The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  “In any case.” He looked shrewdly back at Brisbane. “The Archives. Where the body of Puck was found. Where Nora Kelly was chased.”

  “You mentioned her already.”

  “And then there’s Smithback, that annoying reporter?”

  “Annoying is an understatement.”

  “Didn’t want him around, did you? Well, who would?”

  “My thinking exactly. You’ve heard, of course, how he impersonated a security officer? Stole Museum files?”

  “I’ve heard, I’ve heard. Fact is, we’re looking for the man, but he seems to have disappeared. You wouldn’t know where he was, by any chance, would you?” He added a faint emphasis to this last phrase.

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not.” Custer returned his attention to the gems. He stroked the glass case with a fat finger. “And then there’s that FBI agent, Pendergast. The one who was attacked. Also very annoying.”

  Brisbane remained silent.

  “Didn’t much lik—eh, Mr. Brisbane?”

  “We had enough policemen crawling over the place. Why compound it with the FBI? And speaking of policemen crawling around—”

  “It’s just that I find it very curious, Mr. Brisbane…” Custer let the sentence trail off.

  “What do you find curious, Captain?”

  There was a commotion in the hallway outside, then the door opened abruptly. A police sergeant entered, dusty, wide-eyed, sweating.

  “Captain!” he gasped. “We were interviewing this woman just now, a curator, and she locked—”

  Custer looked at the man—O’Grady, his name was—reprovingly. “Not now, Sergeant. Can’t you see I’m conducting a conversation here?”

  “But—”

  “You heard the captain,” Noyes interjected, propelling the protesting sergeant toward the door.

  Custer waited until the door closed again, then turned back to Brisbane. “I find it curious how very interested you’ve been in this case,” he said.

  “It’s my job.”

  “I know that. You’re a very dedicated man. I’ve also noticed your dedication in human resources matters. Hiring, firing…”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Reinhart Puck, for example.”

  “What about him?”

  Custer consulted his notebook again. “Why exactly did you try to fire Mr. Puck, just two days before his murder?”

  Brisbane started to say something, then hesitated. A new thought seemed to have occurred to him.

  “Strange timing there, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Brisbane?”

  The man smiled thinly. “Captain, I felt the position was extraneous. The Museum is having financial difficulties. And Mr. Puck had been… well, he had not been cooperative. Of course, it had nothing to do with the murder.”

  “But they wouldn’t let you fire him, would they?”

  “He’d been with the Museum over twenty-five years. They felt it might affect morale.”

  “Must’ve made you angry, being shot down like that.”

  Brisbane’s smile froze in place. “Captain, I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with the murder.”

  Custer raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Am I?”

  “Since I assume you’re asking a rhetorical question, I won’t bother to answer it.”

  Custer smiled. He didn’t know what a rhetorical question was, but he could see that his questions were finding their mark. He gave the gem case another stroke, then glanced around. He’d covered the office; all that remained was the closet. He strolled over, put his hand on the handle, paused.

  “But it did make you angry? Being contradicted like that, I mean.”

  “No one is pleased to be countermanded,” Brisbane replied icily. “The man was an anachronism, his work habits clearly inefficient. Look at that typewriter he insisted on using for all his correspondence.”

  “Yes. The typewriter. The one the murderer used to write one—make that two—notes. You knew about that typewriter, I take it?”

  “Everybody did. The man was infamous for refusing to allow a computer terminal on his desk, refusing to use e-mail.”

  “I see.” Custer nodded, opened the closet.

  As if on cue, an old-fashioned black derby hat fell out, bounced across the floor, and rolled in circles until it finally came to rest at Custer’s feet.

  Custer looked down at it in astonishment. It couldn’t have happened more perfectly if this had been an Agatha Christie murder mystery. This kind of thing just didn’t happen in real policework. He could hardly believe it.

  He looked up at Brisbane, his eyebrows arching quizzically.

  Brisbane looked first confounded, then flustered, then angry.

  “It was for a costume party at the Museum,” the lawyer said. “You can check for yourself. Everyone saw me in it. I’ve had it for years.”

  Custer poked his head into the closet, rummaged around, and removed a black umbrella, tightly furled. He brought it out, stood it up on its point, then released it. The umbrella toppled over beside the hat. He looked up again at Brisbane. The seconds ticked on.

  “This is absurd!” exploded Brisbane.

  “I haven’t said anything,” said Custer. He looked at Noyes. “Did you say anything?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t say anything.”

  “So what exactly, Mr. Brisbane, is absurd?”

  “What you’re thinking—” The man could hardly get out the words. “That I’m… that, you know… Oh, this is perfectly ridiculous!”

  Custer placed his hands behind his back. He came forward slowly, one step after another, until he reached the desk. And then, very deliberately, he leaned over it.

  “What am I thinking, Mr. Brisbane?” he asked quietly.

  THREE

  THE ROLLS ROCKETED UP RIVERSIDE, ITS DRIVER WEAVING expertly through the lines of traffic, threading the big vehicle through impossibly narrow gaps, sometimes forcing opposing cars onto the curb. It was after eleven P.M., and the traffic was beginning to thin out. But the curbs of Riverside and the side streets that led away from it remained completely jammed with parked cars.

  The car swerved onto 131st Street, slowing abruptly. And almost immediately—no more than half a dozen cars in from Riverside—Nora spotted it: a silver Ford Taurus, New York plate ELI-7734.

  Pendergast got out, walked over to the parked car, leaned toward the dashboard to verify the VIN. Then he moved around to the passenger door and broke the glass with an almost invisible jab. The alarm shrieked in protest while he searched the glove compartment and the rest of the interior. In a moment he returned.

  “The car’s empty,” he told Nora. “He must have taken the address with him. We’ll have to hope Leng’s house is close by.”

  Telling Proctor to park at Grant’s Tomb and wait for their call, Pendergast led the way down 131st in long, sweeping strides. Within moments they reached the Drive itself. Riverside Park stretched away across the street, its trees like gaunt sentinels at the edge of a vast, unknown tract of darkness. Beyond the park was the Hudson, glimmering in the vague moonlight.

  Nora looked left and right, at the countless blocks of decrepit apartment buildings, old abandoned mansions, and squalid welfare hotels that stretched in both directions. “How are we going to find it?” she asked.

  “It will have certain characteristics,” Pendergast replied. “It will be a private house, at least a hundred years old, not broken into apartments. It will probably look abandoned, but it will be very secure. We’ll head south first.”

  But before proceeding, he stopped and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Normally, I’d never allow a civilian along on a police action.”

  “But that’s my boyfriend caught—”

  Pendergast raised his hand. “We have no time for discussion. I have already considered carefully what it is we face. I’m going to be as blunt as possible. If we do find Leng’s house, the chances of my succeeding without assistance are very smal
l.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t let you leave me behind, anyway.”

  “I know that. I also know that, given Leng’s cunning, two people have a better chance of success than a large—and loud—official response. Even if we could get such a response in time. But I must tell you, Dr. Kelly, I am bringing you into a situation where there are an almost infinite number of unknown variables. In short, it is a situation in which it is very possible one or both of us may be killed.”

  “I’m willing to take that risk.”

  “One final comment, then. In my opinion, Smithback is already dead, or will be by the time we find the house, get inside, and secure Leng. This rescue operation is already, therefore, a probable failure.”

  Nora nodded, unable to reply.

  Without another word, Pendergast turned and began to walk south.

  They passed several old houses clearly broken into apartments, then a welfare hotel, the resident alcoholics watching them apathetically from the steps. Next came a long row of sordid tenements.

  And then, at Tiemann Place, Pendergast paused before an abandoned building. It was a small townhouse, its windows boarded over, the buzzer missing. He stared up at it briefly, then went quickly around to the side, peered over a broken railing, returned.

  “What do you think?” Nora whispered.

  “I think we go in.”

  Two heavy pieces of plywood, chained shut, covered the opening where the door had been. Pendergast grasped the lock on the chain. A white hand slid into his suit jacket and emerged, holding a small device with toothpick-like metal attachments projecting from one end. It gleamed in the reflected light of the street lamp.

  “What’s that?” Nora asked.

  “Electronic lockpick,” Pendergast replied, fitting it to the padlock. The latch sprung open in his long white hands. He pulled the chain away from the plywood and ducked inside, Nora following.

  A noisome stench welled out of the darkness. Pendergast pulled out his flashlight and shined the beam over a blizzard of decay: rotting garbage, dead rats, exposed lath, needles and crack vials, standing puddles of rank water. Without a word he turned and exited, Nora following.

  They worked their way down as far as 120th Street. Here, the neighborhood improved and most of the buildings were occupied.

  “There’s no point in going farther,” Pendergast said tersely. “We’ll head north instead.”

  They hurried back to 131st Street—the point where their search had begun—and continued north. This proved much slower going. The neighborhood deteriorated until it seemed as if most of the buildings were abandoned. Pendergast dismissed many out of hand, but he broke into one, then another, then a third, while Nora watched the street.

  At 136th Street they stopped before yet another ruined house. Pendergast looked toward it, scrutinizing the facade, then turned his eyes northward, silent and withdrawn. He was pale; the activity had clearly taxed his weakened frame.

  It was as if the entire Drive, once lined with elegant townhouses, was now one long, desolate ruin. It seemed to Nora that Leng could be in any one of those houses.

  Pendergast dropped his eyes toward the ground. “It appears,” he said in a low voice, “that Mr. Smithback had difficulty finding parking.”

  Nora nodded, feeling a rising despair. The Surgeon now had Smithback at least six hours, perhaps several more. She would not follow that train of thought to its logical conclusion.

  FOUR

  CUSTER ALLOWED BRISBANE TO STEW FOR A MINUTE, THEN two. And then he smiled—almost conspiratorially—at the lawyer. “Mind if I…?” he began, nodding toward the bizarre chrome-and-glass chair before Brisbane’s desk.

  Brisbane nodded. “Of course.”

  Custer sank down, trying to maneuver his bulk into the most comfortable position the chair would allow. Then he smiled again. “Now, you were about to say something?” He hiked a pant leg, tried to throw it over the other, but the weird angle of the chair knocked it back against the floor. Unruffled, he cocked his head, raising an eyebrow quizzically across the desk.

  Brisbane’s composure had returned. “Nothing. I just thought, with the hat…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “In that case, tell me about the Museum’s costume party.”

  “The Museum often throws fund-raisers. Hall openings, parties for big donors, that sort of thing. Once in a while, it’s a costume ball. I always wear the same thing. I dress like an English banker on his way to the City. Derby hat, pinstriped pants, cutaway.”

  “I see.” Custer glanced at the umbrella. “And the umbrella?”

  “Everybody owns a black umbrella.”

  A veil had dropped over the man’s emotions. Lawyer’s training, no doubt.

  “How long have you owned the hat?”

  “I already told you.”

  “And where did you buy it?”

  “Let’s see… at an old antique shop in the Village. Or perhaps TriBeCa. Lispinard Street, I believe.”

  “How much did it cost?”

  “I don’t remember. Thirty or forty dollars.” For a moment, Brisbane’s composure slipped ever so slightly. “Look, why are you so interested in that hat? A lot of people own derby hats.”

  Watch the eyes. And the eyes looked panicked. The eyes looked guilty.

  “Really?” Custer replied in an even voice. “A lot of people? The only person I know who owns a derby hat in New York City is the killer.”

  This was the first mention of the word “killer,” and Custer gave it a slight, but noticeable, emphasis. Really, he was playing this beautifully, like a master angler bringing in a huge trout. He wished this was being captured on video. The chief would want to see it, perhaps make it available as a training film for aspiring detectives. “Let’s get back to the umbrella.”

  “I bought it… I can’t remember. I’m always buying and losing umbrellas.” Brisbane shrugged casually, but his shoulders were stiff.

  “And the rest of your costume?”

  “In the closet. Go ahead, take a look.”

  Custer had no doubt the rest of the costume would match the description of a black, old-fashioned coat. He ignored the attempted distraction. “Where did you buy it?”

  “I think I found the pants and coat at that used formalwear shop near Bloomingdale’s. I just can’t think of the name.”

  “No doubt.” Custer glanced searchingly at Brisbane. “Odd choice for a costume party, don’t you think? English banker, I mean.”

  “I dislike looking ridiculous. I’ve worn that costume half a dozen times to Museum parties, you can check with anyone. I put that costume to good use.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you put it to good use. Good use indeed.” Custer glanced over at Noyes. The man was excited, a kind of hungry, almost slavering look on his face. He, at least, realized what was coming.

  “Where were you, Mr. Brisbane, on October 12, between eleven o’clock in the evening and four o’clock the following morning?” This was the time bracket the coroner had determined during which Puck had been killed.

  Brisbane seemed to think. “Let’s see… It’s hard to remember.” He laughed again.

  Custer laughed, too.

  “I can’t remember what I did that night. Not precisely. After twelve or one, I would have been in bed, of course. But before then… Yes, I remember now. I was at home that night. Catching up on my reading.”

  “And you live alone, Mr. Brisbane?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you have no one who can vouch for you being at home? A landlady, perhaps? Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

  Brisbane frowned. “No. No, nothing like that. So, if it’s all the same to you—”

  “One moment, Mr. Brisbane. And where did you say you live?”

  “I didn’t say. Ninth Street, near University Place.”

  “Hmmm. No more than a dozen blocks from Tompkins Square Park. Where the second murder took place.”

  “That’s a very interestin
g coincidence, no doubt.”

  “It is.” Custer glanced out the windows, where Central Park lay beneath a mantle of darkness. “And no doubt it’s a coincidence that the first murder took place right out there, in the Ramble.”

  Brisbane’s frown deepened. “Really, Detective, I think we’ve reached the point where questions end and speculation begins.” He pushed back his chair, prepared to stand up. “And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with the business of clearing your men out of this Museum.”

  Custer made a suppressing motion with one hand, glanced again at Noyes. Get ready. “There’s just one other thing. The third murder.” He slid a piece of paper out of his notebook with a nonchalant motion. “Do you know an Oscar Gibbs?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Mr. Puck’s assistant.”

  “Exactly. According to the testimony of Mr. Gibbs, on the afternoon of October 12, you and Mr. Puck had a little, ah, discussion in the Archives. This was after you found out that Human Resources had not supported your recommendation to fire Puck.”

  Brisbane colored slightly. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  Custer smiled. “I don’t, Mr. Brisbane. Believe me, I don’t.” He followed this with a long, delicious pause. “Now, this Mr. Oscar Gibbs said that you and Puck were yelling at each other. Or rather, you were yelling at Puck. Care to tell me, in your words, what that was about?”

  “I was reprimanding Mr. Puck.”

  “What for?”

  “Neglecting my instructions.”

  “Which were?”

  “To stick to his job.”

  “To stick to his job. How had he been deviating from his job?”

  “He was doing outside work, helping Nora Kelly with her external projects, when I had specifically—”

  It was time. Custer pounced.

  “According to Mr. Oscar Gibbs, you were (and I will read): screaming and yelling and threatening to bury Mr. Puck. He (that’s you, Mr. Brisbane) said he wasn’t through by a long shot.” Custer lowered the paper, glanced at Brisbane. “That’s the word you used: ‘bury.’ ”

  “It’s a common figure of speech.”