“I want the guards and museum staff out,” said Hayward. “Except Drs. Kelly and Menzies.”
“I’m not going,” said Smithback. “I’m not leaving my wife.”
“You can stay, then,” said Hayward.
One of the EMTs, who had obviously been arguing with Nora for a while, leaned in for one last try. “Listen here, miss, your neck is bruised and you might have a concussion. The effects can be delayed. We’ve got to take you in for tests.”
“Don’t ‘miss’ me. I’m a Ph.D.”
“The paramedic’s right,” Smithback added. “You need to go for at least a quick exam.”
“Quick? I’ll be in the emergency room all day. You know what St. Luke’s is like!”
“Nora, we can get along quite well without you today,” Menzies said. “You’ve had a terrible shock—”
“With all due respect, Hugo, you know as well as I do that with Dr. Wicherly . . . Oh, God, this is terrible!” She choked up for a moment, and Hayward used the opportunity to speak.
“I know this is a bad time, Dr. Kelly, but can I ask you a few questions?”
Nora wiped her eyes. “Go ahead.”
“Can you tell me what happened leading up to the attack?”
Nora took a deep, steadying breath. Then she proceeded to relate the events that had occurred in her office just ten minutes before, as well as the pass Wicherly had made at her a few days before. Hayward listened without interrupting, as did her husband, Smithback, his face darkening with anger.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
Nora waved an impatient hand at him. “Something happened to him today. He wasn’t the same person. It was like he had . . . a seizure of some kind.”
“Why were you in the museum so early?” Hayward asked.
“I had—have—a busy day ahead of me.”
“And Wicherly?”
“I understand he came in at three A.M.”
Hayward was surprised. “What for?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Did he go into the tomb?”
It was Menzies who answered. “Yes, he did. The security log shows he entered the tomb just after three, spent half an hour in there, then left. Where he was between then and the attack, we don’t know. I looked all over for him.”
“I assume you checked his background before you hired him. Did he have a criminal record, a history of aggression?”
Menzies shook his head. “Absolutely nothing like that.”
Hayward looked around and saw to her relief that Visconti had been assigned to the museum that day. She motioned him over.
“I want you to take statements from Dr. Menzies and the guard who shot Wicherly,” she said. “We can get Dr. Kelly’s when she returns from the hospital.”
“No way,” Nora said. “I’m ready to give a statement now.”
Hayward ignored her. “Where’s the M.E.?”
“Went to the hospital with the body.”
“Get him on the radio.”
A moment later, Visconti handed her a radio. Then he led Menzies off to take a statement.
“Doctor?” Hayward spoke into the radio. “I want an autopsy performed as soon as possible. I want you to look for lesions to the temporal lobe of the brain, particularly to the ventromedial frontal cortex . . . No, I’m not a neurosurgeon. I’ll explain later.”
She handed the radio back to Visconti, then cast a firm eye on Nora. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.” She gestured to the EMTs. “Help her to her feet and get moving.”
Then she turned to Smithback. “I want to talk to you privately, in the hall.”
“But I want to go with my wife—”
“We’ll have a police car take you after we speak, sirens, the works. You’ll get there at the same time as the ambulance.”
She exchanged a brief word with Nora, gave her a reassuring pat on her shoulder, and then nodded Smithback into the hall. They found a quiet corner and Hayward faced the journalist.
“We haven’t spoken in a while,” she said. “I was hoping you might have something to share with me.”
At the question, Smithback looked a little uncomfortable. “I published that story we talked about. Two, even. They didn’t shake free any leads—at least none that I heard about.”
Hayward nodded, waiting. Smithback glanced at her, then glanced away. “Every trail I tried turned cold. That’s when I . . . paid a visit to the house.”
“House?”
“You know. His house. The one where he held Viola Maskelene.”
“You snuck in? I didn’t know they’d finished the investigation. When did the crime scene tape come down?”
Now Smithback looked even more uncomfortable. “It wasn’t down.”
“What?” Hayward raised her voice. “You trespassed on an active crime scene?”
“It wasn’t all that active!” Smithback said quickly. “I only saw one cop the whole time I was there!”
“Look, Mr. Smithback, I don’t want to hear any more. I can’t and won’t have you operating extralegally—”
“But it was in the house that I found it.”
Hayward stopped and looked at him.
“Well, it’s nothing I can prove. It’s just a theory, really. At first I really thought it was something, but later on . . . Anyway, that’s why I didn’t call you about it earlier.”
“Out with it.”
“In a coat closet, I found a bunch of Diogenes’s coats.”
Hayward crossed her arms, waiting.
“Three were very expensive cashmere or camel’s-hair, elegant, Italian-designed. Then there were a couple of big, bulky, itchy tweed jackets, also expensive but of a totally different style—you know, stodgy English professor.”
“And?”
“I know this sounds strange, but something about those tweeds—well, they almost seemed like a disguise. Almost as if Diogenes—”
“Has an alter ego,” Hayward said. She realized where this was going, and she was suddenly very interested.
“Right. And what kind of alter ego would wear tweeds? A professor.”
“Or a curator,” Hayward said.
“Exactly. And then it dawned on me he’s probably a curator in the museum. I mean, they’re all saying the diamond heist had to have been an inside job. He didn’t have a partner—maybe he himself was the inside man. I know it sounds a little crazy . . .” His voice trailed off, uncertain.
Hayward looked at him intently. “Actually, I think it’s far from crazy.”
Smithback stopped to glance at her in surprise. “You do?”
“Absolutely. It fits the facts better than any other theory I’ve heard. Diogenes is a curator in this museum.”
“But it just doesn’t make sense. Why would Diogenes steal the diamonds . . . and then pound them into dust and mail them back here?”
“Maybe he has some personal grudge against the museum. We won’t know for sure until we catch him. Good job, Mr. Smithback. There’s just one more thing.”
Smithback’s gaze narrowed. “Let me guess.”
“That’s right. This conversation never took place. And until I say otherwise, these speculations are to go no further. Not even to your wife. And certainly not to the New York Times. Are we clear?”
Smithback sighed, nodded.
“Good. Now I need to track down Manetti. But first, let me get that squad car to take you to the hospital.” She smiled. “You’ve earned it.”
37
In the great paneled office of Frederick Watson Collopy, director of the New York Museum of Natural History, a silence reigned. Everyone had arrived: Beryl Darling, the museum’s general counsel; Josephine Rocco, head of PR; Hugo Menzies. The short list of Collopy’s most trusted staff. They were all seated and looking in his direction, waiting for him to begin.
At last Collopy laid a hand on his leather-topped desk and looked around. “Never in its long history,” he began, “has the museum faced a crisis of these proportions. Never.�
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He let that sink in. The silence, the immobility, of his audience held.
“In short order, we have been dealt several blows, any one of which could cripple an institution such as ours. The theft and destruction of the diamond collection. The murder of Theodore DeMeo. The inexplicable attack on Dr. Kelly, and the subsequent killing of the assailant—the very distinguished Dr. Adrian Wicherly of the British Museum—by a trigger-happy guard.”
A pause.
“And in four days, one of the biggest openings in the museum’s history is scheduled. The very opening that was to put the diamond theft behind us. The question I pose to you now is this: how do we respond? Do we postpone the opening? Do we hold a press conference? I’ve gotten calls from twenty trustees so far this morning, and every single one has a different idea. And in ten minutes, I have to face a homicide captain named Hayward who—I have no doubt—will demand that we postpone the opening. It’s up to us four, at this moment, to set a course and stick with it.”
He folded his hands on the desk. “Beryl? Your thoughts?”
Collopy knew that Beryl Darling, the museum’s general counsel, would speak with brutal clarity.
Darling leaned forward, pencil poised in her hand. “The first thing I’d do, Frederick, is disarm every museum guard in the building.”
“Already done.”
Darling nodded with satisfaction. “Next, instead of a press conference—which can spin out of control—I would immediately issue a statement.”
“Saying?”
“It will be an unvarnished recitation of the facts, followed by a mea culpa and an expression of profound sympathy to the families of the victims—DeMeo, Lipper, and Wicherly—”
“Excuse me. Lipper and Wicherly? Victims?”
“The expression of regret will be strictly neutral. The museum doesn’t want to get in the business of throwing stones. Let the police sort out the facts.”
A frosty silence.
“And the opening?” Collopy asked.
“Cancel it. Shut the museum down for two days. And make sure nobody—and I mean nobody—at the museum talks to the press.”
Collopy waited a moment, then turned to Josephine Rocco, head of public relations.
“Your comments?”
“I’m in agreement with Ms. Darling. We’ve got to show the public that it’s not business as usual.”
“Thank you.” Collopy turned to Menzies. “Do you have anything to add, Dr. Menzies?” He was amazed at how cool, collected, and composed Menzies looked. He wished he had the same sangfroid.
Menzies nodded toward Darling and Rocco. “I would like to commend Ms. Darling and Ms. Rocco for their well-considered comments, which under almost any other circumstances would be excellent advice.”
“But you differ?”
“I do. Most decidedly.” Menzies’s blue eyes, so full of calm self-assurance, impressed Collopy.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“I hesitate to contradict my colleagues, whose wisdom and experience in these matters exceeds my own.” Menzies glanced around humbly.
“I’ve asked for your unvarnished opinion.”
“Well, then. Six weeks ago, the diamond collection was stolen and destroyed. Now an outside contractor—not a museum employee—kills a co-worker. Then a museum consultant—a temporary hire, not an employee—assaults one of our top curators and is killed by a guard in the ensuing melee. Now, I ask you: what do these events have in common?” Menzies looked around inquiringly.
No one answered.
“Ms. Darling?” Menzies persisted.
“Well, nothing.”
“Exactly. During the same six-week period, New York City had sixty-one homicides, fifteen hundred assaults, and countless felonies and misdemeanors. Did the mayor shut down the city? No. What did he do instead? He announced the good news: the crime rate is down four percent from the previous year!”
“So,” drawled Darling, “what ‘good news’ would you announce, Dr. Menzies?”
“That despite recent events, the grand opening of the Tomb of Senef is still on schedule and will go off exactly as planned.”
“And just ignore the rest?”
“Of course not. By all means, issue a statement. But be sure to point out that this is New York City and that the museum is a vast place covering twenty-eight acres of Manhattan with two thousand employees and five million visitors a year, and that under these circumstances it’s surprising that more random crimes don’t happen. Be sure to emphasize the latter point: the crimes are not connected, they’re random, and they’ve all been solved. The perpetrators have been caught. A run of bad luck, that’s all.”
He paused. “And there’s one final point to consider.”
“What’s that?” Collopy asked.
“The mayor is coming and plans to give an important speech. It’s possible he might just use the auspicious occasion to announce his bid for re-election.”
Menzies smiled and fell silent, his bright blue eyes surveying the room, challenging them all to respond.
The first to stir was Beryl Darling. She uncrossed her legs, tapped the pencil on the table. “I must say, Dr. Menzies, that’s a rather interesting take on things.”
“I don’t like it,” said Rocco. “We can’t just dismiss all this, sweep it under the rug. We’ll be crucified.”
“Who suggested sweeping anything under the rug?” said Menzies. “On the contrary, we’ll release all the facts. We’ll hide nothing. We’ll beat our breasts and take full responsibility. The facts work in our favor because they clearly demonstrate the random nature of the crimes. And the perpetrators are either dead or behind bars. Case closed.”
“What about the rumors?” asked Rocco.
Menzies turned a pair of surprised blue eyes on her. “Rumors?”
“All the talk about the tomb being cursed.”
Menzies chuckled. “The mummy’s curse? It’s marvelous. Now everyone will want to come.”
Rocco’s bright red lips tightened, cracking her heavy lipstick.
“And let’s not forget the original purpose of the Tomb of Senef—to remind the city that we are still the greatest natural history museum in the world. We need this distraction more than ever.”
A long silence settled on the group. Collopy finally stirred. “That’s damned persuasive, Hugo.”
“I find myself in the curious position of changing my mind,” said Darling. “I believe I concur with Dr. Menzies.”
Collopy looked at the PR head. “Josephine?”
“I still have my doubts,” she replied slowly. “But it’s worth a try.”
“Then that’s settled,” said Collopy.
As if on cue the door opened, with no knock, no announcement. A policewoman stood there, dressed in a smart gray suit, brass on her collar. Collopy glanced at his watch—she was on time to the second.
He rose. “May I introduce Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward. This is—”
“We’re all acquainted,” she said crisply. She turned a pair of violet eyes on him. She was disconcertingly young and attractive. Collopy wondered if she was some kind of affirmative-action type, advanced beyond her competence. Somehow, looking at those eyes, he doubted it.
“I’d like to speak with you privately, Dr. Collopy,” she said.
“Of course.”
The door closed after Menzies—the last to leave—had said his good-byes. Collopy turned his attention on Hayward. “Would you like to take a seat, Captain?”
After the briefest of hesitations, she nodded. “I think I will.” She sank down in a wing chair and Collopy noted that her skin was pale and she looked exhausted. And yet her violet eyes were anything but dull.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” he asked.
She withdrew a sheaf of folded papers from her pocket. “I’ve got here the results of the autopsy on Wicherly.”
Collopy raised his eyebrows. “Autopsy? Is there some mystery about how he died?”
By way of answer, she withdrew another piece of paper. “And here’s a diagnostic report on Lipper. The bottom line is they both suffered identical, sudden brain damage to the ventromedial cortex of the brain.”
The Book of the Dead Page 24
