by Brad Meltzer
Nora listened, her surprise slowly turning to anger.
Brisbane patted the bow tie, examined himself one last time in the mirror, and turned. “All your privileges are suspended. No access to the central collections or the Archives.”
“Am I allowed to use the girls’ room?”
“No contact with anyone on the outside involving Museum business. And especially no contact with that FBI agent or that journalist, Smithback.”
No need to worry about Smithback, Nora thought, furious now.
“We know all about Smithback. There’s a file on him downstairs that’s a foot thick. As you probably know, he wrote a book about the Museum a few years back. That was before my time and I haven’t read it, but I’ve heard it wasn’t exactly Nobel Prize material. He’s been persona non grata around here ever since.”
He looked at her directly, his eyes cold and unwavering. “In the meantime, it’s business as usual. Going to the new Primate Hall opening tonight?”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Start planning. After all, you’re our employee of the week. People are going to want to see you up and about, looking chipper. In fact, the Museum will be issuing a press release about our own heroic Dr. Kelly, pointing out in the process how civic-minded the Museum is, how we have a long history of doing pro bono work for the city. Of course, you will deflect any further questions about this business by saying that all your work is completely confidential.” Brisbane lifted the jacket from the chair and daintily shrugged himself into it, flicking a stray thread from his shoulders, touching his perfect hair. “I’m sure you can find a halfway decent dress among your things. Just be glad it isn’t one of the fancy-dress balls the Museum’s so fond of these days.”
“What if I say no? What if I don’t get with your little program?”
Brisbane shot his cuffs and turned to her again. Then his eyes flicked to the door, and Nora’s gaze followed.
Standing in the doorway, hands folded before him, was Dr. Collopy himself. The director cut a fearsome, almost sinister figure as he silently walked the halls of the Museum, his thin frame dressed in formal severity, his profile that of an Anglican deacon’s, his posture rigid and forbidding. Collopy, who came from a long background of gentleman scientists and inventors, had an enigmatic demeanor and a quiet voice that never seemed to be raised. To top it off, the man owned a brownstone on West End Avenue in which he lived with a gorgeous new wife, forty years his junior. Their relationship was the subject of endless comment and obscene speculation.
But today, Director Collopy was almost smiling. He took a step forward. The angular lines of his pale face looked much softer than usual, even animated. He actually took her hand between his own dry palms, eyes looking closely into hers, and Nora felt a faint and wholly unexpected tingle. She abruptly saw what that young wife must also have seen—a very vital man was hidden behind that normally impenetrable facade. Now, Collopy did smile—and when he did so, it was as if a heat lamp was switched on. Nora felt bathed in a radiance of charm and vigor.
“I know your work, Nora, and I’ve been following it with tremendous interest. To think that the great ruins of Chaco Canyon might have been influenced, if not built, by the Aztecs—it’s important, even groundbreaking stuff.”
“Then—”
He silenced her with a faint pressure to her hand. “I wasn’t aware of the cuts in your department, Nora. We’ve all had to tighten our belts, but perhaps we’ve done so a little too indiscriminately.”
Nora couldn’t help glancing at Brisbane, but his face had shut down completely: it was unreadable.
“Fortunately, we are in a position to restore your funding, and on top of that give you the eighteen thousand you need for those critical carbon-14 dates. I myself have a personal interest in the subject. I’ll never forget, as a boy, visiting those magnificent Chacoan ruins with Dr. Morris himself.”
“Thank you, but—”
Again, the faint squeeze. “Please don’t thank me. Mr. Brisbane was kind enough to bring this situation to my attention. The work you are doing here is important; it will bring credit to the Museum; and I personally would like to do anything I can to support it. If you need anything else, call me. Call me.”
He released her hand ever so gently and turned to Brisbane. “I must be off to prepare my little speech. Thank you.”
And he was gone.
She looked at Brisbane, but the face was still an opaque mask. “Now you know what will happen if you do get with the program,” he said. “I’d rather not do into what will happen if you don’t.”
Brisbane turned back to the mirror, gave himself one last look.
“See you tonight, Dr. Kelly,” he said mildly.
TWELVE
O’SHAUGHNESSY FOLLOWED PENDERGAST UP THE RED-carpeted steps toward the Museum’s great bronze doors, convinced that every eye in the place was on him. He felt like a jerk in his policeman’s uniform. He let his hand drop idly to the butt of his gun, and felt gratified as a nearby tuxedoed man gave him a decidedly nervous glance. He further consoled himself with the thought that he was getting time and a half for this dog-and-pony show—and time and a half from Captain Custer was nothing to sneeze at.
Cars were lining up along Museum Drive, disgorging beautiful and not-so-beautiful people. Velvet ropes held back a small, disconsolate-looking of the group of photographers and journalists. The flashes of the photographers’ cameras were few and far between. A van with the logo of a local television station was already packing up and leaving.
“This opening for the new Primate Hall is rather smaller than others I’ve attended,” said Pendergast as he glanced around. “Party fatigue, I expect. The Museum’s been having so many these days.”
“Primates? All these people are interested in monkeys?”
“I expect most of them are here to observe the primates outside the exhibition cases.”
“Very funny.”
They passed through the doors and across the Great Rotunda. Until two days ago, O’Shaughnessy hadn’t been inside the Museum since he was a kid. But there were the dinosaurs, just like they’d always been. And beyond, the herd of elephants. The red carpet and velvet ropes led them onward, deeper into the building. Smiling young ladies were positioned along the way, pointing, nodding, indicating where to go. Very nice young ladies. O’Shaughnessy decided that another visit to the Museum, when he wasn’t on duty, might be in order.
They wound through the African Hall, past a massive doorway framed in elephant tusks, and entered a large reception area. Countless little tables, set with votive candles, dotted the room. A vast buffet heaped with food ran along one wall, bookended by two well-stocked booze stations. A podium had been placed at the far end of the room. In a nearby corner, a string quartet sawed industriously at a Viennese waltz. O’Shaughnessy listened with incredulity. They were appalling. But at least it wasn’t Puccini they were butchering.
The room was almost empty.
At the door stood a manic-looking man, a large name tag displayed below his white carnation. He spotted Pendergast, rushed over, and seized his hand with almost frantic gratitude. “Harry Medoker, head of public relations. Thank you for coming, sir, thank you. I think you’ll love the new hall.”
“Primate behavior is my specialty.”
“Ah! Then you’ve come to the right place.” The PR man caught a glimpse of O’Shaughnessy and froze in the act of pumping Pendergast’s hand. “I’m sorry, Officer. Is there a problem?” His voice had lost all its conviviality.
“Yeah,” said O’Shaughnessy in his most menacing tone.
The man leaned forward and spoke in most unwelcoming tones. “This is a private opening, Officer. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. We have no need of outside security—”
“Oh yeah? Just so you know, Harry, I’m here on the little matter of the Museum cocaine ring.”
“Museum cocaine ring?” Medoker looked like he was about to have a heart attack.
O’Shaughnessy gave the man a little clap on the shoulder. “Don’t breathe a word. Imagine how the press would run with it. Think of the Museum, Harry.” Harry.” He left the man white and shaking.
“I hate it when they don’t respect the man in blue,” said O’Shaughnessy.
For a moment, Pendergast eyed him gravely. Then he nodded toward the buffet. “Regulations may forbid drinking on the job, but they don’t forbid eating Mini au caviar.”
“Blini auwhat?”
“Tiny buckwheat pancakes topped with crème fraîche and caviar. Delectable.”
O’Shaughnessy shuddered. “I don’t like raw fish eggs.”
“I suspect you’ve never had the real thing, Sergeant. Give one a try. You’ll find them much more palatable than a Die Walküre aria, I assure you. However, there’s also the smoked sturgeon, the foie gras, the prosciutto di Parma, and the Damariscotta River oysters. The Museum always serves an excellent table.”
“Just give me the pigs in a blanket.”
“Those can be obtained from the man with the cart on the corner of Seventy-seventh and Central Park West.”
More people were trickling into the hall, but the crowd was still thin. O’Shaughnessy followed Pendergast over to the food table. He avoided the piles of sticky gray fish eggs. Instead, he took a few pieces of ham, cut a slice from a wheel of brie, and with some pieces of French bread made a couple of small ham-and-cheese sandwiches for himself. The ham was a little dry, and the cheese tasted a little like ammonia, but overall it was palatable.
“You had a meeting with Captain Custer, right?” Pendergast asked. “How did it go?”
O’Shaughnessy shook his head as he munched. “Not too good.”
“I expect there was someone from the mayor’s office.”
“Mary Hill.”
“Ah, Miss Hill. Of course.”
“Captain Custer wanted to know why I hadn’t told them about the journal, why I hadn’t told them about the dress, why I hadn’t told them about the note. But it was all in the report—which Custer hadn’t read—so in the end I survived the meeting.”
Pendergast nodded.
“Thanks for helping me finish that report. Otherwise, they’d have ripped me a new one.”
“What a quaint expression.” Pendergast looked over O’Shaughnessy’s shoulder. “Sergeant, I’d like to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine. William Smithback.”
O’Shaughnessy turned to see a gangling, awkward-looking man at the buffet, a gravity-defying cowlick jutting from the top of his head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, and he seemed utterly absorbed in piling as much food onto his plate as possible, as quickly as possible. The man looked over, saw Pendergast, and started visibly. He glanced around uneasily, as if marking possible exits. But the FBI agent was smiling encouragingly, and the man named Smithback came toward them a little warily.
“Agent Pendergast,” Smithback said in a nasal baritone. “What a surprise.”
“Indeed. Mr. Smithback, I find you well.” He grasped Smithback’s hand and shook it. “How many years has it been?”
“Long time,” said Smithback, looking like it had not been nearly long enough. “What are you doing in New York?”
“I keep an apartment here.” Pendergast released the hand and looked the writer up and down. “I see you’ve graduated to Armani, Mr. Smithback,” he said. “A rather better cut than those off-the-rack Fourteenth Street job-lot suits you used to sport. However, when you’re ready to take a real sartorial step, might I recommend Brioni or Ermenegildo Zegna?”
Smithback opened his mouth to reply, but Pendergast continued smoothly. “I heard from Margo Green, by the way. She’s up in Boston, working for the GeneDyne Corporation. She asked me to remember her to you.”
Smithback opened his mouth again, shut it. “Thank you,” he managed after a moment. “And—and Lieutenant D’Agosta? You keep in touch with him?”
“He also went north. He’s now living in Canada, writing police procedurals, under the pen name of Campbell Dirk.”
“I’ll have to pick up one of his books.”
“He hasn’t made it big yet—not like you, Mr. Smithback—but I must say the books are readable.”
By this point, Smithback had fully recovered. “And mine aren’t?”
Pendergast inclined his head. “I can’t honestly say I’ve read any. Do you have one you could particularly recommend?”
“Very funny,” said Smithback, frowning and looking about. “I wonder if Nora’s going to be here.”
“So you’re the guy who wrote the article, right?” asked O’Shaughnessy.
Smithback nodded. “Made a splash, don’t you think?”
“It certainly got everyone’s attention,” said Pendergast dryly.
“As well it should. Nineteenth-century serial killer, kidnapping and mutilating helpless kids from workhouses, all in the name of some experiment to extend his own wretched life. You know, they’ve awarded Pulitzers for less than that.” People were arriving more quickly now, and the noise level was increasing.
“The Society for American Archaeology is demanding an investigation into how the site came to be destroyed. I understand the construction union is also asking questions. With this upcoming election, the mayor’s on the defensive. As you can imagine, Moegen-Fairhaven wasn’t terribly happy about it. Speak of the devil.”
“What?” Smithback said, clearly surprised by this sudden remark.
“Anthony Fairhaven,” Pendergast said, nodding toward the entrance.
O’Shaughnessy followed the glance. The man standing in the doorway to the hall was much more youthful than he’d expected; fit, with the kind of frame a bicyclist or rock climber might have—wiry, athletic. His tuxedo draped over his shoulders and chest with a lightness that made him look as if he’d been born in it. Even more surprising was the face. It was an open face, an honest-looking face; not the face of the rapacious money-grubbing real estate developer Smithback had portrayed in the Times article. Then, most surprising of all: Fairhaven looked their way, noticed their glance, and smiled broadly at them before continuing into the hall.
A hissing came over the PA system; “Tales from the Vienna Woods” died away raggedly. A man was at the podium, doing a sound check. He retreated, and a hush fell on the crowd. After a moment, a second man, wearing a formal suit, mounted the podium and walked to the microphone. He looked grave, intelligent, patrician, dignified, at ease. In short, he was everything O’Shaughnessy hated.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“The distinguished Dr. Frederick Collopy,” said Pendergast. “Director of the Museum.”
“He’s got a 29-year-old wife,” Smithback whispered. “Can you believe it? It’s a wonder he can even find the—Look, there she is now.” He pointed to a young and extremely attractive woman standing to one side. Unlike the other women, who all seemed to be dressed in black, she was wearing an emerald-green gown with an elegant diamond tiara. The combination was breathtaking.
“Oh, God,” Smithback breathed. “What a stunner.”
“I hope the guy keeps a pair of cardiac paddles on his bedside table,” O’Shaughnessy muttered.
“I think I’ll go over and give him my number. Offer to spell him one of these nights, in case the old geezer gets winded.”
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, began Collopy. His voice was low, gravelly, without inflection. When I was a young man, I undertook the reclassification of the Pongidae, the Great Apes…
The level of conversation in the room dropped but did not cease altogether. People seemed far more interested in food and drink than in hearing this man talk about monkeys, O’Shaughnessy thought.
… And I was faced with a problem: Where to put mankind? Are we in the Pongidae, or are we not? Are we a Great Ape, or are we something special? This was the question I faced…
“Here comes Dr. Kelly,”
said Pendergast.
Smithback turned, an eager, expectant, nervous look on his face. But the tall, copper-haired woman swept past him without so much as a glance, arrowing straight for the food table.
“Hey Nora! I’ve been trying to reach you all day!” O’Shaughnessy watched the writer hustle after her, then returned his attention to his ham-and-cheese sandwiches. He was glad he didn’t have to do this sort of thing for a living. How could they bear it? Standing around, chatting aimlessly with people you’d never seen before and would never see again, trying to cough up a vestige of interest in their vapid opinions, all to a background obbligato of speechifying. It seemed inconceivable to him that there were people who actually liked going to parties like this.
… our closest living relatives…
Smithback was returning already. His tuxedo front was splattered with fish eggs and crème fraîche. He looked stricken.
“Have an accident?” asked Pendergast dryly.
“You might call it that.”
O’Shaughnessy glanced over and saw Nora heading straight for the retreating Smithback. She did not look happy.
“Nora—” Smithback began again.
She rounded on him, her face furious. “How could you? I gave you that information in confidence.”
“But Nora, I did it for you. Don’t you see? Now they can’t touch—”
“You moron. My long-term career here is ruined. After what happened in Utah, and with the Lloyd Museum closing, this job was my last chance. And you ruined it!”
“Nora, if you could only look at it my way, you’d—”
“You promised me. And I trusted you! God, I can’t believe it, I’m totally screwed.” She looked away, then whirled back with redoubled ferocity. “Was this some kind of revenge because I wouldn’t rent that apartment with you?”
“No, no, Nora, just the opposite, it was to help you. I swear, in the end you’ll thank me—”
The poor man looked so helpless, O’Shaughnessy felt sorry for him. He was obviously in love with the woman—and he had just as obviously blown it completely.
