The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  She went down the tunnel, examining each niche in turn, scribbling her observations in Pendergast’s notebook. Each niche held exactly three corpses. All had been dismembered in the same fashion, at the neck, shoulders, and hips. A few of the skulls had the same dissection marks she’d noticed on the specimen Pendergast first showed her. All of the skeletons displayed severe trauma to the lower spinal column. From her cursory examination of skull morphology, they seemed to fit within the same age bracket—thirteen to twenty or so—and were a mixture of male and female, with male predominating. She wondered what the forensic examiner had discovered. There would be time to find that out later.

  Twelve niches, three bodies to a niche… All very neat, very precise. At the next to the last niche, she stopped. Then she stepped back into the middle of the tunnel, trying hard not to think about the implications of what she was seeing, keeping her mind strictly on the facts. At any archaeological site, it was important to take a moment to stand still, to be quiet, to quell the intellect and simply absorb the feel of the place. She gazed around, trying to forget about the ticking clock, to blot out her preconceptions. A basement tunnel, pre-1890, carefully walled-up niches, bodies and clothes of some thirty-six young men and women. What was it built for? She glanced over at Pendergast. He was still at the far end, examining the bricked-up wall, prying out a bit of mortar with a knife.

  She returned to the alcove, carefully noting the position of each bone, each article of clothing. Two sets of britches, with nothing in the pockets. A dress: filthy, torn, pathetic. She looked at it more closely. A girl’s dress, small, slender. She picked up the brown skull nearby. A young female, a teenager, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. She felt a wave of horror: just underneath it was her mass of hair, long golden tresses, still tied in a pink lace ribbon. She examined the skull: same poor dental hygiene. Sixteen, and already her teeth were rotting. The ribbon was of silk and a much finer quality than the dress; it must have been her prized possession. This glimmering of humanity stopped her dead for a moment.

  As she felt for a pocket, something crackled under her fingers. Paper. She fingered the dress, realizing that the piece of paper wasn’t in a pocket at all, but sewn into the lining. She began to pull it from the alcove.

  “Anything of interest, Dr. Kelly?”

  She started at the medical examiner’s voice. Van Bronck. His tone had changed: now he sounded arrogant. He stood over her.

  She glanced around. In her absorption, she had not heard him return. Pendergast was by the entrance to the barrow, in urgent discussion with some uniformed figures peering down from above.

  “If you call this sort of thing interesting,” she said.

  “I know you’re not with the ME’s office, so that must make you an FBI forensics expert.”

  Nora colored. “I’m not a medical doctor. I’m an archaeologist.”

  Dr. Van Bronck’s eyebrows shot up and a sardonic smile spread over his face. He had a perfectly formed little mouth that looked as if it had been painted on by a Renaissance artist. It glistened as it articulated the precise words. “Ah. Not a medical doctor. I believe I misunderstood your colleague. Archaeology. How nice.”

  She had not had an hour; she had not even had half an hour.

  She slid the dress back into the alcove, shoving it into a dusty crevice in the back. “And have you found anything of interest, Doctor?” she asked as casually as she could.

  “I’d send you my report,” he said. “But then, I could hardly expect you to understand it. All that professional jargon, you know.” He smiled, and now the smile did not look friendly at all.

  “I’m not finished here,” she said. “When I am, I’d be glad to chat further.” She began to move toward the last alcove.

  “You can continue your studies after I remove the human remains.”

  “You’re not moving anything until I’ve had a chance to examine it.”

  “Tell that to them.” He nodded over her shoulder. “I don’t know where you got the impression this was an archaeological site. Fortunately, that’s all been straightened out.”

  Nora saw a group of policemen sliding into the barrow, heavy evidence lockers in their hands. The space was soon filled with a cacophony of curses, grunts, and loud voices. Pendergast was nowhere to be seen.

  Last to enter were Ed Shenk and Captain Custer. Custer saw her and came forward, picking his way gingerly across the bricks, followed by a brace of lieutenants.

  “Dr. Kelly, we’ve gotten orders from headquarters,” he said, his voice quick and high-pitched. “You can tell your boss he’s sadly confused. This is an unusual crime scene, but of no importance to present-day law enforcement, particularly the FBI. It’s over a hundred years old.”

  And there’s a building that needs to be built, Nora thought, glancing at Shenk.

  “I don’t know who hired you, but your assignment’s over. We’re taking the human remains down to the ME’s office. What little else is here will be bagged and tagged.”

  The cops were dropping the evidence lockers onto the damp floor, and the chamber resounded with hollow thuds. The ME began removing bones from the alcoves with rubber-gloved hands and placing them into the lockers, tossing the clothing and other personal effects aside. Voices mingled with the rising dust. Flashlight beams stabbed through the murk. The site was being ruined before her eyes.

  “Can my men escort you out, miss?” said Captain Custer, with exaggerated courtesy.

  “I can find my own way,” Nora replied.

  The sunlight temporarily blinded her. She coughed, breathed in the fresh air, and looked around. The Rolls was still parked at the street. And there was Pendergast, leaning against it, waiting.

  She marched out the gate. His head was tilted away from the sun, his eyes half closed. In the bright afternoon light, his skin looked as pale and translucent as alabaster.

  “That police captain was right, wasn’t he?” she said. “You’ve got no jurisdiction here.”

  He slowly lowered his head, a troubled look on his face. She found her anger evaporating. He removed a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. Almost as she watched, his face reassumed its habitual opaque expression, and he spoke. “Sometimes, there’s no time to go through proper channels. If we’d waited until tomorrow, the site would have been gone. You see how quickly Moegen-Fairhaven works. If this site were declared of archaeological value, it would shut them down for weeks. Which of course they could not allow to happen.”

  “But it is of archaeological value!”

  Pendergast nodded. “Of course it is. But the battle is already lost, Dr. Kelly. As I knew it would be.”

  As if in response, a large yellow excavator fired up, its motor coughing and snarling. Construction workers began to appear, emerging from trailers and truck cabs. Already the blue lockers were coming out of the hole and being loaded into an ambulance. The excavator lurched and made a lumbering move toward the hole, its bucket rising, iron teeth dribbling dirt.

  “What did you find?” Pendergast asked.

  She paused. Should she tell him about the paper in the dress? It was probably nothing, and besides, it was gone.

  She tore the hastily scribbled pages from the pad and returned it to him. “I’ll write up my general observations for you this evening,” she said. “The lumbar vertebrae of the victims seem to have been deliberately opened. I slipped one into my pocket.”

  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 fla
ring 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.”