Relic

[236] Moriarty stood behind his desk, a balled fist pressed tightly against his mouth. “Damn,” he mumbled.

Suddenly, one foot lashed out in frustration, the heel slamming against a file cabinet behind him and knocking a pile of papers onto the floor. “Damn!” he howled, this time in pain, as he sank into his chair and began rubbing his ankle.

Slowly, the pain lifted, and with it, his funk. Sighing heavily, he looked around the room. “Jeez, George, you always manage to screw things up, don’t you?” he murmured.

He was hopeless socially, he might as well admit it to himself. Everything he did to catch Margo’s attention, everything he did to gain her favor, seemed to backfire. What he’d said about her father was about as tactful as a machine gun.

Suddenly, he swiveled toward his terminal and typed in a command. He’d send her an e-mail message, maybe repair some of his damage. He paused a moment, composing, then began to type.

HI, MARGO! JUST CURIOUS TO KNOW IF YOU

Abruptly, Moriarty hit a key, purging the message. He’d probably just mess things up even worse.

He sat for a moment, staring at the blank screen. He knew of only one surefire method to ease his hurt: a treasure hunt.

Many of the Superstition exhibition’s most prized artifacts were the direct result of his treasure hunts. Moriarty had a deep love for the Museum’s vast collections, and he was more familiar with its obscure and secret corners than many longtime staffers. Shy, Moriarty had few friends and often passed his time researching and locating long-forgotten relics from the Museum’s storerooms. It gave him a sense of worth and fulfillment that he had been unable to obtain from others.

[237] He turned once again to the keyboard, opening the Museum’s accession database and moving casually yet deliberately through its records. He knew his way around the database, knew its shortcuts and back doors, like an experienced riverboat captain knew the contours of a riverbed.

In a few minutes, his fingers slowed. Here was a region of the database he hadn’t explored before: a trove of Sumerian artifacts, discovered in the early twenties but never fully researched. Carefully, he targeted first a collection, then a subcollection, then individual artifacts. This looked interesting: a series of clay tablets, early examples of Sumerian writing. The original collector believed they dealt with religious rituals. Moriarty read over the annotated entries, nodding to himself. Maybe they could use these in the exhibition. There was still room for a few more artifacts in one of the smaller miscellaneous galleries.

He checked his sundial watch: almost five. Still, he knew where the tablets were stored. If they looked promising, he could show them to Cuthbert tomorrow morning and get his approval. He could work up the display between the Friday night celebration and the public opening. He quickly jotted a few notes, then flicked off his computer.

The sound of the terminal being snapped into darkness sounded like a pistol shot in the lonely office. Finger still on the power switch. Moriarty paused. Then he stood up, tucked his shirt inside his trousers, and—favoring his bruised heel slightly—left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

= 34 =

Down in the temporary command post, D’Agosta froze in the act of rapping on Pendergast’s window. He peered in to get a better look.

Some tall guy in an ugly suit was moving around Pendergast’s office. His face looked sweaty and sun-burnt and he swaggered like he owned the place, picking up papers on the desk, laying them down somewhere else, jingling his pocket change.

“Hey, pal,” D’Agosta said, opening the door and walking in, “that’s FBI property. If you’re waiting for Mr. Pendergast, how about doing it outside?”

The man turned. His eyes were small and narrow, and pissed off.

“From now on, ah, Lieutenant,” he said, staring at the badge hanging from D’Agosta’s belt as if trying to read the number, “you’ll speak respectfully to the FBI personnel around here. Of which I am now in charge. Special Agent Coffey.”

“Well, Special Agent Coffey, as far as I know, and [239] until someone tells me different, Mr. Pendergast is in charge here, and you’re messing with his desk.”

Coffey gave him a thin smile, reached into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope.

D’Agosta examined the letter inside. It was from Washington, putting the New York Field Office of the FBI, and one Special Agent Spencer Coffey, in charge of the case. Stapled to the directive were two memos. One, from the Governor’s office, formally demanded the change and accepted full responsibility for the transfer of power. The second, with a United States Senate letterhead, D’Agosta folded up without bothering to read.

He handed the envelope back. “So you guys finally snuck in the back door.”

“When will Pendergast be back, Lieutenant?” said Coffey, sliding the envelope back into his pocket.

“How would I know?” said D’Agosta. “While you’re poking through his desk there, maybe you’d like to check his appointment book.”

Before Coffey could respond, Pendergast’s voice sounded from outside the office. “Ah, Agent Coffey! How delightful to see you.”

Coffey once again reached for the envelope.

“No need,” Pendergast said. “I know why you’re here.” He sat down behind his desk. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, please make yourself comfortable.”