m the reporter doing the story on Enoch Leng and the bodies found at his jobsite on Catherine Street and I need to speak with him immediately. It’s urgent.”
“You need to call for an appointment.” It was an utterly neutral voice.
“Good. Consider this the call. I’d like to make an appointment for”—Smithback checked his watch—“ten o’clock.”
“Mr. Fairhaven is presently engaged,” the voice instantly responded.
Smithback took a deep breath. So he was in. Time to press the attack. There were probably ten layers of secretaries beyond the one on the phone, but he’d gotten through that many before. “Look, if Mr. Fairhaven is too busy to talk to me, I’ll just have to report in the article I’m writing for the Monday edition that he refused to comment.”
“He is presently engaged,” the robotic voice repeated.
“No comment. That’ll do wonders for his public image. And come Monday, Mr. Fairhaven will be wanting to know who in his office turned away the reporter. Get my drift?”
There was a long silence. Smithback drew in some more air. This was often a long process. “You know when you’re reading an article in the paper, and it’s about some sleazy guy, and the guy says I have no comment? How does that make you feel about the guy? Especially a real estate developer. No comment. I could do a lot with no comment.”
There was more silence. Smithback wondered if she had hung up. But no, there was a sound on a line. It was a chuckle.
“That’s good,” said a low, pleasant, masculine voice. “I like that. Nicely done.”
“Who’s this?” Smithback demanded.
“Just some sleazy real estate developer.”
“Who?” Smithback was not going to stand being made fun of by some lackey.
“Anthony Fairhaven.”
“Oh.” Smithback was momentarily struck speechless. He recovered quickly. “Mr. Fairhaven, is it true that—”
“Why don’t you come on up, so we can talk face-to-face, like grown-up people? Forty-ninth floor.”
“What?” Smithback was still surprised at the rapidity of his success.
“I said, come up. I was wondering when you’d call, being the ambitious, careerist reporter that you so evidently are.”
Fairhaven’s office was not quite what Smithback had envisioned. True, there were several layers of secretaries and assistants guarding the sanctum sanctorum. But when he finally gained Fairhaven’s office, it wasn’t the vast screw-you space of chrome-gold-ebony-old-master-paintings-African-primitives he’d expected. It was rather simple and small. True, there was art on the walls, but it consisted of some understated Thomas Hart Benton lithographs of yeoman farmers. Beside these was a glassed panel—locked and clearly alarmed—containing a variety of handguns, mounted on a black velvet backdrop. The sole desk was small and made of birch. There were a couple of easy chairs and a worn Persian rug on the floor. One wall was covered with bookshelves, filled with books that had clearly been read instead of purchased by the yard as furniture. Except for the gun case, it looked more like a professor’s office than that of a real estate magnate. And yet, unlike any professor’s office Smithback had ever been in, the space was meticulously clean. Every surface sparkled with an unblemished shine. Even the books appeared to have been polished. There was a faint smell of cleaning agents, a little chemical but not unpleasant.
“Please sit down,” said Fairhaven, sweeping a hand toward the easy chairs. “Would you care for anything? Coffee? Water? Soda? Whisky?” He grinned.
“Nothing, thanks,” said Smithback as he took a seat. He felt the familiar shudder of expectation that came before an intense interview. Fairhaven was clearly savvy, but he was rich and pampered; he no doubt lacked street-smarts. Smithback had interviewed—and skewered—dozens like him. It wouldn’t even be a contest.
Fairhaven opened a refrigerator and took out a small bottle of mineral water. He poured himself a glass and then sat, not at his desk, but in an easy chair opposite Smithback. He crossed his legs, smiled. The bottle of water sparkled in the sunlight that slanted through the windows. Smithback glanced past him. The view, at least, was killer.
He turned his attention back to the man. Black wavy hair, strong brow, athletic frame, easy movements, sardonic look in the eye. Could be thirty, thirty-five. He jotted a few impressions.
“So,” Fairhaven said with a small, self-deprecating smile, “the sleazy real estate developer is ready to take your questions.”
“May I record this?”
“I would expect no less.”
Smithback slipped a recorder out of his pocket. Of course he seemed charming. People like him were experts at charm and manipulation. But he’d never allow himself to be spun. All he had to do was remember who he was dealing with: a heartless, money-grubbing businessman who would sell his own mother for the back rent alone.
“Why did you destroy the site on Catherine Street?” he asked.
Fairhaven bowed his head
slightly. “The project was behind schedule. We were fast-tracking the excavation. It would’ve cost me forty thousand dollars a day. I’m not in the archaeology business.”
“Some archaeologists say you destroyed one of the most important sites to be discovered in Manhattan in a quarter-century.”
Fairhaven cocked his head. “Really? Which archaeologists?”
“The Society for American Archaeology, for example.”
A cynical smile broke out on Fairhaven’s face. “Ah. I see. Well of course they’d be against it. If they had their way, no one in America would turn over a spadeful of soil without an archaeologist standing by with screen, trowel, and toothbrush.”
“Getting back to the site—”
“Mr. Smithback, what I did was perfectly legal. When we discovered those remains, I personally stopped all work. I personally examined the site. We called in forensic experts, who photographed everything. We removed the remains with great care, had them examined, and then properly buried, all at my own expense. We did not restart work until we had direct authorization from the mayor. What more would you have me do?”
Smithback felt a small twinge. This was not proceeding quite as expected. He was letting Fairhaven control the agenda; that was the problem.
“You say you had the remains buried. Why? Was there anything perhaps you were trying to hide?”
At this Fairhaven actually laughed, leaning back in his chair, exposing beautiful teeth. “You make it sound suspicious. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’m a man with some small religious values. These poor people were killed in a hideous way. I wanted to give them a decent burial with an ecumenical service, quiet and dignified, free of the whole media circus. That’s what I did—buried them together with their little effects in a real cemetery. I didn’t want their bones ending up in a museum drawer. So I purchased a beautiful tract in the Gates of Heaven Cemetery in Valhalla, New York. I’m sure the cemetery director would be happy to show you the plot. The remains were my responsibility and, frankly, I had to do something with them. The city certainly didn’t want them.”
“Right, right,” said Smithback, thinking. It would make a nice sidebar, this quiet burial under the leafy elms. But then he frowned. Christ, was he getting spun here?
Time for a new tack. “According to the records, you’re a major donor to the mayor’s re-election campaign. You get in a pinch at your construction site and he bails you out. Coincidence?”
Fairhaven leaned back in the chair. “Drop the wide-eyed, babe-in-the-woods look. You know perfectly well how things work in this town. When I give money to the mayor’s campaign, I am exercising my constitutional rights. I don’t expect any special treatment, and I don’t ask for it.”
“But if you get it, so much the better.”
Fairhaven smiled broadly, cynically, but said nothing. Smithback felt another twinge of concern. This guy was being very careful about what he actually said. Trouble was, you couldn’t record a cynical grin.
He stood and walked with what he hoped looked like casual confidence toward the paintings, hands behind his back, studying them, trying to frame a new strategy. Then he moved to the gun case. Inside, polished weapons gleamed. “Interesting choice of office decor,” he said, gesturing at the case.
“I collect the rarest of handguns. I can afford to. That one you are pointing at, for example, is a Luger, chambered in .45. The only one ever made. I also have a collection of Mercedes-Benz roadsters. But they take up rather more display space, so I keep them at my place in Sag Harbor.” Fairhaven looked at him, still smiling cynically. “We all collect things, Mr. Smithback. What’s your passion? Museum monographs and chapbooks, perhaps: removed for research, then not returned? By accident, of course.”
Smithback looked at him sharply. Had the guy searched his apartment? But no: Fairhaven was merely fishing. He returned to the chair. “Mr. Fairhaven—”
Fairhaven interrupted him, his tone suddenly brisk, unfriendly. “Look, Smithback, I know you’re exercising your constitutional right to skewer me. The big bad real estate developer is always an easy target. And you like easy targets. Because you fellows are all cut from the same cloth. You all think your work is important. But today’s newspaper is lining tomorrow’s bird cage. It’s ephemera. What you do, in the larger scheme of things, is nugatory.”
Nugatory? What the hell did that mean? It didn’t matter: clearly it was an insult. He was getting under Fairhaven’s skin. That was good—wasn’t it?
“Mr. Fairhaven, I have reason to believe that you’ve been pressuring the Museum to stop this investigation.”
“I’m sorry. What investigation?”
“The one into Enoch Leng and the nineteenth-century killings.”
“That investigation? Why should I care one way or another about it? It didn’t stop my construction project, and frankly that’s all I care about. They can investigate it now until they’re blue in the face, if they so choose. And I love this phrase all you journalists use: I have reason to believe. What you really mean is: I want to believe but I haven’t a shred of evidence. All you fellows must’ve taken the same Journalism 101 class: Making an Ass of Yourself While Pretending to Get the Story.” Fairhaven allowed himself a cynical laugh.
Smithback sat stiffly, listening to the laughter subside. Once again he tried to tell himself he was getting under Fairhaven’s skin. He spoke at last, keeping his voice as cool as possible.
“Tell me, Mr. Fairhaven, just why is it that you’re so interested in the Museum?”
“I happen to love the Museum. It’s my favourite museum in the world. I practically grew up in that place looking at the dinosaurs, the meteorites, the gems. I had a nanny who used to take me. She necked with her boyfriend behind the elephants while I wandered around by myself. But you’re not interested in that, because it doesn’t fit your image of the greedy real estate developer. Really, Smithback, I’m wise to your game.”
“Mr. Fairhaven—”
Fairhaven grinned. “You want a confession?”
This temporarily stopped Smithback.
Fairhaven lowered his voice to confessional level. “I have committed two unforgivable crimes.”
Smithback tried to maintain the hard-bitten reportorial look he cultivated in instances like these. He knew this was going to be some kind of trick, or joke.
“My two crimes are these—are you ready?”
Smithback checked to see if the recorder was still running.
“I am rich, and I am a developer. My two truly unforgivable sins. Mea culpa.”
Against all his better journalistic instincts, Smithback found himself getting pissed off. He’d lost the interview. It was, in fact, a dead loss. The guy was a slimeball, but he was remarkably adroit at dealing with the press. So far Smithback had nothing, and he was going to get nothing. He made one last push anyway. “You still haven’t explained—”
Fairhaven stood. “Smithback, if you only knew how utterly predictable you and your questions are—if you only knew how tiresome and mediocre you are as a reporter and, I’m sorry to say, as a human being—you’d be mortified.”
“I’d like an explanation—”
But Fairhaven was pressing a buzzer. His voice smothered the rest of Smithback’s question. “Miss Gallagher, would you kindly show Mr. Smithback out?”
“Yes, Mr. Fairhaven.”
“This is rather abrupt—”
“Mr. Smithback, I am tired. I saw you because I didn’t want to read about myself in the paper having refused comment. I was also curious to meet you, to see if you were perhaps a cut above the rest. Now that I’ve satisfied myself on that score, I don’t see any reason to continue this conversation.”
The secretary stood in the door, stout and unmovable. “Mr. Smithback? This way, please.”
On his way out, Smithback paused in the outermost secretary’s office. Despite his efforts at self-control, his frame was quivering with indignation. Fairhaven had been parrying a hostile press fo
r more than a decade; naturally, he’d gotten damn good at it. Smithback had dealt with nasty interviewees before, but this one really got under his skin. Calling him tiresome, mediocre, ephemeral, nugatory (he’d have to look that up)—who did he think he was?
Fairhaven himself was too slippery to pin down. No big surprise there. There were other ways to find things out about people. People in power had enemies, and enemies loved to talk. Sometimes the enemies were working for them, right under their noses.
He glanced at the secretary. She was young, sweet, and looked more approachable than the battle-axes manning the inner offices.
“Here every Saturday?” He smiled nonchalantly.
“Most of them,” she said, looking up from her computer. She was cute, with glossy red hair and a small splash of freckles. He winced inwardly, suddenly reminded of Nora.
“Works you hard, doesn’t he?”
“Mr. Fairhaven? Sure does.”
“Probably makes you work Sundays, too.”
“Oh no,” she said. “Mr. Fairhaven never works on Sunday. He goes to church.”
Smithback feigned surprise. “Church? Is he Catholic?”
“Presbyterian.”
“Probably a tough man to work for, I bet.”
“No, he’s one of the best supervisors I’ve had. He actually seems to care about us little folk.”
“Never would have guessed it,” Smithback said with a wink, drifting out the door. Probably boning her and the other “little folk” on the side, he thought.
Back on the street, Smithback allowed himself a most un-Presbyterian string of oaths. He was going to dig into this guy’s past until he knew every detail, down to the name of his goddamn teddy bear. You couldn’t become a big-time real estate developer in New York City and keep your hands clean. There would be dirt, and he would find it. Yes, there would be dirt. By God, there would be dirt.
FOUR
MANDY EKLUND CLIMBED the filthy subway stairs to First Street, turned north at Avenue A, and trudged toward Tompkins Square Park. Ahead, the park’s anemic trees rose up against a sky faintly smeared with the purple stain of dawn. The morning star, low on the horizon, was fading into oblivion.
The Cabinet of Curiosities Page 15
