The Cabinet of Curiosities

Smithback felt a small twinge. This was not proceeding quite as expected. He was letting Fairhaven control the agenda; that was the problem.

“You say you had the remains buried. Why? Was there anything perhaps you were trying to hide?”

At this Fairhaven actually laughed, leaning back in his chair, exposing beautiful teeth. “You make it sound suspicious. I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I’m a man with some small religious values. These poor people were killed in a hideous way. I wanted to give them a decent burial with an ecumenical service, quiet and dignified, free of the whole media circus. That’s what I did—buried them together with their little effects in a real cemetery. I didn’t want their bones ending up in a museum drawer. So I purchased a beautiful tract in the Gates of Heaven Cemetery in Valhalla, New York. I’m sure the cemetery director would be happy to show you the plot. The remains were my responsibility and, frankly, I had to do something with them. The city certainly didn’t want them.”

“Right, right,” said Smithback, thinking. It would make a nice sidebar, this quiet burial under the leafy elms. But then he frowned. Christ, was he getting spun here?

Time for a new tack. “According to the records, you’re a major donor to the mayor’s re-election campaign. You get in a pinch at your construction site and he bails you out. Coincidence?”

Fairhaven leaned back in the chair. “Drop the wide-eyed, babe-in-the-woods look. You know perfectly well how things work in this town. When I give money to the mayor’s campaign, I am exercising my constitutional rights. I don’t expect any special treatment, and I don’t ask for it.”

“But if you get it, so much the better.”

Fairhaven smiled broadly, cynically, but said nothing. Smithback felt another twinge of concern. This guy was being very careful about what he actually said. Trouble was, you couldn’t record a cynical grin.

He stood and walked with what he hoped looked like casual confidence toward the paintings, hands behind his back, studying them, trying to frame a new strategy. Then he moved to the gun case. Inside, polished weapons gleamed. “Interesting choice of office decor,” he said, gesturing at the case.

“I collect the rarest of handguns. I can afford to. That one you are pointing at, for example, is a Luger, chambered in .45. The only one ever made. I also have a collection of Mercedes-Benz roadsters. But they take up rather more display space, so I keep them at my place in Sag Harbor.” Fairhaven looked at him, still smiling cynically. “We all collect things, Mr. Smithback. What’s your passion? Museum monographs and chapbooks, perhaps: removed for research, then not returned? By accident, of course.”

Smithback looked at him sharply. Had the guy searched his apartment? But no: Fairhaven was merely fishing. He returned to the chair. “Mr. Fairhaven—”

Fairhaven interrupted him, his tone suddenly brisk, unfriendly. “Look, Smithback, I know you’re exercising your constitutional right to skewer me. The big bad real estate developer is always an easy target. And you like easy targets. Because you fellows are all cut from the same cloth. You all think your work is important. But today’s newspaper is lining tomorrow’s bird cage. It’s ephemera. What you do, in the larger scheme of things, is nugatory.”

Nugatory? What the hell did that mean? It didn’t matter: clearly it was an insult. He was getting under Fairhaven’s skin. That was good—wasn’t it?

“Mr. Fairhaven, I have reason to believe that you’ve been pressuring the Museum to stop this investigation.”

“I’m sorry. What investigation?”

“The one into Enoch Leng and the nineteenth-century killings.”

“That investigation? Why should I care one way or another about it? It didn’t stop my construction project, and frankly that’s all I care about. They can investigate it now until they’re blue in the face, if they so choose. And I love this phrase all you journalists use: I have reason to believe. What you really mean is: I want to believe but I haven’t a shred of evidence. All you fellows must’ve taken the same Journalism 101 class: Making an Ass of Yourself While Pretending to Get the Story.” Fairhaven allowed himself a cynical laugh.

Smithback sat stiffly, listening to the laughter subside. Once again he tried to tell himself he was getting under Fairhaven’s skin. He spoke at last, keeping his voice as cool as possible.

“Tell me, Mr. Fairhaven, just why is it that you’re so interested in the Museum?”

“I happen to love the Museum. It’s my favorite museum in the world. I practically grew up in that place looking at the dinosaurs, the meteorites, the gems. I had a nanny who used to take me. She necked with her boyfriend behind the elephants while I wandered around by myself. But you’re not interested in that, because it doesn’t fit your image of the greedy real estate developer. Really, Smithback, I’m wise to your game.”

“Mr. Fairhaven—”

Fairhaven grinned. “You want a confession?”

This temporarily stopped Smithback.

Fairhaven lowered his voice to confessional level. “I have committed two unforgivable crimes.”

Smithback tried to maintain the hard-bitten reportorial look he cultivated in instances like these. He knew this was going to be some kind of trick, or joke.

“My two crimes are these—are you ready?”

Smithback checked to see if the recorder was still running.

“I am rich, and I am a developer. My two truly unforgivable sins. Mea culpa.”

Against all his better journalistic instincts, Smithback found himself getting pissed off. He’d lost the interview. It was, in fact, a dead loss. The guy was a slimeball, but he was remarkably adroit at dealing with the press. So far Smithback had nothing, and he was going to get nothing. He made one last push anyway. “You still haven’t explained—”

Fairhaven stood. “Smithback, if you only knew how utterly predictable you and your questions are—if you