Relic

“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 what?”

“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 you’re starting up with this Museum Beast stuff. And what do you mean, ‘we’?”

“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.”

NEW YORK MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

To:       Curators and Senior Staff

From:  Lavinia Rickman

CC:      Wright, Lewallen, Cuthbert, Lafore

As a result of recent unfortunate events, the Museum is under intense scrutiny by the media and by the public in general. This being the case, I [169] wanted to take the opportunity to review the Museum’s policy on external communications.

Any dealings with the press are to be handled through the Museum’s public relations office. No comments on Museum matters are to be made, either on or off the record, to journalists or other members of the media. Any statements made or assistance given to individuals who are engaged in preparing interviews, documentaries, books, articles, etc. dealing with the Museum are to be cleared through this office. Failure to follow these guidelines will result in disciplinary action from the Director’s Office.

Thank you for your cooperation in this difficult time.

“Christ,” muttered Smithback. “Look at this. ‘Individuals engaged in preparing books.’ ”

“She means you, Bill,” Kawakita laughed. “So you ace? My hands are tied.” He extracted a handkerchief From his back pocket and blew his nose. “Allergic to bone dust,” he explained.

“I just can’t believe this,” Smithback said, rereading the memo.

Kawakita clapped an arm around Smithback’s shoulder “Bill, my friend, I know this story would make great copy. And I’d like to help you write the most controversial, outrageous, and salacious book possible. Only I can’t. I’ll be honest. I’ve got a career here, and—” he tightened his grip “—I’m coming up for tenure. I can’t afford to make those kinds of waves right now. You’ll have to go some other route. Okay?”

Smithback nodded with resignation. “Okay.”

“You look unconvinced,” Kawakita laughed. “But I’m glad you understand, anyway.” He gently propelled the writer to his feet. “I’ll tell you what. How about a [170] little fishing on Sunday? They’re predicting an early hatch on the Co

Smithback finally gri

= 26 =

D’Agosta was all the way on the other side of the Museum when yet another call came in. Emergency sighting, Section 18, Computer Room.

He sighed, shoving his radio back into its holster, thinking of his tired feet. Everyone in the damn place was seeing bogeymen.

A dozen people were crowding the hall outside the Computer Room, joking nervously. Two uniformed officers were standing by the closed door. “Okay,” said D’Agosta, unwrapping a cigar. “Who saw it?”

A young man edged forward. White lab coat, slope-shouldered, Coke bottle glasses, calculator and pager dangling off the belt. Cripes, thought D’Agosta, where did they get these guys? He was perfect.

“I didn’t actually see anything,” he said, “but there was this loud thumping noise in the Electrical Systems Room. It sounded like banging, someone trying to get through the door—”

[172] D’Agosta turned to the two cops. “Let’s check it out.”

He fumbled at the door knob and someone produced a key, explaining, “We locked it. We didn’t want anything coming out—”

D’Agosta waved his hand. This was getting ridiculous. Everyone was spooked. How the hell could they be pla

The room was large, circular, and spotless. In the center, standing on a large pedestal and bathed in bright neon lights, was a five-foot-tall white cylinder that D’Agosta supposed was the Museum’s mainframe. It hummed softly, surrounded by terminals, workstations, tables, and bookcases. Two closed doors were visible on the far walls.

“You guys poke around,” he told his men, popping the unlit cigar in his mouth. “I wa

He went back outside. “Name?” he asked.

“Roger Thrumcap. I’m the Shift Supervisor.”

“Okay,” D’Agosta said wearily, making notations. “You’re reporting noises in Data Processing.”

“No, sir, Data Processing’s upstairs. This is the Computer Room. We monitor the hardware, do systems work.”

“The Computer Room, then.” He scribbled some more. “You first noticed these noises when?”

“A few minutes after ten. We were just finishing up our journals.”

“You were reading the paper when you heard the noises?”

“No, sir. The journal tapes. We were just finishing our daily backup.”

“I see. You were just finishing at ten o’clock?”

“The backups can’t be done during peak hours, sir. [173] We have special permission to come in at six in the morning.”

“Lucky you. And you heard these noises where?”

“They were coming from the Electrical Room.”

“And that is—?”

“The door to the left of the MP-3. That’s the computer, sir.”

“I saw two doors in there.” D’Agosta said. “What’s behind the other one?”