The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  The waiter faded back into the dark, smoky atmosphere. Smithback checked his watch and looked around irritably. He was ten minutes late, but it looked like O’Shaughnessy was even later. He hated people who were even later than he was, almost as much as he hated people who were on time.

  The waiter rematerialized, carrying a brandy snifter with an inch of amber-colored liquid in the bottom. He placed it reverently before Smithback.

  Smithback raised it to his nose, swirled the liquid about, inhaled the heady aroma of Highland malt, smoke, and fresh water that, as the Scots said, had flowed through peat and over granite. He felt better already. As he lowered the glass, he could see Boylan, the proprietor, in the front, handing a black-and-tan over the bar with an arm that looked like it had been carved from a twist of chewing tobacco. And past Boylan was O’Shaughnessy, just come in and looking about. Smithback waved, averting his eyes from the cheap polyester suit that practically sparkled, despite the dim light and cigar fumes. How could a self-respecting man wear a suit like that?

  “ ’Tis himself,” said Smithback in a disgraceful travesty of an Irish accent as O’Shaughnessy approached.

  “Ach, aye,” O’Shaughnessy replied, easing into the far side of the booth.

  The waiter appeared again as if by magic, ducking deferentially.

  “The same for him,” said Smithback, and then added, “You know, the twelve-year-old.”

  “Of course,” said the waiter.

  “What is it?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “Glen Grant. Single malt scotch. The best in the world. On me.”

  O’Shaughnessy grinned. “What, you forcing a bluidy Presbyterian drink down me throat? That’s like listening to Verid in translation. I’d prefer Powers.”

  Smithback shuddered. “That stuff? Trust me, Irish whisky is better suited to degreasing engines than to drinking. The Irish produce better writers, the Scots better whisky.”

  The waiter went off, returning with a second snifter. Smithback waited as O’Shaughnessy sniffed, winced, took a swig.

  “Drinkable,” he said after a moment.

  As they sipped in silence, Smithback shot a covert glance at the policeman across the table. So far he’d gotten precious little out of their arrangement, although he’d given him a pile on Fairhaven. And yet he found he had come to like the guy: O’Shaughnessy had a laconic, cynical, even fatalistic outlook on life that Smithback understood completely.

  Smithback sighed and sat back. “So what’s new?”

  O’Shaughnessy’s face instantly clouded. “They fired me.”

  Smithback sat up again abruptly. “What? When?”

  “Yesterday. Not fired, exactly. Not yet. Put on administrative leave. They’re opening an investigation.” He glanced up suddenly. “This is just between you and me.”

  Smithback sat back. “Of course.”

  “I’ve got a hearing next week before the union board, but it looks like I’m done for.”

  “Why? Because you did a little moonlighting?”

  “Custer’s pissed. He’ll bring up some old history. A bribe I took, five years ago. That, along with insubordination and disobeying orders, will be enough to drag me down.”

  “That fat-assed bastard.”

  There was another silence. There’s one potential source shot to hell, Smithback thought. Too bad. He’s a decent guy.

  “I’m working for Pendergast now,” O’Shaughnessy added in a very low voice, cradling his drink.

  This was even more of a shock. “Pendergast? How so?” Perhaps all was not lost.

  “He needed a Man Friday. Someone to pound the pavement for him, help track things down. At least, that’s what he said. Tomorrow, I’m supposed to head down to the East Village, snoop around a shop where Pendergast thinks Leng might have bought his chemicals.”

  “Jesus.” Now, this was an interesting development indeed: O’Shaughnessy working for Pendergast, no longer shackled by the NYPD rules about talking to journalists. Maybe this was even better than before.

  “If you find something, you’ll let me know?” Smithback asked.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On what you can do for us with that something.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You’re a reporter, right? You do research?”

  “It’s my middle name. Why, you guys need my help with something?” Smithback suddenly glanced away. “I don’t think Nora would like that.”

  “She doesn’t know. Neither does Pendergast.”

  Smithback looked back, surprised. But O’Shaughnessy didn’t look like he planned to say anything else about it. No use trying to force anything out of this guy, Smithback thought. I’ll wait till he’s good and ready.

  He took a different tack. “So, how’d you like my file on Fairhaven?”

  “Fat. Very fat. Thanks.”

  “Just a lot of bullshit, I’m afraid.”

  “Pendergast seemed pleased. He told me to congratulate you.”

  “Pendergast’s a good man,” Smithback said cautiously. O’Shaughnessy nodded, sipped. “But you always get the sense he knows more than he lets on. All this talk about how we have to be careful, how our lives are in danger. But he refuses to spell it all out. And then, out of nowhere, he drops a bomb on you.” His eyes narrowed. “And that’s where you may come in.”

  Here we go. “Me?”

  “I want you to do a little digging. Find something out for me.” There was a slight hesitation. “See, I worry the injury may have hit Pendergast harder than we realized. He’s got this crazy theory. So crazy, when I heard it, I almost walked out right then.”

  “Yeah?” Smithback took a casual sip, carefully concealing his interest. He knew very well what a “crazy theory” of Pendergast’s could turn out to mean.

  “Yeah. I mean, I like this case. I’d hate to turn away from it. But I can’t work on something that’s nuts.”

  “I hear that. So what’s Pendergast’s crazy theory?”

  O’Shaughnessy hesitated, longer this time. He was clearly struggling with himself over this.

  Smithback gritted his teeth. Get the man another drink.

  He waved the waiter over. “We’ll have another round,” he said.

  “Make mine Powers.”

  “Have it your way. Still on me.”

  They waited for the next round to arrive.

  “How’s the newspaper business?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

  “Lousy. Got scooped by the Post Twice.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “I could’ve used some help there, Patrick. The phone call about Doyers Street was nice, but it didn’t get me inside.”

  “Hey, I gave you the tip, it’s up to you to get your ass inside.”

  “How’d Harriman get the exclusive?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is, they hate you. They blame you for triggering the copycat killings.”

  Smithback shook his head.“Probably going to can me now.”

  “Not for a scoop.”

  “Two scoops. And Patrick, don’t be so naive. This is a bloodsucking business, and you either suck or get sucked.” The metaphor didn’t have quite the ring Smithback intended, but it conveyed the message.

  O’Shaughnessy laughed mirthlessly. “That about sums it up in my business, too.” His face grew graver. “But I know what it’s like to be canned.”

  Smithback leaned forward conspiratorially. Time to push a little. “So what’s Pendergast’s theory?”

  O’Shaughnessy took a sip of his drink. He seemed to arrive at some private decision. “If I tell you, you’ll use your resources, see if there’s any chance it’s true?”

  “Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “And you’ll keep it to yourself? No story—at least, not yet?”

  That hurt, but Smithback managed to nod in agreement.

  “Okay.” O’Shaughnessy shook his head. “Not that you could print it, anyway. It�
�s totally unpublishable.”

  Smithback nodded. “I understand.” This was sounding better and better.

  O’Shaughnessy glanced at him. “Pendergast thinks this guy Leng is still alive. He thinks Leng succeeded in prolonging his life.”

  This stopped Smithback cold. He felt a shock of disappointment. “Shit, Patrick, that is crazy. That’s absurd.”

  “I told you so.”

  Smithback felt a wave of desperation. This was worse than nothing. Pendergast had gone off the deep end. Everybody knew a copycat killer was at work here. Leng, still alive after a century and a half? The story he was looking for seemed to recede further into the distance. He put his head in his hands. “How?”

  “Pendergast believes that the examination of the bones on Doyers Street, the Catherine Street autopsy report, and the Doreen Hollander autopsy results, all show the same exact pattern of marks.”

  Smithback continued to shake his head. “So Leng’s been killing all this time—for, what, the last hundred and thirty years?”

  “That’s what he thinks. He thinks the guy is still living up on Riverside Drive somewhere.”

  For a moment, Smithback was silent, toying with the matches. Pendergast needed a long vacation.

  “He’s got Nora examining old deeds, identifying which houses dating prior to 1900 weren’t broken into apartments. Looking for property deeds that haven’t gone into probate for a very, very long time. That sort of thing. Trying to track Leng down.”

  A total waste, Smithback thought. What’s going on with Pendergast? He finished his now tasteless drink.

  “Don’t forget your promise. You’ll look into it? Check the obituaries, comb old issues of the Times for any crumbs you can find? See if there’s even a chance Pendergast might be right?”

  “Sure, sure.” Jesus, what a joke. Smithback was now sorry he’d agreed to the arrangement. All it meant was more wasted time.

  O’Shaughnessy looked relieved. “Thanks.”

  Smithback dropped the matches into his pocket, drained his glass. He flagged down the waiter. “What do we owe you?”

  “Ninety-two dollars,” the man intoned sadly. As usual, there was no tab: Smithback was sure a goodly portion went into the waiter’s own pockets.

  “Ninety-two dollars!”O’Shaughnessy cried. “How many drinks did you have before I arrived?”

  “The good things in life, Patrick, are not free,” Smithback said mournfully. “That is especially true of single malt Scotch.”

  “Think of the poor starving children.”

  “Think of the poor thirsty journalists. Next time, you pay. Especially if you come armed with a story that crazy.”

  “I told you so. And I hope you won’t mind drinking Powers. No Irishman would be caught dead paying a tab like that. Only a Scotsman would dare charge that much for a drink.”

  Smithback turned onto Columbus Avenue, thinking. Suddenly, he stopped. While Pendergast’s theory was ridiculous, it had given him an idea. With all the excitement about the copycat killings and the Doyers Street find, no one had really followed up on Leng himself. Who was he? Where did he come from? Where did he get his medical degree? What was his connection to the Museum? Where had he lived?

  Now this was good.

  A story on Dr. Enoch Leng, mass murderer. Yes, yes, this was it. This might just be the thing to save his ass at the Times.

  Come to think of it, this was better than good. This guy antedated Jack the Ripper. Enoch Leng: A Portrait of America’s First Serial Killer. This could be a cover story for the Times Sunday Magazine. He’d kill two birds with one stone: do the research he’d promised O’Shaughnessy, while getting background on Leng. And he wouldn’t be betraying any confidences, of course—because once he’d determined when the man died, that would be the end of Pendergast’s crazy theory.

  He felt a sudden shiver of fear. What if Harriman was already pursuing the story of Leng? He’d better get to work right away. At least he had one big advantage over Harriman: he was a hell of a researcher. He’d start with the newspaper morgue—look for little notes, mentions of Leng or Shottum or McFadden. And he’d look for more killings with the Leng modus operandi: the signature dissection of the spinal cord. Surely Leng had killed more people than had been found at Catherine and Doyers Streets. Perhaps some of those other killings had come to light and made the papers.

  And then there were the Museum’s archives. From his earlier book projects, he’d come to know them backward and forward. Leng had been associated with the Museum. There would be a gold mine of information in there, if only one knew where to find it.

  And there would be a side benefit: he might just be able to pass along to Nora the information she wanted about where Leng lived. A little gesture like that might get their relationship back on track. And who knows? It might get Pendergast’s investigation back on track, as well.

  His meeting with O’Shaughnessy hadn’t been a total loss, after all.

  TWO

  EAST TWELFTH STREET WAS A TYPICAL EAST VILLAGE STREET, O’Shaughnessy thought as he turned the corner from Third Avenue: a mixture of punks, would-be poets, ’60s relics, and old-timers who just didn’t have the energy or money to move. The street had improved a bit in recent years, but there was still a superfluity of beaten-down tenements among the head shops, wheat-grass bars, and used-record vendors. He slowed his pace, watching the people passing by: slumming tourists trying to look cool; aging punk rockers with very dated spiked purple hair; artists in paint-splattered jeans lugging canvases; drugged-out skinheads in leather with dangling chrome doohickeys. They seemed to give him a wide berth: nothing stood out on a New York City street quite like a plainclothes police officer, even one on administrative leave and under investigation.

  Up ahead now, he could make out the shop. It was a little hole-in-the-wall of black-painted brick, shoehorned between brownstones that seemed to sag under the weight of innumerable layers of graffiti. The windows of the shop were thick with dust, and stacked high with ancient boxes and displays, so faded with age and sun that their lables were indecipherable. Small greasy letters above the windows spelled out New Amsterdam Chemists.

  O’Shaughnessy paused, examining the shopfront. It seemed hard to believe that an old relic like this could survive, what with a Duane Reade on the very next corner. Nobody seemed to be going in or out. The place looked dead.

  He stepped forward again, approaching the door. There was a buzzer, and a small sign that read Cash Only. He pressed the buzzer, hearing it rasp far, far within. For what seemed a long time, there was no other noise. Then he heard the approach of shuffling footsteps. A lock turned, the door opened, and a man stood before him. At least, O’Shaughnessy thought it was a man: the head was as bald as a billiard ball, and the clothes were masculine, but the face had a kind of strange neutrality that made sex hard to determine.

  Without a word, the person turned and shuffled away again. O’Shaughnessy followed, glancing around curiously. He’d expected to find an old pharmacy, with perhaps an ancient soda fountain and wooden shelves stocked with aspirin and liniment. Instead, the shop was an incredible rat’s nest of stacked boxes, spiderwebs, and dust. Stifling a cough, O’Shaughnessy traced a complex path toward the back of the store. Here he found a marble counter, scarcely less dusty than the rest of the shop. The person who’d let him in had taken up a position behind it. Small wooden boxes were stacked shoulder high on the wall behind the shopkeeper. O’Shaughnessy squinted at the paper labels slid into copper placards on each box: amaranth, nux vomica, nettle, vervain, hellebore, nightshade, narcissus, shepherd’s purse, pearl trefoil. On an adjoining wall were hundreds of glass beakers, and beneath were several rows of boxes, chemical symbols scrawled on their faces in red marker. A book titled Wortcunning lay on the counter.

  The man—it seemed easiest to think of him as a man—stared back at O’Shaughnessy, pasty face expectant.

  “O’Shaughnessy, FBI consultant,” O’Shaughnessy said, displaying the id
entity card Pendergast had secured for him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I might.”

  The man scrutinized the card, and for a minute O’Shaughnessy thought he was going to challenge it. But the shopkeeper merely shrugged.

  “What kind of people visit your shop?”

  “It’s mostly those wiccans.” The man screwed up his face.

  “Wiccans?”

  “Yeah. Wiccans. That’s what they call themselves these days.”

  Abruptly, O’Shaughnessy understood. “You mean witches.”

  The man nodded.

  “Anybody else? Any, say, doctors?”

  “No, nobody like that. We get chemists here, too. Sometimes hobbyists. Health supplement types.”

  “Anybody who dresses in an old-fashioned, or unusual fashion?”

  The man gestured in the vague direction of East Twelfth Street. “They all dress in an unusual fashion.”

  O’Shaughnessy thought for a moment. “We’re investigating some old crimes that took place near the turn of the century. I was wondering if you’ve got any old records I could examine, lists of clientele and the like.”

  “Maybe,” the man said. The voice was high, very breathy.

  This answer took O’Shaughnessy by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “The shop burned to the ground in 1924. After it was rebuilt, my grandfather—he was running the place back then—started keeping his records in a fireproof safe. After my father took over, he didn’t use the safe much. In fact, he only used it for storing some possessions of my grandfather’s. He passed away three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” O’Shaughnessy said. “How did he die?”

  “Stroke, they said. So anyway, a few weeks later, an antiques dealer came by. Looked around the shop, bought a few old pieces of furniture. When he saw the safe, he offered me a lot of money if there was anything of historical value inside. So I had it drilled.” The man sniffed. “But there was nothing much. Tell the truth, I’d been hoping for some gold coins, maybe old securities or bonds. The fellow went away disappointed.”

  “So what was inside?”

  “Papers. Ledgers. Stuff like that. That’s why I told you, maybe.”