Dance Of Death

enemies he might have had, for example?'

D'Agosta pretended to think. 'No, I don't think he ever did.'

Another brief silence.

'I'm glad to see you're at work,' Singleton went on. 'Because I've been getting a few reports of items left unattended these last two days. Tasks half done, or not done at all. Jobs delegated unnecessarily.'

'Sir,' D'Agosta said. This was all true, but he tried to let a little righteous indignation trickle into his voice. 'I'm playing catch-up as quickly as I can. There's a lot to do.'

'I've also heard that, instead of working the angles on the Dangler case, you've been asking a lot of questions about the Duchamp murder.'

'Duchamp?' D'Agosta repeated. 'It's an unusual case, Captain. I guess I'm as curious as the next man.'

Singleton nodded again, more slowly. He had a unique way of letting his expression telegraph his thoughts for him, and right now that expression was saying, You mean a lot more curious than the next man. But once again, he changed tack. 'Something wrong with your radio, Lieutenant?'

Hell. D'Agosta had intentionally left it off that afternoon, in hopes of avoiding just such a cross-examination. He should have known this would excite even more suspicion.

'As a matter of fact, it seems to be acting kind of wonky today,' he said, patting his jacket pocket.

'Better have it checked out. Or get yourself issued a new one.'

'Right away.'

'Is there something the matter, Lieutenant?'

The question was asked so quickly on the heels of the last one that D'Agosta was momentarily taken aback. 'Sir?'

'I mean, with your mother. Is everything all right?'

'Oh. Oh, yes. The prognosis is better than I'd hoped. Thank you for asking.'

'And you're okay with being back on the job?'

'Completely okay, Captain.'

The elevator slowed, but Singleton still held D'Agosta's gaze. 'That's good,' he said. 'That's good to hear. Because the truth is, Vincent, I'd rather have somebody not here at all than have him only half here. You know what I mean?'

D'Agosta nodded. 'Yes, I do.'

Singleton smiled faintly as the doors opened. Then he extended one hand. 'After you, Lieutenant.'

TWENTY-SIX

Margo hesitated at the door to Menzies's office, took a deep breath, and knocked. The door was answered by Menzies himself; he'd done away with the prerogative of a secretary years before, complaining it distracted him. He smiled, nodded, and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter.

She knew the office well. During her first stint at the museum as a graduate student, it had been the office of Menzies's predecessor, her old thesis adviser, Dr. Frock. Back then it had been stuffed with Victorian furniture, fossils, and curiosities. With Menzies, it seemed more spacious and pleasant, the dusty fossil plaques replaced by tasteful prints, the heavy old furniture retired in favor of comfortable leather chairs. A new flat-panel iMac sat in a corner. The last rays of the setting sun came through one of the west-facing windows, cutting a parallelogram of red across the wall behind Menzies's mahogany desk.

Menzies steered Margo to an armchair, then took his own seat behind the desk. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. 'Thank you for coming at such short notice, Margo.'

'No problem.'

'Working late, I see?'

'I've got to put Museology to bed this evening.'

'Of course.' He unclasped his hands and leaned back into the sun, his unruly white hair suddenly haloed in gold. 'As you may have guessed, I asked you here because I received an answer from the board of trustees in relation to the Tano masks.'

Margo adjusted herself in the armchair, tried to look confident and assertive.

He issued a long sigh. 'I won't beat around the bush. We lost. The board voted to keep the masks.'

Margo felt herself go rigid. 'I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear that.'

'I'm sorry, too. Lord knows I gave it my best shot. Collopy was not unsympathetic, but the issue hit a wall with the trustees. Most of them are lawyers and bankers who have as much knowledge of anthropology as I have of writs or currency futures. Unfortunately, the world is such that they can presume to tell us what to do, and not vice versa. Frankly, I don't find the outcome surprising in the least.'

Margo could see that the usually even-tempered curator was nettled. She had been hoping that the trustees, despite all indications to the contrary, would do the right thing. It seemed so obvious to her. But then again, it wasn't even obvious to other members of her department, so how could she expect a bunch of Wall Street lawyers to understand?

Menzies leaned on the table, looking at her intently. 'This puts you rather more in the hot seat than before.'

'I realize that.'

'There's going to be a lot of pressure on you not to publish this editorial. They'll say the decision's been made, it's done-why stir up trouble?'

'I'm publishing, anyway.'

'That's what I thought you'd say. Margo, I want you to know that I'm behind you one hundred percent. But you must be realistic and expect some fallout.'

'I'm ready. Museology's been an independent voice in museum affairs for more than a century, and I'm not about to knuckle under- not with my first issue.'

Menzies smiled. 'I admire your spirit. But there's another complication I must share with you.'

'And what's that?'

'The Tanos are planning a cross-country protest caravan, due to arrive at the museum the night of the opening. It isn't just to call attention to their demands, but ostensibly to 'call back the lost souls of the masks' or something along those lines. They're going to stage an all-night religious ceremony and dances on Museum Drive, directly outside the museum. The trustees received notice earlier today.'

Margo frowned. 'The press is going to eat it up.'

'Indeed.'

'The administration's going to be embarrassed.'

'Undoubtably.'

'The opening's going to be total chaos.'

'Without question.'

'God, what a mess.'

'My sentiments exactly.'

There was a long pause. Finally, Menzies spoke. 'You do what you have to do. Academic freedom is a critical issue in these parlous times. May I venture a piece of advice?'

'Please.'

'Don't speak to the press-at all. When they come calling, politely refer them to the editorial you wrote and tell them that's all you have to say on the matter. The museum can't fire you over the editorial, but you can bet they'll be looking for another reason. Lie low, keep your mouth shut, and don't give it to them.'

Margo rose. 'Dr. Menzies, I thank you more than I can say.'

The man smoothed down his unruly mane and rose as well, taking Margo's hand. 'You're a brave woman,' he said with a smile of admiration.