Margo cocked her head questioningly. "Oh, really? How's that?"
"Nora was the heroine of my book Thunderhead."
"Oh. Sorry. Haven't read it."
Smithback kept smiling gamely. "What's it like to be back at the museum?"
"It's changed a lot since we were first there."
Smithback felt Nora's gaze upon him. He wondered if she assumed Margo was an old girlfriend and that perhaps there were certain salty things he'd left out of his memoirs.
"Seems like ages ago," Margo went on.
"It was ages ago."
"I often wonder what happened to Lavinia Rickman and Dr. Cuthbert."
"No doubt there's a special circle of hell reserved for those two."
Margo chuckled. "What about that cop D'Agosta? And Agent Pendergast?"
"Don't know about D'Agosta," Smithback said. "But the word around the Times foreign desk is that Pendergast went missing under mysterious circumstances a few months ago. Flew to Italy on assignment and never came back."
A shocked look came over Margo's face. "Really? How strange."
A brief silence settled over the table.
"Anyway," Margo resumed, turning once again to Nora, "I wanted to ask your help."
"Sure," Nora said. "What is it?"
"I'm about to publish an editorial on the importance of repatriating Great Kiva masks to the Tano tribe. You know about their request?"
"I do. I've also read the editorial. It's circulating the department in draft."
"Naturally, I've run into opposition from the museum administration, Collopy in particular. I've started contacting all the members of the Anthropology Department to see if I can build a united front. The independence of Museology must be maintained, and those masks must be returned. We've got to be together on this as a department."
"What is it you want me to do?" asked Nora.
"I'm not circulating a petition or anything quite so overt. I'm just asking for informal support from members of the department if it comes to a showdown. A verbal assurance. That's all."
Smithback grinned. "Sure, no problem, you can always count on Nora-"
"Just a minute," Nora said.
Smithback fell silent, surprised at the sharp tone.
"Margo was speaking to me," Nora said dryly.
"Right." Smithback hastily smoothed down an unrepentant cowlick and retreated to his drink.
Nora turned to Margo with a rather chilly smile. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to help."
Smithback stared from Nora to Margo in surprise.
"May I ask why not?" Margo asked calmly.
"Because I don't agree with you."
"But it's obvious that those Great Kiva masks belong to the Tanos-"
Nora held up a hand. "Margo, I am thoroughly familiar with them and with your arguments. In one sense, you're right. They belonged to the Tano and they shouldn't have been collected. But now they belong to all of humanity-they've become a part of the human record. What's more, taking those masks out of the Sacred Images exhibition would be devastating this late in the game-and I'm one of the curators of the show. Finally, I'm a southwestern archaeologist by training. If we started giving back every sacred item in the museum, there'd be nothing left. Everything is sacred to Native Americans-that's one of the beautiful things about Native American culture." She paused. "Look, what's done is done, the world is the way it is, and not all wrongs can be righted. I'm sorry I can't give you a better answer, but there it is. I have to be honest."
"But the issue of editorial freedom…"
"I'm with you one hundred percent on that one. Publish your editorial. But don't ask me to back your arguments. And don't ask the department to endorse your private opinions."
With that, Margo stared first at Nora, then at Smithback.
Smithback grinned nervously, took another sip of his drink.
Margo rose. "Thank you for your directness."
"You're welcome."
She turned to Smithback. "It's great to see you again, Bill."
"Sure thing," he mumbled.
He watched Margo walk away. Then he realized Nora's gaze was on him.
" 'Lotus Blossom'?" she said tartly.
"It was just a joke."
"Former girlfriend of yours?"
"No, never," he replied hastily.
"You're sure about that?"
"Not even a kiss."
"I'm glad to hear it. I can't stand that woman." She turned to stare at Margo's departing figure. Then she looked back. "And to think she hasn't read Thunderhead. I mean, that's much better than some of the earlier stuff you wrote. I'm sorry, Bill, but that book Relic-well, let's just say you've matured a lot as a writer."
"Hey, what was wrong with Relic?"
She picked up her fork and finished her meal in silence.
FOURTEEN
When D'Agosta arrived at the Omeleteria, Hayward had already taken their usual booth by the window. He hadn't seen her for twenty-four hours-she'd pulled an all-nighter at the office. He paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking at her. The morning sunlight had turned her glossy black hair almost blue, given her pale skin the sheen of fine marble. She was industriously making notes on a Pocket PC, chewing her lower lip, brow knitted in concentration. Just seeing her sent a throb of affection through him so sharp it was almost painful.
He didn't know if he was going to be able to do this.
She looked up suddenly, as if aware of his gaze. The look of concentration vanished and a smile broke over her beautiful features.
"Vinnie," she said as he approached. "Sorry I missed your lasagna napoletana."
He kissed her, then took a seat opposite. "It's okay. Lasagna's lasagna. I'm worried you're working too hard."
"Nature of the business."
Just then a skinny waitress came up, placed an egg white omelette before Hayward, started to refill her coffee cup.
"Just leave the pot, please," Hayward said.
The waitress nodded, turned to D'Agosta. "Need a menu, hon?"
"No. Give me two fried eggs, over well, with rye toast."
"I went ahead and ordered," Hayward said, taking a gulp of her coffee. "Hope you don't mind. I've got to get back to the office and-"
"You're going back?"
Hayward frowned, gave her head a single vigorous shake. "I'll rest tonight."
"Pressure from on high?"
"There's always pressure from on high. No, it's the case itself. I just can't get a handle on it."
D'Agosta watched as she tucked into her omelet, feeling the dismay grow inside him. Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me may die, Pendergast had told him the night before. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward. He glanced around the coffee shop, looking at the faces, looking for one bluish-white, one hazel eye. But, of course, Diogenes would be wearing contacts, disguising his most striking characteristic.
"Why don't you tell me about the case?" he asked as easily as he could.
She took another bite, dabbed at her mouth. "The autopsy results came back. No surprise there. Duchamp died of massive internal injuries resulting from his fall. Several pharyngeal bones were fractured, but the hanging itself didn't cause death: the spinal cord had not been severed and asphyxiation hadn't yet occurred. And here's the first of many weird things. The rope had been cut almost through beforehand with a very sharp blade. The killer wanted it to part during the hanging."
D'Agosta felt himself go cold. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner…
"Duchamp was initially subdued in his apartment, then tied up. There was a contusion on the left temple, but the head itself was so badly crushed in the fall we can't be certain that's what caused all the blood in the apartment. But get this: the contusion had been doctored and bandaged, apparently by the killer."