The Cabinet of Curiosities

by Douglas Preston

  Pendergast nodded. “There were numerous shards of glass embedded in the dust. I took a few for analysis.”

  “Other than the skeletons, there were some pennies in the alcoves, dated 1872, 1877, and 1880. A few articles in the pockets.”

  “The tenements here were erected in 1897,” murmured Pendergast, almost to himself, his voice grave. “There’s our terminus ante quem. The murders took place before 1897 and were probably clustered around the dates of the coins—that is, the 1870s.”

  A black stretch limousine slid up behind them, its tinted windows flaring in the sun. A tall man in an elegant charcoal suit got out, followed by several others. The man glanced around the site, his gaze quickly zeroing in on Pendergast. He had a long, narrow face, eyes spaced wide apart, black hair, and cheekbones so high and angular they could have been fashioned with a hatchet.

  “And there’s Mr. Fairhaven himself, to ensure there are no more untoward delays,” Pendergast said. “I think this is our cue to leave.”

  He opened the car door for her, then climbed in himself. “Thank you, Dr. Kelly,” he said, indicating to his driver to start the car. “Tomorrow we will meet again. In a more official capacity, I trust.”

  As they eased out into the Lower East Side traffic, Nora looked at him. “How did you learn about this site, anyway? It was just uncovered yesterday.”

  “I have contacts. Most helpful in my line of work.”

  “I’ll bet. Well, speaking of contacts, why didn’t you just try your friend the police commissioner again? Surely he could have backed you up.”

  The Rolls turned smoothly onto East River Drive, its powerful engine purring. “Commissioner?” Pendergast blinked over at her. “I don’t have the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

  “Then who were you calling back there, then?”

  “My apartment.” And he smiled ever so slightly.

  FIVE

  WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR. stood, quite self-consciously, in the doorway of Café des Artistes. His new suit of dark blue Italian silk rustled as he scanned the dimly lit room. He tried to keep his normal slouch in check, his back ramrod straight, his bearing dignified, aristocratic. The Armani suit had cost him a small fortune, but as he stood in the entryway he knew it had been worth every penny. He felt sophisticated, urbane, a bit like Tom Wolfe—though of course he didn’t dare try the full rig, white hat and all. The paisley silk handkerchief poking out of his pocket was a nice touch, though perhaps a bit flamboyant, but then again he was a famous writer—almost famous anyway, if only his last damn book had inched up two more slots it would have made the list—and he could get away with such touches. He turned with what he hoped was casual elegance and arched an eyebrow in the direction of the maître d’, who immediately strode over with a smile.

  Smithback loved this restaurant more than any other in New York City. It was decidedly untrendy, old-fashioned, with superb food. You didn’t get the Bridge and Tunnel crowd in here like you did at Le Cirque 2000. And the Howard Chandler Christie mural added just the right touch of kitsch.

  “Mr. Smithback, how nice to see you this evening. Your party just arrived.”

  Smithback nodded gravely. Being recognized by the maître d’ of a first-class restaurant, although he would be loath to admit it, meant a great deal to him. It had taken several visits, several well-dropped twenties. What clinched it was the casual reference to his position at the New York Times.

  Nora Kelly sat at a corner table, waiting for him. As usual, just seeing her sent a little electric current of pleasure through Smithback. Even though she’d been in New York well over a year, she still retained a fresh, out-of-place look that delighted him. And she never seemed to have lost her Santa Fe tan. Funny, how they’d met under the worst possible of circumstances: an archaeological expedition to Utah in which they’d both almost lost their lives. Back then, she’d made it clear she thought him arrogant and obnoxious. And here they were, two years later, about to move in together. And Smithback couldn’t imagine ever spending a day apart from her.

  He slid into the banquette with a smile. She looked great, as always: her copper-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, deep green-brown eyes sparkling in the candle-light, the sprinkling of freckles on her nose adding a perfect touch of boyishness. Then his gaze dropped to her clothes. Now, those left something to be desired. God, she was actually dirty.

  “You won’t believe the day I had,” she said.

  “Hum.” Smithback adjusted his tie and turned ever so slightly, allowing the light to catch the elegantly cut shoulder of his suit.

  “I swear, Bill, you aren’t going to believe it. But remember, this is off the record.”

  Now Smithback felt slightly hurt. Not only had she failed to notice the suit, but this business about their conversation being off the record was unnecessary. “Nora, everything between us is off the record—”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish. “First, that scumbag Brisbane cut my budget ten percent.”

  Smithback made a sympathetic noise. The Museum was perpetually short of money.

  “And then I found this really weird man in my office.”

  Smithback made another noise, slyly moving his elbow into position beside his water glass. Surely she’d notice the dark silk against the white nap of the tablecloth.

  “He was reading my books, acting like he owned the place. He looked just like an undertaker, dressed in a black suit, with really white skin. Not albino, just white.”

  An uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu began to well up in Smithback’s mind. He dismissed it.

  “He said he was from the FBI, and he dragged me downtown, to a building site where they’d uncovered—”

  Abruptly, the feeling returned. “Did you say FBI?” No way. Not him. It couldn’t be.

  “Yes, the FBI. Special Agent—”

  “Pendergast,” Smithback finished for her.

  Now it was Nora’s turn to look astonished. “You know him?”

  “Know him? He was in my book on the Museum murders. That book of mine you said you read.”

  “Oh yeah, right. Right.”

  Smithback nodded, too preoccupied to be indignant. Pendergast was not back in Manhattan on a social visit. The man showed up only when there was trouble. Or maybe he just seemed to always bring trouble with him. Either way, Smithback hoped to God it wasn’t trouble like the last time.

  The waiter appeared and took their orders. Smithback, who’d been anticipating a small dry sherry, ordered a martini instead. Pendergast. Oh, God. As much as he’d admired the man, he hadn’t been sorry to see him and his black suit heading back to New Orleans.

  “So tell me about him,” Nora said, leaning back in her chair.

  “He’s…” Smithback paused, feeling uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “He’s unorthodox. Charming, a southern aristocrat, lots of dough, old family money, pharmaceuticals or something. I really don’t know what his relationship is with the FBI. He seems to have free rein to poke into anything he likes. He works alone and he’s very, very good. He knows a lot of important people. As far as the man personally, I don’t know anything about him. He’s a cipher. You never know what he’s really thinking. Christ, I don’t even know his first name.”

  “He can’t be that powerful. He got trumped today.”

  Smithback arched his eyebrows. “What happened? What did he want?”

  Nora told him about their hasty visit to the charnel pit at the construction site. She finished just as their morel and black truffle quenelles arrived.

  “Moegen-Fairhaven,” said Smithback, digging a fork into the mousse, releasing a heavenly aroma of musk and the deep forest. “Weren’t those the guys that got in trouble for ripping down that SRO without a permit—when there were still people living there?”

  “The single-room occupancy on East First? I think so.”

  “Nasty bunch.”

  “Fairhaven was arriving in a stretch limo just as we left.”

  “Yeah.
And in a Rolls, you said?” Smithback had to laugh. When he’d been investigating the Museum murders, Pendergast went around in a Buick. The conspicuousness of a Rolls had to mean something—everything Pendergast did served a purpose. “Well, you rode in style, anyway. But this really doesn’t sound like something Pendergast would be interested in.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s an incredible site, but it is over a hundred years old. Why would the FBI, or any law enforcement agency, be interested in a crime scene that’s ancient history?”

  “It isn’t an ordinary crime scene. Three dozen young people, murdered, dismembered, and walled up in a subterranean crawlspace. That’s one of the biggest serial killings in U.S. history.”

  Their waiter returned, sliding a dish in front of Smithback: steak au poivre, cooked rare. “Nora, come on,” he said, lifting his knife eagerly. “The murderer is long dead. It’s a historical curiosity. It’ll make a great story in the paper—come to think of it—but I still can’t see why the FBI would take an interest.”

  He felt Nora glowering at him. “Bill, this is off the record. Remember?”

  “It’s almost prehistoric, Nora, and it would make a sensational story. How could it possibly hurt—?”

  “Off the record.”

  Smithback sighed. “Just give me first shot, Nora, when the time comes.”

  Nora smirked. “You always get first shot, Bill. You know that.”

  Smithback chuckled and sliced a tender corner off his steak. “So what did you find down there?”

  “Not much. A bunch of stuff in the pockets—some old coins, a comb, pins, string, buttons. These people were poor. I took a vertebra, a hair sample, and…” She hesitated. “There was something else.”

  “Out with it.”

  “There was a piece of paper sewed into the lining of one girl’s dress. It felt like a letter. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Smithback leaned forward. “What’d it say?”

  “I had to put the dress back before I could take a closer look.”

  “You mean it’s still there?”

  Nora nodded.

  “What are they going to do with the stuff?”

  “The ME took away the bones, but they said they were going to bag the rest. I got the sense they were eager to lose track of the stuff in some warehouse. The quicker they can get rid of it, the less chance it’ll be declared an archaeological site. I’ve seen developers tear up a site just to make sure that when the archaeologists arrive there’s nothing left to examine.”

  “That’s illegal, isn’t it? Aren’t they supposed to stop if it’s important?”

  “If the site’s gone, how can you prove it was important? Developers destroy dozens of archaeological sites in America in just this way, every single day.”

  Smithback mumbled his righteous indignation as he made headway into the steak. He was famished. Nobody did steak like Café des Artistes. And the helpings were decent, man-sized, none of this nouvelle cuisine crap, the tippy little structure of food in the middle of a giant white plate splashed with Jackson Pollock—like dribbles of sauce…

  “Why would the girl sew the letter into her dress?”

  Smithback looked up, took a swig of red wine, another bite of steak. “Love letter, perhaps?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I think it could be important. It would at least be a clue to who these people were. Otherwise, we may never find out, with their clothes gone and the tunnel destroyed.” She was looking at him earnestly, her entrée untouched. “Damn it, Bill, that was an archaeological site.”

  “Probably torn up by now, like you said.”

  “It was late in the day. I stowed the dress back in the alcove.”

  “They probably removed it with the rest of the stuff, then.”

  “I don’t think so. I stuffed it into a crevice in the rear of the alcove. They were rushing. They could easily have missed it.”

  Smithback saw the gleam in Nora’s hazel eyes. He’d seen that look before.

  “No way, Nora,” he said quickly. “They must have security at the site. It’s probably lit up brighter than a stage. Don’t even think about it.” Next thing, she would insist on his coming along.

  “You’ve got to come with me. Tonight. I need that letter.”

  “You don’t even know if it is a letter. It might be a laundry slip.”

  “Bill, even a laundry slip would be an important clue.”

  “We could be arrested.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “What’s this you shit?”

  “I’ll distract the guard while you go over the fence. You can make yourself inconspicuous.” As she spoke, Nora’s eyes grew brighter. “Yes. You can be dressed like a homeless bum, say, just poking through the garbage. If they catch you, the worst they’ll do is make you move on.”

  Smithback was aghast. “Me? A bum? No way. You be the bum.”

  “No, Bill, that won’t work. I have to be the hooker.”

  The last forkful of steak froze halfway to Smithback’s mouth.

  Nora smiled at him. Then she spoke. “You just spilled brandy sauce all down the front of your nice new Italian suit.”

  SIX

  NORA PEERED AROUND the corner of Henry Street, shivering slightly. It was a chilly night, and her scant black mini-dress and silver spandex top provided little warmth. Only the heavy makeup, she thought, added any R-factor to her person. In the distance, traffic droned through Chatham Square, and the vast black bulk of the Manhattan Bridge loomed ominously nearby. It was almost three o’clock in the morning, and the streets of the Lower East Side were deserted.

  “What can you see?” Smithback asked from behind her.

  “The site’s pretty well lit. I can only see one guard, though.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Sitting in a chair, smoking and reading a paperback.”

  Smithback scowled. It had been depressingly easy to transform him to bumhood. His rangy frame was draped in a shiny black raincoat over a checked shirt, a dirty pair of jeans, and tattered Keds. There had been no shortage of cheesy old clothing in Smithback’s closet to choose from. A bit of charcoal on the face, olive oil rubbed into the hair, and a tote consisting of five nested plastic bags with unwashed clothes at the bottom completed the disguise.

  “What’s he look like?” Smithback asked.

  “Big and mean.”

  “Cut it out.” Smithback was in no mood for humor. Dressed as they were, they had been unable to flag down a cab in the Upper West Side, and had been forced to take the subway. Nobody had actually propositioned her, but she had gotten plenty of stares, with follow-up glances at Smithback that clearly read, What’s a high-priced call girl doing with that bum? The long ride, with two transfers, had not improved Smithback’s mood.

  “This plan of yours is pretty weak,” Smithback said. “Are you sure you can handle yourself?” He was a mask of irritation.

  “We both have our cell phones. If anything happens, I’ll scream bloody murder and you call 911. But don’t worry—he’s not going to make trouble.”

  “He’s going to be too busy looking at your tits,” said Smithback unhappily. “With that top, you might as well not be wearing anything.”

  “Trust me, I can take care of myself. Remember, the dress is in the second to last niche on the right. Feel along the rear wall for the crevice. Once you’re safely out, call me. Now, here goes.”

  She stepped out into the streetlight and began walking down the sidewalk toward the construction entrance, her pumps making a sharp clicking noise on the pavement, her breasts bouncing. As she got close, she stopped, fished in her little gold handbag, and made an exaggerated little moue. She could already feel the guard’s eyes on her. She dropped a lipstick, bent down to pick it up—making sure he got a good look up her dress in the process—and touched up her lips. Then she fished in the bag again, cursed, and looked around. She let her eyes fall on the guard. He was staring back, the
book lying unheeded in his lap.

  “Shit. Left my cigarettes back at the bar.” She flashed him a smile.

  “Here,” he said, rising hastily. “Take one of mine.”

  She sidled over and accepted the cigarette through the gap in the chain-link gate, positioning herself to ensure his back would be turned to the construction site. She hoped to God Smithback would work fast.

  The guard withdrew a lighter, tried to stick it through the gate, failed. “Just a minute, let me unlock this.”

  She waited, cigarette in hand.

  The gate swung open and he flicked the lighter. She approached and bent over the flame, drawing the smoke in, hoping she wouldn’t cough. “Thanks.”

  “Sure,” said the guard. He was young, sandy-haired, neither fat nor thin, a little dopey-looking, not terribly strong, clearly flustered by her presence. Good.

  She stood there, taking another drag. “Nice night,” she said.

  “You must be cold.”

  “A little.”

  “Here, take this.” With a gallant flourish he took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Thanks.” The guard looked as if he could hardly believe his good fortune. Nora knew she was attractive; knew that her body, with all her years spent backpacking in the remote desert, wasn’t too bad, either. The heavy makeup gave her a sense of security. Never in a million years would he later be able to identify the archaeologist from the New York Museum of Natural History. In an odd way the outfit made her feel sassy, bold, a little sexy.

  She heard a distant rattle; Smithback must be climbing over the chain-link fence. “You work here every night?” she said hastily.

  “Five nights a week,” the guard said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Now that construction’s begun. You, er, live around here?”

  She nodded vaguely toward the river. “And you?”

  “Queens.”

  “Married?”

  She saw his left hand, where she had previously noted a wedding band, slide behind his gun holster. “Not me.”