Relic

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.”

D’Agosta, noting only one other chair in the office, sat down with a grin. Watching Pendergast in action was something he’d grown to enjoy.

“A madman is apparently loose in the Museum, Mr. Coffey,” Pendergast said. “Therefore, Lieutenant D’Agosta and I have both come to the conclusion that tomorrow night’s opening party must not be allowed to proceed. This murderer works at night. He’s well overdue for another attack. We ca

“Yeah,” said Coffey, “well, you’re not responsible [240] anymore. My orders are that the opening proceeds as pla

Pendergast smiled. “Yes, I expected as much. If that’s your decision, so be it. You should know, however, that I will be sending a formal memorandum to the Director, stating my own views on the matter.”

“Do what you want,” Coffey said, “but do it on your own time. Meanwhile, my people will be setting up shop down the hall. I’ll expect a briefing from you at curfew.”

“My closing report is already prepared,” Pendergast said mildly. “Now, Mr. Coffey, is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Coffey said. “I expect full cooperation from you, Pendergast.”

He left the door open behind him.

D’Agosta watched him walk down the hall. “He looks a lot more pissed off now than before you came in,” he said. Then he turned toward Pendergast. “You’re not just going to give in to that jerk-off, are you?”

Pendergast smiled. “Vincent, I’m afraid this had grown inevitable. In a sense, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. This isn’t the first time I’ve trod on Wright’s toes this week. Why should I fight it? This way, at least, no one can accuse us of lack of cooperation.”

“But I thought you had pull.” D’Agosta tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Pendergast spread his hands. “I have quite a bit of pull, as you put it. But remember, I’m off my turf. Because the killings were similar to those I investigated in New Orleans several years ago, I had good cause to be here—as long as there was no controversy, no call for [241] local involvement. But I knew that Dr. Wright and the Governor had been at Brown together. With the Governor making a formal request for FBI intervention, there’s only one possible outcome.”

“But what about the case?” D’Agosta asked. “Coffey’s go

“You assume there’s going to be credit here at all,” Pendergast said. “I have a bad feeling about this opening, Lieutenant. A very bad feeling. I’ve known Coffey for a long time, and he can be relied upon to make a bad situation worse. But you notice, Vincent, that he did not send me packing. That he can’t do.”

“Don’t tell me you’re happy to lose the responsibility,” said D’Agosta. “My main goal in life may be to keep the mower off my ass, but I always figured you different.”

“Vincent, I’m surprised at you,” Pendergast said. “It has nothing to do with shirking responsibility. However, this arrangement does allow me a certain degree of freedom. It’s true that Coffey has the final say, but his ability to direct my actions is limited. The only way I could come up here initially was if I took charge of the case. That tends to make one more circumspect. Now, I’ll be able to follow my own instincts.” He sat back in his chair, fixing D’Agosta with his pale stare. “I would continue to welcome your help. I may need someone inside the department to help expedite a few things.”

D’Agosta looked thoughtful for a few moments. “There’s one thing I could tell about this Coffey right from the get-go,” he said.

“What is that?”

“The guy’s dipped in green shit.”

“Ah, Vincent,” said Pendergast, “you have such a colorful way with words.”

= 35 =

Friday

The office, Smithback noted glumly, looked exactly the same: not a knickknack out of place. He slumped in his chair, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.

Rickman returned from her secretary’s office carrying a slim file, the ubiquitous prim smile frozen on her face. “Tonight’s the night!” she said cheerfully. “Pla

“Yeah, sure,” said Smithback.

She passed him the file. “Read this, Bill,” she said, her voice a little less pleasant.

NEW YORK MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

To:    William Smithback Jr.

From: Lavinia Rickman

Re:    Untitled work on Superstition Exhibition

Effective immediately, and until further notice, your work at the Museum will be governed by the following provisions:

1.      All interviews conducted for the Work in Progress are to be done in my presence.

2.      Recording of interviews by you, or the taking of notes during interviews by you, is forbidden. In the interests of timeliness and consistency, I will take on the responsibility of note-taking myself, and pass the edited scripts on to you for inclusion in the Work in Progress.

3.      Discussion of Museum matters with employees, or any persons encountered upon the Museum grounds, is prohibited without first obtaining my written approval. Please sign in the space provided below to acknowledge your understanding of and agreement to these provisions.

Smithback read it twice, then looked up.

“Well?” she asked, tilting her head. “What do you think?”

“Let me get this straight,” said Smithback. “I’m not even allowed to talk to someone at, say, lunch without your permission?”

“About Museum matters. That is correct,” Rickman said, patting the paisley scarf around her neck.

“Why? Wasn’t that memo you sent around yesterday a big enough ball and chain?”

“Bill, you know why. You’ve proven yourself unreliable.”

“How so?” Smithback said in a strangled voice.

“I understand you’ve been ru

Smithback sat up. “Unfortunate situation!” he exploded. “Why don’t you call it what it is: murder!”

“Please don’t raise your voice in my office,” Rickman said.

“You hired me to write a book, not crank out a three-hundred-page press release. There’s been a string of brutal murders in the week before the Museum’s biggest opening ever. You mean to tell me that’s not part of the story?”