The Book of the Dead (14 page)

T
he following day, Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward showed her ID and was deferentially ushered into the office of Jack Manetti, head of security for the New York Museum of Natural History. Hayward liked the fact that, in a museum where the administration seemed overly concerned with status, the head of security had chosen for himself a small, windowless office in the back of the security pool, and had furnished it with utterly functional metal desks and chairs. It said something positive about Manetti—at least she hoped it did.

Manetti was clearly not happy to see her, but he made an attempt at courtesy, offering her a chair and a cup of coffee, which she declined.

“I’m here on the Green assault,” she said. “I wonder if you’d be willing to accompany me to the Sacred Images show so we can run through a few additional questions I have about ingress and egress, access, security.”

“But we’ve been all over that, weeks ago. I thought the investigation was complete.”

“
My
investigation isn’t complete yet, Mr. Manetti.”

Manetti licked his lips. “Did you go through the office of the director? We’re supposed to coordinate all law enforcement—”

She cut him off and stood up, growing irritated. “I don’t have the time, and neither do you. Let’s go.”

She followed the security director through a labyrinth of corridors and dusty halls, arriving at last at the exhibit entrance. The museum was still open and the security doors hooked back, but the exhibit itself was almost deserted.

“Let’s begin here,” said Hayward. “I’ve been going over the setup again and again, and there are a few things I just don’t get. The perp had to enter the hall through this door, am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“The door at the far end could be opened only from the inside, not from the outside. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“And the security system was supposed to automatically keep a log of all who came and went, because each magnetic card key is coded with the name of the owner.”

Manetti nodded.

“But the system registered no entry other than Margo Green. The perp then stole her card and used it to leave by the rear exit.”

“That’s the assumption.”

“Green could have entered and left this door hooked open.”

“No. First, that would have been against the rules. Second, the system registered that she didn’t do that. A few seconds after she entered, the door reengaged. We had an electronic log to that effect.”

“So the perp must have been waiting in the hall, hiding, from the time it closed to visitors—five o’clock—until the time of the assault, two A.M.”

Manetti nodded.

“Or else the perp managed to get around the security system.”

“We think that’s highly improbable.”

“But
I
think it’s almost certain. I’ve been through this hall a dozen times since the assault. There’s no place for the perp to have hidden.”

“It was under construction. Stuff was all over the place.”

“It was two days from opening. It was almost finished.”

“The security system is foolproof.”

“Like the Diamond Hall. Right?”

She watched Manetti’s lips tighten and felt a pang. This wasn’t her style. She was becoming a bitch, and she didn’t like it.

“Thank you, Mr. Manetti,” she said. “I’d like to make another pass through the hall, if you don’t mind.”

“Be our guest.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Manetti disappeared and Hayward took a thoughtful turn around the room where Green had been attacked, picturing, yet again, each step of the assault in a kind of mental stop-motion. She tried to shut out the little voice in her head that said this was a wild-goose chase; that she wasn’t likely to find anything of value here weeks after the attack, after a hundred thousand people had walked through; that she was doing this for all the wrong reasons; that she should just get on with her life and career while she still could.

She took another turn around the room, the little voice disappearing under the rap of her heels against the floor. As she came to the side of the case where the spot of blood had been found, she saw a crouched, dark-suited figure moving toward her from behind the case, ready to spring out.

She pulled out her weapon, drew down on the figure. “You! Freeze! NYPD!”

The person leaped up with a gargled shout, arms windmilling, an unruly cowlick of hair bobbing. Hayward recognized him as William Smithback, the
Times
city desk reporter.

“Don’t shoot!” the journalist cried. “I was just, you know, looking around! Jesus, you’re scaring the hell out of me with that thing!”

Hayward holstered her weapon, feeling sheepish. “Sorry. I’m a bit on edge.”

Smithback squinted. “You’re Captain Hayward, isn’t that right?”

She nodded.

“I’m covering the Pendergast case for the
Times
.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Good. In fact, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

She glanced at her watch. “I’m very busy. Make an appointment through my office.”

“I already tried that. You don’t speak to the press.”

“That’s right.” She gave him a stern look and took a step forward, but he didn’t step aside to let her pass.

“Do you mind?”

“Listen,” he said, talking fast. “I think we can help each other. You know, exchange information, that kind of thing.”

“If you have any information of an evidentiary nature, you better divulge it now or get slapped with an obstruction charge,” she said sharply.

“No, nothing like that! It’s just that… well, I think I know why you’re here. You’re not satisfied. You think maybe Pendergast isn’t the one who assaulted Margo. Am I right?”

“What makes you say that?”

“A busy homicide captain doesn’t waste her valuable time visiting the scene of the crime when the case is wrapped up. You must have your doubts.”

Hayward said nothing, concealing her surprise.

“You wonder if the killer might have been Diogenes Pendergast, the agent’s brother. That’s why you’re here.”

Still, Hayward said nothing, her surprise mounting.

“And that happens to be why
I’m
here, too.” He paused and peered at her curiously, as if to gauge the effect of his words.

“What makes you think it wasn’t Agent Pendergast?” asked Hayward cautiously.

“Because I
know
Agent Pendergast. I’ve been covering him—in a manner of speaking—since the museum murders seven years ago. And I know Margo Green. She phoned me from her hospital bed. She swears it wasn’t Pendergast. She says her attacker had eyes of two different colors, one green, the other milky blue.”

“Pendergast is known to be a master of disguises.”

“Yeah, but that description fits his brother. Why would he disguise himself as his brother? And we already
know
his brother pulled the diamond heist and kidnapped that woman, Lady Maskelene. The only logical answer is that Diogenes also assaulted Margo and framed his brother. QED.”

Once again, Hayward had to control her surprise, his thinking so closely paralleling her own. Finally she allowed a smile. “Well, Mr. Smithback, you seem to be quite the investigative reporter.”

“That I am,” he hastened to confirm, smoothing down his cowlick, which popped up again, unrepentant.

She paused a moment, considering. “All right, then. Maybe we can help each other. My involvement, naturally, will be strictly off the record. Background only.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I expect you to bring anything you find to me first.
Before
you bring it to your paper. That’s the only way I’ll consent to work with you.”

Smithback nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

“Very well. It seems Diogenes Pendergast has vanished. Completely. The trail stops dead at his hideout on Long Island, the place where he held Lady Maskelene prisoner. Such an utter disappearance just doesn’t happen these days, except for one possible circumstance: he slipped into an alter ego. A
long-established
alter ego.”

“Any ideas who?”

“We’ve drawn a blank. But if you were to publish a story about it… well, it just might shake something loose. A tip, a nosy neighbor’s observation: you understand? Naturally, my name couldn’t appear.”

“I certainly do understand. And—and what do I get in return?”

Hayward’s smile returned, broader this time. “You’ve got it backward. I just did you the favor. The question now is, what do you do for me in return? I know you’re covering the diamond heist. I want to know all about it. Everything, big or small. Because you’re right: I think Diogenes is behind the Green assault and the Duchamp murder. I need all the evidence I can get, and because I am in Homicide, it’s difficult for me to access information at the precinct level.”

She didn’t say that Singleton, the precinct captain handling the diamond theft, was unlikely to share information with her.

“No problem. We have a deal.”

She turned away, but Smithback called after her. “Wait!”

She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“When do we meet again? And where?”

“We don’t. Just call me if—when—something important turns up.”

“Okay.”

And she left him in the semidarkness of the exhibition hall, jotting notes hurriedly onto the back of a scrap of paper.