The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  FOUR

  POLICE SERGEANT PAUL J. FINESTER REALLY HATED THE whole business. It was a terrible, criminal, waste of time. He glanced around at the rows of wooden tables set up in parallel lines across the library carpet; at the frumpy, tweed-wearing, bug-eyed, moth-eaten characters who sat across the tables from the cops. Some looked scared, others outraged. Clearly, none of these museum wimps knew anything: they were just a bunch of scientists with bad teeth and even worse breath. Where did they find these characters? It made him mad to think of his hard-earned tax dollars supporting this stone shitpile. Not just that, but it was already ten P.M., and when he got home his wife was going to kill him. Never mind that it was his job, that he was being paid time and a half, that they had a mortgage on the fancy Cobble Hill apartment she forced him to buy and a baby who cost a fortune in diapers. She was still going to kill him. He would come home, dinner would be a blackened crisp in the oven—where it had been since six o’clock, at 250 degrees—the ball and chain would already be in bed with the light out, but still wide awake, lying there like a ramrod, mad as hell, the baby crying and unattended. The wife wouldn’t say anything when he got into the bed, just turn her back to him, with a huge self-pitying sigh, and—

  “Finester?”

  Finester turned to see his partner, O’Grady, staring at him.

  “You okay, Finester? You look like somebody died.”

  Finester sighed. “I wish it was me.”

  “Cheese it. We’ve got another.”

  There was something in O’Grady’s tone that caused Finester to look across their set of desks. Instead of yet another geek, here was a woman—an unusually pretty woman, in fact—with long copper hair and hazel eyes, trim athletic body. He found himself straightening up, sucking in the gut, flexing the biceps. The woman sat down across from them, and he caught a whiff of her perfume: expensive, nice, very subtle. God, a real looker. He glanced at O’Grady and saw the same transformation. Finester grabbed his clipboard, ran his eye down the interrogation lineup. So this was Nora Kelly. The famous, infamous Nora Kelly. The one who found the third body, who’d been chased in the Archives. He hadn’t expected someone so young. Or so attractive.

  O’Grady beat him to the opening. “Dr. Kelly, please make yourself comfortable.” His voice had taken on a silken, honeyed tone. “I am Sergeant O’Grady, and this is Sergeant Finester. Do we have permission to tape-record you?”

  “If it’s necessary,” the woman said. Her voice wasn’t quite as sexy as her looks. It was clipped, short, irritated.

  “You have the right to a lawyer,” continued O’Grady, his voice still low and soothing, “and you have the right to decline our questioning. We want you to understand this is voluntary.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  O’Grady chuckled in a friendly way. “It’s not my decision, you understand, but they might subpoena you, make you come down to the station. Lawyers are expensive. It would be inconvenient. We just have a few questions here, no big deal. You’re not a suspect. We’re just asking for a little help.”

  “All right,” the woman said. “Go ahead. I’ve been questioned several times before. I suppose once more won’t hurt.”

  O’Grady began to speak again, but this time Finester was ready, and he cut O’Grady off. He wasn’t going to sit there like an idiot while O’Grady did all the talking. The guy was as bad as his wife.

  “Dr. Kelly,” he said, hastily, perhaps a little too loud, quickly covering it with a smile of his own, “we’re delighted you’re willing to help us. For the record, please state your full name, address, the date, and time. There’s a clock on the wall over there, but no, I see you’re wearing a watch. It’s just a formality, you know, so we can keep our tapes straight, not get them mixed up. We wouldn’t want to arrest the wrong person.” He chuckled at his joke and was a little disappointed when she didn’t chuckle along with him.

  O’Grady gave him a pitying, condescending look. Finester felt the irritation toward his partner rise. When you got down to it, he really couldn’t stand the guy. So much for the unbreakable blue bond. He found himself wishing O’Grady would stop a bullet someday soon. Like tomorrow.

  The woman stated her name. Then Finester jumped in again and recorded his own, O’Grady following a little grudgingly. After a few more formalities, Finester put the background sheet aside and reached for the latest list of prepared questions. The list seemed longer than before, and he was surprised to see some handwritten entries at the bottom. They must have just been added, obviously in haste. Who the hell had been messing with their interrogation sheets? This whole thing was balls up. Totally balls up.

  O’Grady seized on Finester’s silence as an opportunity. “Dr. Kelly,” he jumped in, “could you please describe in your own words your involvement in this case? Please take all the time you need to recall the details. If you don’t remember something, or are unsure about it, feel free to let us know. I’ve found that it’s better to say you can’t remember than to give us details that may not be accurate.” He gave her a broad smile, his blue eyes twinkling with an almost conspiratorial gleam.

  Screw him, thought Finester.

  The woman gave a testy sigh, crossed her long legs, and began to speak.

  FIVE

  SMITHBACK FELT THE PARALYSIS, THE DREADFUL helplessness, take complete possession of him. His limbs were dead, motionless, foreign. He could not blink his eyes. Worst of all—by far, the worst of all—he could not even fill his lungs with air. His body was immobilized. He panicked as he tried to work his lungs, struggled to draw in breath. It was like drowning, only worse.

  Leng hovered over him now, a dark figure backlit by the rectangle of the door, spent needle in his hand. His face was a shadow beneath the brow of his derby hat.

  A hand reached forward, grasped the edge of the duct tape that still partially sealed Smithback’s mouth. “No need for this anymore,” Leng said. With a sharp tug, it was ripped away. “Now, let’s get you intubated. After all, it wouldn’t do to have you asphyxiate before the procedure begins.”

  Smithback tried to draw breath for a scream. Nothing came but the barest whisper. His tongue felt thick and impossibly large in his mouth. His jaw sagged, a rivulet of saliva drooling down his chin. It was a consummate struggle just to draw in a spoonful of air.

  The figure took a step back, disappearing beyond the door. There was a rattle in the hallway and Leng returned, wheeling a stainless steel gurney and a large, boxlike machine on rubber wheels. He positioned the gurney next to Smithback, then bent over and, with an old iron key, quickly unlocked the cuffs around the reporter’s wrists and legs. Through his terror and despair Smithback could smell the musty, mothball odor of antique clothes, along with the tang of sweat and a faint whiff of eucalyptus, as if Leng had been sucking on a lozenge.

  “I’m going to place you on the gurney now,” Leng said.

  Smithback felt himself being lifted. And then, cold unyielding metal pressed against his naked limbs. His nose was running but he could not raise his arm to brush it away. His need for oxygen was becoming acute. He was totally paralyzed—but, most terrible of all, he retained an utter clarity of consciousness and sensation.

  Leng reappeared in his field of vision, a slender plastic tube in one hand. Placing his fingers on Smithback’s jaw, Leng pulled the mouth wide. Smithback felt the tube knock roughly against the back of his throat, slide down his trachea. How awful to feel the intense, undeniable desire to retch—and yet be unable to make even the slightest movement. There was a hiss as the ventilating machine filled his lungs with air.

  For a moment, the relief was so great Smithback momentarily forgot his predicament.

  Now the gurney was moving. A low, brickwork ceiling was passing by overhead, punctuated occasionally by naked bulbs. A moment later, and the ceiling changed, rising into what seemed a cavernous space. The gurney swung around again, then came to rest. Leng bent down, out of sight. Smithback heard four measured clicks, one after the ot
her, as the wheels were locked in place. There were banks of heavy lights, a whiff of alcohol and Betadine that covered a subtler, far worse, smell.

  Leng slid his arms beneath Smithback, raised him up once again, and moved him from the gurney to another steel table, wider and even colder. The motion was gentle, almost loving.

  And then—with a completely different motion, economical and amazingly strong—he turned Smithback over onto his stomach.

  Smithback could not close his mouth, and his tongue pressed against the metal gurney, unwillingly sampling the sour chlorinated taste of disinfectants. It made him think about who else might have been on this table, and what might have happened to them. A wave of fear and nausea washed over him. The ventilator tube gurgled inside his mouth.

  Then Leng approached and, passing his hand across Smithback’s face, shut his eyelids.

  The table was cold, so cold. He could hear Leng moving around. There was a pressure on his elbow, a brief sting as an intravenous needle was inserted near his wrist, the ripping sound of medical tape being pulled from its canister. He could smell the eucalyptus breath, hear the low voice. It spoke in a whisper.

  “There will be some pain, I’m afraid,” the voice said as straps were fixed to Smithback’s limbs. “Rather a lot of pain, in fact. But good science is never really free from pain. So do not discompose yourself. And if I may offer a word of advice?”

  Smithback tried to struggle, but his body was far away. The whisper continued, soft and soothing: “Be like the gazelle in the jaws of the lion: limp, accepting, resigned. Trust me. That is the best way.”

  There was the sound of water rushing in a sink, the clink of steel on steel, instruments sliding in a metal basin. The light in the room grew abruptly brighter. Smithback’s pulse began to race wildly, faster and faster, until the table beneath him seemed almost to rock in time with the frantic beating of his heart.

  SIX

  NORA SHIFTED IN THE UNCOMFORTABLE WOODEN CHAIR, glanced at her watch for what had to be the fifth time. Ten-thirty. This was like the questioning she’d endured after finding Puck’s body, only worse—much worse. Though she’d deliberately kept her story brief, reduced her answers to mere one-liners, the questions kept coming in an endless, moronic stream. Questions about her work at the Museum. Questions about being chased by the Surgeon in the Archives. Questions about the typewritten note Puck—or rather the murderer, pretending to be Puck—had sent her, which she’d given to the police long before. All questions she had already answered two or three times, to more intelligent and thoughtful police officers than these. Worse, the two cops sitting opposite her—one a beefed-up little troll, the other decent-looking but full of himself—showed no signs of reaching the end of their list. They kept interrupting each other, darting angry looks back and forth, competing for heaven only knew what reason. If there was bad blood between these two, they shouldn’t be working together. God, what a performance.

  “Dr. Kelly,” said the short one, Finester—looking for the thousandth time at his notes—”we’re almost through here.”

  “Praise be to God.”

  This comment was met with a short silence. Then O’Grady waded in once again, looking at a freshly scribbled sheet that had just been handed to him.

  “You are familiar with a Mr. William Smithback?”

  Nora felt her annoyance giving way to a sudden wariness. “Yes.”

  “What is your relationship to Mr. Smithback?”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  O’Grady turned the paper over in his hands. “We have a report here that earlier today, Mr. Smithback impersonated a security officer and gained unauthorized clearance to some high-security files in the Museum. Would you know why?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Smithback?”

  Nora sighed. “I don’t remember.”

  Finester sat back in his seat, folded his beefy arms. “Take your time, please.” He had a shiny, paste-colored dome of a head, topped by a tuft of hair so thick and coarse it looked like a hairy island in the middle of his bald head.

  This was intolerable. “Maybe a week.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “He was harassing me in my office.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to tell me that Agent Pendergast had been stabbed. Museum security dragged him away. They’ll have a record of it.” What the hell was Smithback doing back in the Museum? The guy was incorrigible.

  “You have no idea what Mr. Smithback was looking for?”

  “I believe I just said that.”

  There was a short silence while O’Grady checked his notes. “It says here that Mr. Smithback—”

  Nora interrupted impatiently. “Look, why aren’t you pursuing some real leads here? Like those typewritten notes of the killer’s, the one sent to me and the one left on Puck’s desk? Obviously, the killer is somebody with access to the Museum. Why all these questions about Smithback? I haven’t spoken to him in a week. I don’t know anything about what he’s up to and, frankly, I couldn’t care less.”

  “We have to ask you these questions, Dr. Kelly,” O’Grady replied.

  “Why?”

  “They’re on my list. It’s my job.”

  “Jesus.” She passed a hand over her forehead. This whole episode was Kafkaesque. “Go ahead.”

  “After a warrant was put out on Mr. Smithback, we found his rented car parked on upper Riverside Drive. Would you know why he rented the car?”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I haven’t spoken to him in a week.”

  O’Grady turned over the sheet. “How long have you known Mr. Smithback?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “In Utah.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  “On an archaeological expedition.” Nora was suddenly having trouble paying attention to the questions. Riverside Drive? What the hell was Smithback doing up there?

  “What kind of an archaeological expedition?”

  Nora didn’t answer.

  “Dr. Kelly?”

  Nora looked at him. “Where on Riverside Drive?”

  O’Grady looked confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “Where was Smithback’s car found on Riverside Drive?”

  O’Grady fumbled with the paper. “It says here upper Riverside. One hundred thirty-first and Riverside.”

  “One hundred thirty-first Street? What was he doing up there?”

  “That’s just what we were hoping you could tell us. Now, about that archaeological expedition—”

  “And you say he came in this morning, gained access to some files? What files?”

  “Old security files.”

  “Which ones?”

  O’Grady flipped through some other sheets. “It says here it was an old personnel file.”

  “On who?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “Well, it doesn’t say, and—”

  “For God’s sake, can’t you find out?”

  Pink anger blossomed across O’Grady’s face. “May we get back to the questions, please?”

  “I know something about this,” Finester suddenly broke in. “I was on duty earlier today. When you were out getting donuts and coffee, O’Grady. Remember?”

  O’Grady turned. “In case you’ve forgotten, Finester, we’re supposed to be the ones asking the questions.”

  Nora gave O’Grady her coldest stare. “How can I answer if you don’t give me the information I need?”

  O’Grady’s rose-colored face grew redder. “I don’t see why—”

  “She’s right, O’Grady. She has a right to know,” Finester turned to Nora, pug face lit up by an ingratiating smile. “Mr. Smithback lured one of the security guards away with a phony telephone call, allegedly from the Human Resources office. Then he pretended to be from Human Resources himself and persuaded the remaining gu
ard to unlock certain filing cabinets. Said he was conducting some kind of file inspection.”

  “He did?” Despite her concern, Nora couldn’t help smiling to herself. It was vintage Smithback. “And what were those files, exactly?”

  “Security clearances, dating back over a hundred years.”

  “And that’s why he’s in trouble?”

  “That’s the least of it. The guard thought he saw him take some papers out of one drawer. So you can add theft to—”

  “Which file drawer?”

  “It was the 1870 personnel file drawer, I believe,” Finester recollected with obvious pride. “And after the guard’s suspicions were aroused, they cross-checked the files and found that one of them was missing its cover sheets. It had been virtually emptied.”

  “Which one?”

  “It was that one on the nineteenth-century serial killer, what’s-his-name. The one written about in the Times. Clearly that’s what he was after, more information on—”

  “Enoch Leng?”

  “Yeah. That’s the guy.”

  Nora sat, stunned.

  “Now, can we please get back to the questions, Dr. Kelly?” O’Grady interrupted.

  “And his car was found up Riverside Drive? At 131st Street? How long had it been there?”

  Finester shrugged. “He rented it right after he stole the file. It’s staked out. As soon as he picks it up, we’ll know.”

  O’Grady broke in again. “Finester, now that you’ve managed to reveal all the confidential details, maybe you can keep quiet for a minute. Now, Dr. Kelly, this archaeological expedition—”

  Nora reached into her purse for her cell phone, found it, pulled it out.

  “No cell phones, Dr. Kelly, until we’re finished.” It was O’Grady again, his voice rising in anger.

  She dropped the phone back into her purse. “Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

  “You can go as soon as we finish the questions.” O’Grady was livid. “Now, Doctor Kelly, about that archaeological expedition…”

  Nora didn’t hear the rest. Her mind was racing.