Reliquary (Pendergast, Book 2) (Relic) Read online

  “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!”

  She stood back from the microphone, collecting herself. A murmur of anger was beginning to ripple through the crowd. This woman had the simplicity and dignity of a born orator. Smithback held his cassette recorder higher, scenting another front-page story.

  “The time has come,” Mrs. Wisher said, her voice rising once again, “to take back our city. To take it back for our children and grandchildren. If it means executing drug dealers, if it means erecting a billion dollars in new prison space, it must be done. This is war. If you don’t believe me, look at the statistics. Every day they are killing us. One thousand nine hundred murders in New York City last year. Five murders a day. We are at war, my friends, and we are losing. Now we must fight back with everything we’ve got. Street by street, block by block, from Battery Park to the Cloisters, from East End Avenue to Riverside Drive, we must take back our city!”

  The angry murmur had grown. Smithback noticed that more younger men were now joining the throng, attracted by the noise and the crowd. Hip flasks and pint bottles of Wild Turkey were being passed around. Gentlemen bankers, my ass, he thought.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Wisher turned and pointed. Smithback turned to see a flurry of activity beyond the barricade: a sleek black limousine had pulled up, and the mayor, a small balding man in a dark suit, stepped out, accompanied by several aides. Smithback waited, eager to see what would happen. The size of this rally had obviously taken the mayor by surprise, and now he was scrambling to get involved, to show his concern.

  “The mayor of New York!” Mrs. Wisher cried as the mayor made his way toward the podium with the help of several policemen. “Here he is, come to speak to us!”

  The voice of the crowd rose.

  “But he shall not speak!” cried Mrs. Wisher. “We want action, Mr. Mayor, not talk!”

  The crowd roared.

  “Action!” she cried. “Not talk!”

  “Action!” roared the crowd. The young men began jeering and whistling.

  The mayor was stepping up to the podium now, smiling and waving. It appeared to Smithback that the mayor was asking Mrs. Wisher for the microphone. She took a step backward. “We don’t want to hear another speech!” she cried. “We don’t want to hear any more bullshit!” And with that she ripped the microphone out of its plug and stepped down from the platform, leaving the mayor standing alone above the crowd, a plastic smile frozen on his face, deprived of any possibility of being heard over the roar.

  More than anything, it was her final expletive that caused the crowd to explode. A great unintelligible roar rose up and the crowd surged toward the podium. Smithback watched, a strange sensation rippling up his spine as the assembled group turned dangerously angry before his eyes. Several empty liquor bottles came sailing toward the stage, one shattering not five feet from the mayor. The groups of younger men had consolidated into a single body, and they began muscling their way toward the stage, cursing and jeering. Smithback caught a few isolated words: Asshole. Faggot. Liberal scum. More pieces of trash came flying out of the crowd, and the mayor’s aides, realizing all was lost, quickly hustled him off the stage and back into his limousine.

  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 channel, she stopped short, surprised to see a familiar lanky form lounging against the front railing of her apartment building, cowlick rearing above the long face like a brunette antler.

  “Oh,” she panted, snapping off the radio and tugging t
he 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 dinner.” Smithback selected a table, positioning himself beneath the Howard Chandler Christy painting of naked women frolicking tastefully in a garden.

  “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 running in his pocket as they spoke.

  “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 upperclass 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 grinned in triumph and Margo realized, with a sinking feeling, how expertly she had been baited. He’d been guessing, after all. But her reaction had confirmed it.

  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 cannibals living beneath Manhattan.”

  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.

  Margo sighed. “Oh, very well. Because the teeth marks may be canine. Apparently, the bodies were lying underground for a long time before they were washed out in a storm. Probably some stray dog took a few bites out of them.”

  Smithback’s face fell. “You mean it wasn’t cannibals?”

  Margo shook her head. “Sorry to disappoint you. We should know tomorrow, when the lab tests are finished. Then you can have the exclusive, I promise. We have a meeting scheduled at the Museum for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll talk to Frock and D’Agosta about it myself afterward.”

  “But what difference will a day make?”

  “I already told you. Break the story now and you’ll cause an unholy panic. You saw those Upper Crusters out there today; you said so yourself. What happens if they think some kind of monster is loose—another Mbwun, say—or some weird cannibalistic serial killer? Then the next day we’ll announce it was a dog bite and you’ll lo
ok like an idiot. You’ve already pissed off the police with that reward business. If you panic the city for no reason, they’ll ride you out of town on a rail.”

  Smithback sat back. “Hmm.”

  “Wait just one day, Bill,” Margo pleaded. “It’s not a story yet.”

  Smithback was silent, thinking. “All right,” he said at last, grudgingly. “All my instincts tell me I’m crazy. But you can have one more day. Then I get an exclusive, remember. No leaking the story to anyone.”

  Margo smiled slightly. “Don’t worry.”

  They sat for a moment in silence. At last, Margo sighed. “Earlier, you asked what’s happened to me. I don’t know. I guess these killings are just bringing back all the bad memories.”

  “The Museum Beast, you mean,” Smithback said. He was methodically attacking the bowl of filberts. “That was a tough time.”

  “I guess you could put it that way.” Margo shrugged. “After all that happened … well, I just wanted to put everything behind me. I was having bad dreams, waking up in a cold sweat night after night. After I went to Columbia, things got better. I thought it was over. But then I came back to the Museum; all this started happening …” She fell silent for a moment.

  “Bill,” she said suddenly. “Do you know whatever happened to Gregory Kawakita?”

  “Greg?” Smithback asked. He’d finished the bowl of filberts and was turning it over in his hands, as if looking for more underneath. “Haven’t seen him since he took that leave of absence from the Museum. Why?” His eyes narrowed craftily. “You and he didn’t have a thing going, did you?”

  Margo waved her hand dismissively. “No, nothing like that. If anything, we were always in competition for Dr. Frock’s attention. It’s just that he tried to reach me once, several months ago, and I never followed through. I think maybe he was sick or something. His voice sounded different than I remembered it. Anyway, I was feeling kind of guilty about it, so I finally looked him up in the Manhattan directory. He’s not listed. I was curious if he’d moved away, maybe gotten a position elsewhere.”