by Brad Meltzer
“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.”
She nodded, took another drag. It made her dizzy. How could people smoke these things? She wished Smithback would hurry up.
She smiled and dropped the butt, grinding it under her toe.
Instantly the pack was out. “Another?”
“No,” she said, “trying to cut back.”
She could see him eyeing her spandex top, trying to be subtle. “You work in a bar?” he asked, then colored. Awkward question. Nora heard another sound, a few falling bricks.
<
br /> “Sort of,” she said, pulling the jacket tighter around her shoulders.
He nodded. He was looking a little bolder now. “I think you’re very attractive,” he said, hastily, blurting it out.
“Thanks,” she said. God, it was a thirty-second job. What was taking Smithback so long?
“Are you, ah, free later?”
Deliberately, she looked him up and down. “You want a date?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
There was another, louder sound: the rattling of a chain-link fence. Smithback climbing out? The guard turned toward it.
“What kind of date?” Nora asked.
He looked back at her, no longer trying to hide the roaming of his lascivious eyes. Nora felt naked beneath his gaze. There was another rattle. The guard turned again and this time saw Smithback. He was pretty hard to miss: clinging to the top of the fence, trying to unsnag his filthy raincoat.
“Hey!” the guard yelled.
“Forget him,” said Nora hastily. “He’s just some bum.”
Smithback struggled. Now he was trying to slip out of his raincoat, but had only succeeded in becoming more tangled.
“He’s not supposed to be in there!” the guard said.
This, unfortunately, was a guy who took his job seriously.
The man clapped his hand to his gun. “Hey you!” he yelled louder. “Hey!” He took a step toward the writer.
Smithback struggled frantically with the raincoat.
“Sometimes I do it for free,” Nora said.
The guard swiveled back to her, eyes wide, the bum on the fence instantly forgotten. “You do?”
“Sure. Why not? Cute guy like you…”
He grinned like an idiot. Now she noticed his ears stuck out. What a weenie, so eager to cheat on his wife. Cheap, too.
“Right now?” he asked.
“Too cold. Tomorrow.” She heard a ripping sound, a thud, a muffled curse.
“Tomorrow?” He looked devastated. “Why not now? At your place.”
She took off the coat and gave it back to him. “Never at my place.”
He took a step toward her. “There’s a hotel around the corner.” He reached over, trying to snake an arm around her waist.
She skipped back lightly with another smile as her cell phone rang. Flooded with relief, she flipped it open.
“Mission accomplished,” came Smithback’s voice. “You can get away from that creep.”
“Sure, Mr. McNally, I’d love to,” she said warmly. “That sounds nice. See you there.” She made a smacking kiss into the phone and snapped it shut.
She turned to the guard. “Sorry. Business.” She took another step back.
“Wait. Come on. You said—” There was a note of desperation in the guard’s voice.
She took a few more steps back and shut the chain-link gate in his face. “Tomorrow. I promise.”
“No, wait!”
She turned and began walking quickly down the sidewalk.
“Hey, come on! Wait! Lady, please!” His desperate pleas echoed among the tenements.
She ducked around the corner. Smithback was waiting, and he hugged her briefly. “Is that creep following?”
“Just keep going.”
They began running down the sidewalk, Nora wobbling on her high heels. They turned the far corner and crossed the street, then paused, panting and listening. The guard was not following.
“Christ,” said Smithback, sinking against a wall. “I think I broke my arm falling off that goddamn fence.” He held up his arm. His raincoat and shirt had been torn and his bleeding elbow stuck out of the hole.
Nora examined it. “You’re fine. Did you get the dress?”
Smithback patted his grimy bag.
“Great.”
Smithback looked around. “We’re never going to find a cab down here,” he said with a groan.
“A cab wouldn’t stop anyway. Remember? Give me your raincoat. I’m freezing.”
Smithback wrapped it around her. He paused, grinning. “You look kind of… sexy.”
“Stow it.” She began walking toward the subway.
Smithback skipped after her. At the entrance to the subway, he stopped. “How about a date, lady?” he leered. “Hey lady, please!” He imitated the guard’s last, despairing entreaties.
She looked at him. His hair was sticking out in all directions, his face had become even filthier, and he smelled of mold and dust. He couldn’t have looked more ridiculous.
She had to smile. “It’s going to cost you big-time. I’m high-class.”
He grinned. “Diamonds. Pearls. Greenbacks. Nights dancing in the desert under the coyote moon. Anything you want, baby.”
She took his hand. “Now, that’s my kind of John.”
SEVEN
NORA LOCKED THE DOOR TO HER OFFICE, PLACED THE packet on a chair, and cleared her desk of papers and tottering stacks of publications. It was just past eight in the morning, and the Museum seemed to be still asleep. Nevertheless, she glanced at the window set into her office door, and then—with a guilty impulse she did not quite understand—walked over to it and pulled down the blind. Then she carefully covered the desktop with white acid-free paper, taped it to the corners, laid another sheet on top, and placed a series of sample bags, stoppered test tubes, tweezers, and picks along one edge. Unlocking a drawer of her desk, she laid out the articles she had taken from the site: coins, comb, hair, string, vertebra. Lastly, she laid the dress atop the paper. She handled it gently, almost gingerly, as if to make up for the abuse it had endured over the last twenty-four hours.
Smithback had been beside himself with frustration the night before, when she had refused to slit open the dress immediately and see what, if anything, was written on the paper hidden inside. She could see him in her mind’s eye: still in his hobo outfit, drawn up to a height of indignation only a journalist with a need to know could feel. But she’d been unmoved. With the site destroyed, she was determined to squeeze every bit of information out of the dress that she could. And she was going to do it right.
She took a step back from the desk. In the bright light of the office, she could examine the dress in great detail. It was long, quite simple, made of coarse green wool. It looked nineteenth-century, with a high collaret-style neckline; a trim bodice, falling in long pleats. The bodice and pleats were lined with white cotton, now yellowed.
Nora slid her hand down the pleats and, right below the waistline, felt the crinkle of paper. Not yet, she told herself as she sat down at the desk. One step at a time.
The dress was heavily stained. It was impossible to tell, without a chemical analysis, what the stains were—some looked like blood and body fluids, while others could be grease, coal dust, perhaps wax. The hemline was rubbed and torn, and there were some tears in the fabric itself, the larger ones carefully sewn up. She examined the stains and tears with her loup. The repairs had been done with several colored threads, none green. A poor girl’s effort, using whatever was at hand.
There was no sign of insect or rodent damage; the dress had been securely walled up in its alcove. She switched lenses on the loup and looked more closely. She could see a significant amount of dirt, including black grains that looked like coal dust. She took a few of these and placed them in a small glassine envelope with the tweezers. She removed other particles of grit, dirt, hair, and threads, and placed them in additional bags. There were other specs, even smaller than the grit; she lugged over a portable stereozoom microscope, laid it on the table, and brought it into focus.
Immediately, dozens of lice leapt into view, dead and dry, clinging to the crudely woven fabric, intermingled with smaller mites and several giant fleas. She jerked her head back involuntarily. Then, smiling at herself, she took a closer, more studied look. The dress was a rich landscape of foreign biology, along with an array of substances that could occupy a forensic chemist for weeks. She wondered how useful such an analysis would be, considered the cost, and temporarily shelved
the idea. She brought the forceps forward to take more samples.
Suddenly, the silence in her office seemed all too absolute; there was a crawling sensation at the base of her neck. She swiveled, gasped; Special Agent Pendergast was standing behind her, hands behind his back.
“Jesus!” she said, leaping out of the chair. “You scared the hell out of me!”
Pendergast bowed slightly. “My apologies.”
“I thought I locked that door.”
“You did.”
“Are you a magician, Agent Pendergast? Or did you simply pick my lock?”
“A little of both, perhaps. But these old Museum locks are so crude, one can hardly call it ‘picking.’ I am well known here, which requires me to be discreet.”
“Do you think you could call ahead next time?”
He turned to the dress. “You didn’t have this yesterday afternoon.”
“No. I didn’t.”
He nodded. “Very resourceful of you, Dr. Kelly.”
“I went back last night—”
“No details of any questionable activities, please. However, my congratulations.”
She could see he was pleased.
He held out his hand. “Proceed.”
Nora turned back to her work. After a while, Pendergast spoke. “There were many articles of clothing in the tunnel. Why this dress?”
Without a word, Nora carefully turned up the pleats of the dress, exposing a crudely sewn patch in the cotton lining. Immediately, Pendergast moved closer.
“There’s a piece of paper sewn inside,” she said. “I came upon it just before they shut down the site.”
“May I borrow your loup?”
Nora lifted it over her head and handed it to him. Bending over the dress, he examined it with a thorough professionalism that surprised and impressed Nora. At last he straightened up.
“Very hasty work,” he said. “You’ll note that all the other stitching and mending was done carefully, almost lovingly. This dress was some girl’s prize garment. But this one stitch was made with thread pulled from the dress itself, and the holes are ragged—I would guess they were made with a splinter of wood. This was done by someone with little time, and with no access to even a needle.”
