O’Shaughnessy shook his head as he munched. “Not too good.”
“I expect there was someone from the mayor’s office.”
“Mary Hill.”
“Ah, Miss Hill. Of course.”
“Captain Custer wanted to know why I hadn’t told them about the journal, why I hadn’t told them about the dress, why I hadn’t told them about the note. But it was all in the report—which Custer hadn’t read—so in the end I survived the meeting.”
Pendergast nodded.
“Thanks for helping me finish that report. Otherwise, they’d have ripped me a new one.”
“What a quaint expression.” Pendergast looked over O’Shaughnessy’s shoulder. “Sergeant, I’d like to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine. William Smithback.”
O’Shaughnessy turned to see a gangling, awkward-looking man at the buffet, a gravity-defying cowlick jutting from the top of his head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, and he seemed utterly absorbed in piling as much food onto his plate as possible, as quickly as possible. The man looked over, saw Pendergast, and started visibly. He glanced around uneasily, as if marking possible exits. But the FBI agent was smiling encouragingly, and the man named Smithback came toward them a little warily.
“Agent Pendergast,” Smithback said in a nasal baritone. “What a surprise.”
“Indeed. Mr. Smithback, I find you well.” He grasped Smithback’s hand and shook it. “How many years has it been?”
“Long time,” said Smithback, looking like it had not been nearly long enough. “What are you doing in New York?”
“I keep an apartment here.” Pendergast released the hand and looked the writer up and down. “I see you’ve graduated to Armani, Mr. Smithback,” he said. “A rather better cut than those off-the-rack Fourteenth Street job-lot suits you used to sport. However, when you’re ready to take a
Smithback opened his mouth to reply, but Pendergast continued smoothly. “I heard from Margo Green, by the way. She’s up in Boston, working for the GeneDyne Corporation. She asked me to remember her to you.”
Smithback opened his mouth again, shut it. “Thank you,” he managed after a moment. “And—and Lieutenant D’Agosta? You keep in touch with him?”
“He also went north. He’s now living in Canada, writing police procedurals, under the pen name of Campbell Dirk.”
“I’ll have to pick up one of his books.”
“He hasn’t made it big yet—not like you, Mr. Smithback—but I must say the books are readable.”
By this point, Smithback had fully recovered. “And mine aren’t?”
Pendergast inclined his head. “I can’t honestly say I’ve read any. Do you have one you could particularly recommend?”
“Very funny,” said Smithback, frowning and looking about. “I wonder if Nora’s going to be here.”
“So you’re the guy who wrote the article, right?” asked O’Shaughnessy.
Smithback nodded. “Made a splash, don’t you think?”
“It certainly got everyone’s attention,” said Pendergast dryly.
“As well it should. Nineteenth-century serial killer, kidnapping and mutilating helpless kids from workhouses, all in the name of some experiment to extend his own wretched life. You know, they’ve awarded Pulitzers for less than that.” People were arriving more quickly now, and the noise level was increasing.
“The Society for American Archaeology is demanding an investigation into how the site came to be destroyed. I understand the construction union is also asking questions. With this upcoming election, the mayor’s on the defensive. As you can imagine, Moegen-Fairhaven wasn’t terribly happy about it. Speak of the devil.”
“What?” Smithback said, clearly surprised by this sudden remark.
“Anthony Fairhaven,” Pendergast said, nodding toward the entrance.
O’Shaughnessy followed the glance. The man standing in the doorway to the hall was much more youthful than he’d expected; fit, with the kind of frame a bicyclist or rock climber might have—wiry, athletic. His tuxedo draped over his shoulders and chest with a lightness that made him look as if he’d been born in it. Even more surprising was the face. It was an open face, an honest-looking face; not the face of the rapacious money-grubbing real estate developer Smithback had portrayed in the
A hissing came over the PA system; “Tales from the Vienna Woods” died away raggedly. A man was at the podium, doing a sound check. He retreated, and a hush fell on the crowd. After a moment, a second man, wearing a formal suit, mounted the podium and walked to the microphone. He looked grave, intelligent, patrician, dignified, at ease. In short, he was everything O’Shaughnessy hated.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“The distinguished Dr. Frederick Collopy,” said Pendergast. “Director of the Museum.”
“He’s got a 29-year-old wife,” Smithback whispered. “Can you believe it? It’s a wonder he can even find the— Look, there she is now.” He pointed to a young and extremely attractive woman standing to one side. Unlike the other women, who all seemed to be dressed in black, she was wearing an emerald-green gown with an elegant diamond tiara. The combination was breathtaking.
“Oh, God,” Smithback breathed. “What a stunner.”
