Reliquary

“Well, your not-exactly pal Smithback is running us ragged, chasing down all the crank calls his reward offer has generated. That’s where your extra manpower has gone. You should know that better than anyone.” The Chief shifted irritably in his huge leather throne. “So you’re telling me that the homeless murders and the Wisher murder have the same MO.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“Okay. Now we don’t like homeless being murdered here in New York. It’s a problem. It doesn’t look good. But when we get socialites being murdered, then we got a real problem. You get my drift?”

“Absolutely,” said Waxie.

D’Agosta said nothing.

“What I’m saying is, we’re concerned about the homeless murders, and we’re going to try to take care of it. But look, D’Agosta, we’ve got homeless dying every day. Between you and me, they’re a dime a dozen. We both know it. On the other hand, I got a whole city on my butt about this headless debutante. The mayor wants that case solved.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, a magnanimous look settling across his features. “Look, I know you’re going to need more help on this. So I’m going to keep Captain Waxie here on the case. I’ve put someone else on the precinct desk to free him up.”

“Yes, sir!” said Waxie, straightening up.

As he listened, something inside D’Agosta crumpled and died. A walking disaster like Waxie was exactly what he didn’t need. Now instead of more manpower, he’d have to nursemaid Waxie through every step. He’d better put him on some peripheral assignment, where he couldn’t screw up. But that led to a whole new chain-of-command problem: putting a precinct captain on a case being run by a lieutenant in the Homicide Division. Just how the hell was that going to fall out?

“D’Agosta!” the Chief snapped.

D’Agosta looked up. “What?”

“I asked you a question. What’s going on at the Museum?”

“They’ve completed tests on the Wisher corpse and have released it to the family,” D’Agosta replied.

“And the other skeleton?”

“They’re still trying to identify it.”

“What about the teeth marks?”

“There seems to be some disagreement about their origin.”

Horlocker shook his head. “Jesus, D’Agosta. I thought you said those people knew what they were doing. Don’t make me sorry I took your advice and moved those corpses out of the Morgue.”

“We’ve got the Chief ME and some top Museum staff working on it. I know these people personally, and there aren’t any better—”

Horlocker sighed loudly and waved his hand. “I don’t care about their pedigrees. I want results. Now that you’ve got Waxie on the case, things should move faster. I want something by the end of the day tomorrow. Got that, D’Agosta?”

D’Agosta nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The Chief waved his hand. “Then get to it, you two.”

= 14 =

IT WAS, SMITHBACK thought, the most bizarre demonstration he had seen in the ten years he had lived in New York. The signs had been professionally painted. The sound system was first-class. And Smithback felt distinctly under dressed.

The crowd was remarkably diverse: Central Park South and Fifth Avenue ladies, dressed in diamonds and Donna Karan, along with young bankers, bond salesmen, commodity traders, and various young turks eager for civil disobedience. There were also some well-dressed prep school teenagers. But what astonished Smithback was the size of the crowd. There must have been two thousand people milling around him. And whoever organized the rally obviously had political clout: their permit allowed them to close off Grand Army Plaza on a weekday rush hour. Behind a series of well-manned police barricades and ranks of television cameras were endless lines of angry traffic.

Smithback knew that this group represented tremendous wealth and power in New York City. Their demonstration was no joke—not for the mayor, not for the police chief, not for anyone involved in New York City politics. These people simply did not go into the streets and hold demonstrations. And yet, here they were.

Mrs. Horace Wisher stood on a large redwood platform in front of the gilded victory statue at the intersection of Central Park South and Fifth Avenue. She was speaking into a microphone, the powerful PA system amplifying her crisp tones into an unavoidable presence. Behind her was a massive full-color blowup of the now-famous childhood picture of her daughter Pamela.

“How long?” she asked the assembled throng. “How long are we going to let our city die? How long are we going to tolerate the murders of our daughters, our sons, our brothers, our sisters, our parents? How long are we going to live in fear, in our own homes and in our own neighborhoods?”

She gazed over the crowd, listening to the rising murmur of assent.

She began again more softly. “My ancestors came to New Amsterdam three hundred years ago. It has been our home ever since. And it has been a good home. When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to take me for evening walks in Central Park. We used to walk home alone from school after nightfall. We did not even lock the door to our townhouse.

“Why has nothing been done, while crime, drugs, and murder have reared up all around us? How many mothers will have to lose their children before we say, enough!”