The Cabinet of Curiosities

Mr. Fairhaven is too busy to talk to me, I’ll just have to report in the article I’m writing for the Monday edition that he refused to comment.”

“He is presently engaged,” the robotic voice repeated.

“No comment. That’ll do wonders for his public image. And come Monday, Mr. Fairhaven will be wanting to know who in his office turned away the reporter. Get my drift?”

There was a long silence. Smithback drew in some more air. This was often a long process. “You know when you’re reading an article in the paper, and it’s about some sleazy guy, and the guy says I have no comment? How does that make you feel about the guy? Especially a real estate developer. No comment. I could do a lot with no comment.”

There was more silence. Smithback wondered if she had hung up. But no, there was a sound on a line. It was a chuckle.

“That’s good,” said a low, pleasant, masculine voice. “I like that. Nicely done.”

“Who’s this?” Smithback demanded.

“Just some sleazy real estate developer.”

“Who?” Smithback was not going to stand being made fun of by some lackey.

“Anthony Fairhaven.”

“Oh.” Smithback was momentarily struck speechless. He recovered quickly. “Mr. Fairhaven, is it true that—”

“Why don’t you come on up, so we can talk face-to-face, like grownup people? Forty-ninth floor.”

“What?” Smithback was still surprised at the rapidity of his success.

“I said, come up. I was wondering when you’d call, being the ambitious, careerist reporter that you so evidently are.”

Fairhaven’s office was not quite what Smithback had envisioned. True, there were several layers of secretaries and assistants guarding the sanctum sanctorum. But when he finally gained Fairhaven’s office, it wasn’t the vast screw-you space of chrome-gold-ebony-old-master-paintings-African-primitives he’d expected. It was rather simple and small. True, there was art on the walls, but it consisted of some understated Thomas Hart Benton lithographs of yeoman farmers. Beside these was a glassed panel—locked and clearly alarmed—containing a variety of handguns, mounted on a black velvet backdrop. The sole desk was small and made of birch. There were a couple of easy chairs and a worn Persian rug on the floor. One wall was covered with bookshelves, filled with books that had clearly been read instead of purchased by the yard as furniture. Except for the gun case, it looked more like a professor’s office than that of a real estate magnate. And yet, unlike any professor’s office Smithback had ever been in, the space was meticulously clean. Every surface sparkled with an unblemished shine. Even the books appeared to have been polished. There was a faint smell of cleaning agents, a little chemical but not unpleasant.

“Please sit down,” said Fairhaven, sweeping a hand toward the easy chairs. “Would you care for anything? Coffee? Water? Soda? Whisky?” He grinned.

“Nothing, thanks,” said Smithback as he took a seat. He felt the familiar shudder of expectation that came before an intense interview. Fairhaven was clearly savvy, but he was rich and pampered; he no doubt lacked street-smarts. Smithback had interviewed—and skewered—dozens like him. It wouldn’t even be a contest.

Fairhaven opened a refrigerator and took out a small bottle of mineral water. He poured himself a glass and then sat, not at his desk, but in an easy chair opposite Smithback. He crossed his legs, smiled. The bottle of water sparkled in the sunlight that slanted through the windows. Smithback glanced past him. The view, at least, was killer.

He turned his attention back to the man. Black wavy hair, strong brow, athletic frame, easy movements, sardonic look in the eye. Could be thirty, thirty-five. He jotted a few impressions.

“So,” Fairhaven said with a small, self-deprecating smile, “the sleazy real estate developer is ready to take your questions.”

“May I record this?”

“I would expect no less.”

Smithback slipped a recorder out of his pocket. Of course he seemed charming. People like him were experts at charm and manipulation. But he’d never allow himself to be spun. All he had to do was remember who he was dealing with: a heartless, money-grubbing businessman who would sell his own mother for the back rent alone.

“Why did you destroy the site on Catherine Street?” he asked.

Fairhaven bowed his head slightly. “The project was behind schedule. We were fast-tracking the excavation. It would’ve cost me forty thousand dollars a day. I’m not in the archaeology business.”

“Some archaeologists say you destroyed one of the most important sites to be discovered in Manhattan in a quarter-century.”

Fairhaven cocked his head. “Really? Which archaeologists?”

“The Society for American Archaeology, for example.”

A cynical smile broke out on Fairhaven’s face. “Ah. I see. Well of course they’d be against it. If they had their way, no one in America would turn over a spadeful of soil without an archaeologist standing by with screen, trowel, and toothbrush.”

“Getting back to the site—”

“Mr. Smithback, what I did was perfectly legal. When we discovered those remains, I personally stopped all work. I personally examined the site. We called in forensic experts, who photographed everything. We removed the remains with great care, had them examined, and then properly buried, all at my own expense. We did not restart work until we had direct authorization from the mayor. What more would you have me do?”