Kawakita slid the rod into a battered Orvis case and leaned it carefully in a corner. Motioning Smithback to follow, he led the way down long rows of confined aisles to a large desk and three heavy wooden chairs. The desk, Smithback noticed, was covered with papers, stacks of well-thumbed monographs, and low trays of plastic-covered sand holding various human bones.
“Look at this,” Kawakita said, sliding something in Smithback’s direction. It was an engraved illustration of a family tree, etched in brown ink on hand-marbled paper. The branches of the tree were labeled with various Latin words.
“Nice,” said Smithback, taking a seat.
“That’s one word for it, I guess,” Kawakita replied.
[166] “A mid-nineteenth century view of human evolution. An artistic masterpiece, but a scientific travesty. I’m working on a little piece for the
“When will it be published?” Smithback asked with professional interest.
“Oh, early next year. These journals are so slow.”
Smithback put the chart down on the desk. “So what does all this have to do with your current work—the GRE, or the SAT, or whatever it is?”
“G.S.E., actually.” Kawakita laughed. “Nothing whatsoever. This is just a little idea I had, some after-hours fun. I still enjoy getting my hands dirty from time to time.” He replaced the chart carefully in a binder, then turned toward the writer. “So, how’s the masterwork coming along?” he asked. “Is Madame Rickman still giving you a hard time?”
Smithback laughed. “Guess my struggles under the tyrant are common knowledge by now. But that’s a book in itself. Actually, I came by to talk to you about Margo.”
Kawakita took a seat across from Smithback. “Margo Green? What about her?
Smithback started paging aimlessly through one of the monographs scattered about the worktable. “I understand she needs your help on something.”
Kawakita’s eyes narrowed. “She called last night, asking if she could run some data through the Extrapolation program. I told her it wasn’t ready yet.” He shrugged. “Technically, that’s true. I can’t vouch one hundred percent for the accuracy of its correlations. But I’m terribly busy these days, Bill. I just don’t have the time to shepherd somebody through the program.”
“She’s not exactly some scientific illiterate you need to lead around by the nose,” Smithback replied. “She’s doing some heavy-duty genetics research of her own. You must see her around this lab all the time.” He pushed the monographs aside and leaned forward. “It [167] might not hurt to cut the kid a break,” he said. “It isn’t exactly an easy time for her. Her father died about two weeks ago, you know.”
Kawakita looked surprised. “Really? Is that what you were talking about in the staff lounge?”
Smithback nodded. “She hasn’t said much, but it’s been a struggle. She’s considering leaving the Museum.”
“That would be a mistake,” Kawakita frowned. He started to say something, then stopped abruptly. He leaned back in his chair and gave Smithback a long, appraising look. “This is a mighty altruistic gesture on your part, Bill.” He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Bill Smithback, the good Samaritan. New image for you, eh?”
“That’s William Smithback Jr. to you.”
“Bill Smithback, the Eagle Scout,” Kawakita continued. Then he shook his head. “Nope, it just doesn’t ring true. You didn’t really come down here to talk about Margo, did you?”
Smithback hesitated. “Well, that was one of my reasons,” he admitted.
“I knew it!” Kawakita crowed. “Come on, out with it.”
“Oh, all right,” Smithback sighed. “Listen: I’m trying to get some information on the Whittlesey expedition.”
“The
“The South American expedition that brought back the Mbwun figurine. You know, the showpiece for the new exhibition.”
Recognition flooded Kawakita’s face. “Oh, yes. That’s the one old man Smith must have been talking about in the herbarium the other day. What about it?”
“Well, we think there’s some kind of link between that expedition and these murders.”
“What?” Kawakita said incredulously. “Don’t tell [168] me
“I’m not saying I believe anything, okay?” Smithback replied evasively. “But I’ve been hearing a lot of strange stuff recently. And Rickman’s all tense about having the Mbwun figurine in the exhibition. Other things came back from that expedition besides this one relic—several crates, in fact. I want to find out more about them.”
“And what, exactly, do I have to do with all of this?” Kawakita asked.
“Nothing. But you’re an Assistant Curator. You have high-security access to the Museum computer. You can query the accession database, find out about those crates.”
“I doubt they’ve even been logged,” Kawakita said. “But either way, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Why not?” Smithback asked.
Kawakita laughed. “Wait here a minute.” He stood up and headed for the lab. In a few minutes he returned, a piece of paper in one hand.
“You must be psychic,” he said, handing over the paper. “Look what I found in my mail this morning.”
