Reliquary

“They did, as a matter of fact,” Smithback said.

“Actually, I ought to thank you.” Harriman picked up his mug and sipped daintily. “It gave me a good angle for a story.”

“Really?” said Smithback, without interest.

“Really. How the whole investigation’s ground to a halt. Paralyzed.”

Smithback looked up, and the Times reporter nodded smugly. “With this reward posted, too many crazy calls have been flooding in. The police have no choice but to take every last one seriously. Now they’re chasing after a thousand bullshit tips, wasting time. A bit of friendly advice, Bill: I wouldn’t show your face around One Police Plaza for a while, like maybe ten years.”

“Don’t give me that,” Smithback said irritably. “We’ve done the police a big favor.”

“Not the ones I talked to.”

Smithback turned away and took another sip of his drink. He was used to being needled by Harriman. Bryce Harriman, the Columbia J-School grad who thought he was God’s gift to journalism. In any case, Smithback still had a good relationship with Lieutenant D’Agosta. That’s what really mattered. Harriman was full of shit.

“So tell me, Bryce, how did the Times do on the newsstand this morning?” he asked. “We’re up forty percent at the Post since last week.”

“I wouldn’t know and I wouldn’t care. Sales shouldn’t be of concern to a real journalist.”

Smithback pressed his advantage. “Face it, Bryce, you got scooped. I got the interview with Mrs. Wisher and you didn’t.”

Harriman’s face darkened: He’d hit a nerve there. The guy had probably been scolded by his editor.

“Yeah,” Harriman said. “She got your number, all right. Wrapped you around her little finger. While the real story is taking place somewhere else.”

“And what real story might that be?”

“Such as the identity of the second skeleton. Or even, where they took the bodies.” Harriman eyed Smithback as he nonchalantly drained his beer. “You mean you didn’t know? Too busy talking to nutcases in railroad tunnels, I guess.”

Smithback glanced back at the reporter, struggling to conceal his surprise. Was this some kind of false lead? But no; the cool eyes behind the tortoise-shell glasses were scornful, but serious. “Haven’t been able to find that out yet,” he said guardedly.

“You don’t say.” Harriman slapped him on the back. “Hundred thousand bucks reward, huh? That might just pay your salary for the next two years. If the Post doesn’t go belly up again.” He laughed, dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter, and turned to go.

Smithback watched Harriman’s retreating back with irritation. So the bodies had been moved from the Medical Examiner’s office. He should have learned that himself. But where? There had been no funeral arrangements, no burial. They must be in a lab somewhere, a lab with better equipment than the NYME. Someplace secure, not like Columbia or Rockefeller University, with students wandering around everywhere. After all, Lieutenant D’Agosta was in charge of the case. He was a cool customer, Smithback knew. Not the kind of guy to do something rash. Why would D’Agosta move the bodies…

D’Agosta.

Suddenly, Smithback guessed—no, he knew—where the bodies must be.

Draining his glass, he slid off the stool and moved across the plush red carpet to a bank of phones in the front foyer. Dropping a quarter in the nearest one, he dialed a number.

“Curley here,” said a voice thick with age.

“Curley! It’s Bill Smithback. How you doing?”

“Fine, Dr. Smithback. Haven’t seen you around for a while.” Curley, who checked badges at the staff entrance to the Museum of Natural History, called everyone Doctor. Princes lived and died; dynasties rose and fell; but Curley, Smithback knew, would remain in his ornate bronze pillbox, checking IDs forever.

“Curley, what time on Wednesday night did those ambulances come in? You know, the two that drove in together?” Smithback spoke fast, praying that the ancient guard didn’t know he’d become a reporter after leaving his writing assignment at the Museum.

“Well, let’s see,” Curley said in his unhurried way. “Can’t say I remember anything like that, Doctor.”

“Really?” Smithback asked, crestfallen. He’d been absolutely sure.

“Not unless you mean that one that came in with the lights and sirens off. But that was early Thursday, not Wednesday.” Smithback could hear Curley rustling through his log. “Yup, just after five A.M., it was.”

“That’s right, Thursday. What was I thinking of?” Smithback thanked Curley and hung up exultantly.

Grinning, he returned to the bar. With one phone call, he’d discovered what Harriman had no doubt been searching for—unsuccessfully—for days.

It made perfect sense. He knew that D’Agosta had used the Museum’s laboratory on other cases, not least of all the Museum Beast murders. It was a high-security lab in a high-security museum. No doubt he’d have called in that pompous old curator, Frock. And maybe Frock’s ex-assistant, Margo Green, Smithback’s own friend from his days at the Museum.

Margo Green, Smithback thought. That merited some looking into.

He called the bartender over. “Paddy, I think I’ll stay on Islay, but switch distilleries. Laphroaig, please. The fifteen-year-old.”

He took a sip of the marvelous whisky. Ten bucks a shot, but worth every penny. A hundred