Reliquary

Well, Smithback thought, interesting to see how mob mentality affects all classes. He couldn’t remember having seen quite so brief or so fine a display of mob oratory as Mrs. Wisher’s. As the sense of menace faded and the crowd began dissolving into seething knots, the journalist threaded his way toward a park bench to jot down his impressions while they were fresh. Then he checked his watch: five-thirty. He stood up and began trotting northwest through the Park. Better get in position, just in case.

= 15 =

AS MARGO JOGGED around the corner onto 65th Street, her portable radio tuned to an all-news cha

“Oh,” she panted, snapping off the radio and tugging the speakers from her ears. “It’s you.”

Smithback reared back, mock incredulity flooding his features. “Can it be? ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,’ indeed, is a thankless friend. All we’ve been through together—all that vast shared reservoir of memories—and I merit just an ‘Oh, it’s you’?”

“I keep trying to put that vast reservoir of memories behind me,” Margo said, stuffing the radio into her carryall and bending forward to massage her calves. “Besides, whenever you run into me these days, it’s to talk about one subject: My Career and How Great It Is.”

“ ‘A hit, a palpable hit.’ ” Smithback shrugged. “Fair enough. So let’s pretend I’m here to make amends, Lotus Blossom. Let me buy you a drink.” He eyed her appreciatively. “My, my, you’re looking good these days. Going for the Miss Universe title?”

Margo straightened up. “I’ve got things to do.”

He caught hold of her arm as she maneuvered past him toward the door. “Café des Artistes,” he said teasingly.

Margo stopped and sighed. “Very well,” she said with a slight smile, disengaging her arm. “I’m not cheap, but I guess I can be had. Give me a few minutes to shower and change.”

They entered the venerable cafe through the lobby of the Hotel des Artistes. Smithback nodded at the maître d’hôtel, and they made their way toward the quiet old bar.

“Looks good,” Margo said, nodding toward the quiche tray that was waiting to make its rounds among the tables.

“Hey, I said a drink, not an eight-course di

“I think the redhead likes me,” he said, winking and pointing his thumb at the painting. An ancient waiter, his face creased by wrinkles and a perpetual smile, came by and took their drink orders.

“I like this place,” Smithback said as the waiter shuffled away, a study in white and black. “They’re nice to you in here. I hate waiters who make you feel like low-class shit.” He caught Margo in an interrogating gaze. “So. Quiz time. Have you read all my articles since last we met?”

“I’ll have to plead the fifth on that,” Margo replied. “But I did see your pieces on Pamela Wisher. I thought the second article was especially well done. I liked the way you made her out to be a real human being, not just something to exploit. New tack for you, isn’t it?”

“That’s my Margo,” Smithback said. The waiter returned with their drinks and a bowl of filberts, then departed. “I just came from the rally, actually,” Smithback continued. “That Mrs. Wisher is a formidable woman.”

Margo nodded. “I heard about it on NPR just now. Sounds wild. I wonder if this Mrs. Wisher realizes what she’s unleashed.”

“It became almost scary toward the end. The rich and influential have suddenly discovered the power of the vulgus mobile.”

Margo laughed, still careful not to drop her guard. You had to be wary around Smithback. For all she knew, he had a tape recorder ru

“It’s strange,” Smithback continued.

“What is?”

He shrugged. “How little it takes—a few drinks, maybe the stimulant of being part of a mob—to strip a group of its upper-class veneer, make it ugly and violent.”

“If you knew about anthropology,” Margo said, “you wouldn’t be so surprised. Besides, from what I heard that crowd wasn’t as uniformly upper-crust as some of the press like to think.” She took another sip and sat back. “Anyway, I assume this isn’t just a friendly drink. I’ve never known you to spend money without an ulterior motive.”

Smithback put down his glass, looking genuinely wounded. “I’m surprised. I really am. That doesn’t sound like the Margo I knew. I hardly see you these days. When I do, you talk this kind of trash. And just look at you: all muscled up like some gazelle. Where’s the frumpy, slope-shouldered Margo I used to know and love? What’s happened to you, anyway?”

Margo started to reply, then paused. God only knew what Smithback would say if he knew she now carried a pistol in her carryall. What has happened to me? she wondered. But even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. It’s true, she hadn’t seen much of Smithback. But it was for the same reason she hadn’t seen much of her old mentor, Dr. Frock. Or Kawakita, or Pendergast the FBI agent, or anyone she’d known from her earlier days at the Museum. The memories they all shared were still too fresh, too dreadful. The nightmares that still troubled her sleep were bad enough; the last thing she’d wanted was more reminders of that terrible ordeal.

But even as she pondered, Smithback’s hurt expression dissolved into a smile. “Oh, God, there’s no point in dissembling,” he cackled. “You know me too well. There is an ulterior motive. I know what you’ve been doing, working late at the Museum.”

Margo froze. How had it leaked? But then she checked herself; Smithback was a clever fisherman, and there might be less bait on his line than he was letting on.

“I thought as much,” she said. “So exactly what am I doing, and how did you find out about it?”

Smithback shrugged. “I have my sources. You of all people should remember that. I looked up some old Museum friends and learned that Pamela Wisher’s body, and the unidentified body, were brought to the Museum last Thursday. You and Frock are assisting in the autopsies.”

Margo said nothing.

“Don’t worry, this is not for attribution,” Smithback said.

“I think I’ve finished my drink,” said Margo. “Time to go.” She stood up.

“Wait.” Smithback put a restraining hand on her wrist. “There’s one thing I don’t know. Was the reason you were called in the teeth marks on the bones?”

Margo jerked around. “How did you know that?” she demanded.

Smithback gri

She sat down again. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

The journalist shrugged. “It wasn’t all guesswork. I knew the bodies had been brought to the Museum. And if you read my interview with Mephisto, the underground leader, you know what he said about ca

Margo shook her head. “You can’t print it, Bill.”

“Why not? They’ll never know it came from you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she snapped. “Think, just for one moment, beyond your next deadline. Can you imagine what a story like that could do to the city? And how about your new friend, Mrs. Wisher? She doesn’t know. What do you suppose she’d say if she knew her daughter was not only murdered and decapitated, but partially devoured, as well?”

A look of pain briefly crossed Smithback’s face. “I know all that. But it’s news, Margo.”

“Delay it one day.”

“Why?”

Margo hesitated.

“You’d better give me a reason, Lotus Blossom,” Smithback urged.