The drinks came, and Smithback tossed his off and exhaled with gusto.
“Someday I’ll get that bitch,” he said.
= 22 =
Beauregard finished the entry, then stuffed his notebook in a back pocket. He knew he really ought to call the incident in. Hell with it. That girl had looked so scared, it was obvious she wasn’t up to anything. He’d make his report when he got the chance, and no sooner.
Beauregard was in a bad mood. He didn’t like door-shaker duty. Still, it beat directing traffic at a broken light. And it made a good impression down at O’Ryans. Yeah, he would say, I’m assigned to the Museum case. Sorry, can’t talk about it.
For a museum, this place is damn quiet, Beauregard thought. He supposed on a normal day the Museum would be bustling with activity. But the Museum hadn’t been normal since Sunday. At least during the day, staff members had come in and out of the new exhibition halls. But then, they’d closed it off for the opening. Except with written permission from Dr. Cuthbert, you couldn’t get in unless you were police or security on official business. Thank God his shift ended at six and [150] he could look forward to two days away from this place. A solo fishing trip to the Catskills. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks.
Beauregard ran his hand reassuringly along the holster of his S&W .38 special. Ready for action, as always. And on his other hip, a shot-shell pistol loaded with enough capstun to bring an elephant to its knees.
Behind him, Beauregard heard a muffled pattering sound.
He spun around, heart suddenly racing, to face the closed doors of the exhibition. He located a key, unlocked the doors, and peered in.
“Who’s there?”
Only a cool breeze fanned his cheek.
He let the doors close and tested the lock. You could come out, but you couldn’t go in. That girl must have gone in through the front entrance. But wasn’t that kept locked, too? They never told him anything.
The sound came again.
Well, hell, he thought, it ain’t my job to check inside. Can’t let anyone into the exhibition. Never said anything about anyone coming out.
Beauregard started humming a tune, tapping the beat on his thigh with two fingers. Ten more minutes and he’d be out of this frigging spookhouse.
The sound came again.
Beauregard unlocked the doors a second time, and stuck his head deep inside. He could see some dim shapes: exhibition cases, a gloomy-looking entranceway. “This is a police officer. You in there, please respond.”
The cases were dark, the walls vague shadows. No answer.
Withdrawing, Beauregard pulled out his radio. “Beauregard to Ops, do you copy?”
“This is TDN. What’s up?”
“Reporting noises at the exhibition’s rear exit.”
“What kind of noises?”
“Uncertain. Sounds like someone’s in there.”
[151] There was some talk and a stifled laugh.
“Uh ... Fred?”
“What?” Beauregard was growing more irritated by the minute. The dispatcher in the situation room was a first-class asshole.
“Better not go in there.”
“Why not?”
“It might be the monster, Fred. Might get you.”
“Go to hell,” Fred muttered under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to investigate anything without backup, and the dispatcher knew it.
A scratching noise came from behind the doors, as if something with nails was scrabbling against it. Beauregard felt his breath come hard and fast.
His radio squawked. “Seen the monster yet?” came the voice.
Trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, Beauregard said: “Repeat, reporting unidentified sounds in the exhibition. Request backup to investigate.”
“He wants backup.” There was the sound of muffled laughter. “Fred, we don’t have any backup. Everyone’s busy.”
“Listen,” said Beauregard, losing his temper. “Who’s that with you? Why don’t you send him down?”
“McNitt. He’s on a coffee break. Right, McNitt?”
Beauregard heard some more laughter.
Beauregard switched off the radio. Fuck those guys, he thought. Some professionalism. He just hoped the Lieutenant was listening in on that frequency.
He waited in the dark hallway. Five more minutes and I’m history.
“TDN calling Beauregard. You read?”
“Ten-four,” said Beauregard.
“McNitt there yet?”
“No,” said Beauregard. “He finally finish his coffee break?”
[152] “Hey, I was just kidding around,” TDN said a little nervously. “I sent him right up.”
“Well, he’s lost, then,” said Beauregard. “And my duty ends in five minutes. I’m off the next forty-eight, and nothing’s going to interfere with that. You better radio him.”
“He isn’t reading,” said TDN.
An idea suddenly occurred to Beauregard. “How did McNitt go? Did he take the Section 17 elevator, the one behind the sit room?”
“Yep, that’s what I told him. Section 17 elevator. I got this map, same one you have.”
“So in order to get here he has to go through the exhibition. That was real smart. You should have sent him up through food services.”
“Hey, don’t talk to me about smart, Freddy boy. He’s the one who’s lost. Call me when he arrives.”
“One way or another, I’m outta here in five minutes,” said Beauregard. “It’ll be Effinger’s headache then. Over and out.”
That was when Beauregard heard a sudden commotion from the exhibition. There was a sound like a muffled thud. Jesus, he thought, McNitt. He unlocked the doors and went in, unsnapping the holster of his .38.
TDN placed another doughnut in his mouth and chewed, swallowing it with a mouthful of coffee. The radio hissed.
“McNitt to Ops. Come in, TDN.”
“Ten-four. Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at the rear entrance. Beauregard ain’t here. I can’t raise him or anything.”
“Lemme try.” He punched the transmitter. “TDN calling Beauregard. Fred, come in. TDN calling Beauregard ... Hey, McNitt, I think he got pissed off and went home. His shift just ended. How did you get up there, anyway?”
“I went the way you said, but when I got to the front [153] end of the exhibition it was locked, so I had to go around. Didn’t have my keys. Got a little lost.”
“Stay tight, all right? His relief should arrive any minute. Effinger, it says here. Radio me when he arrives and then come on back.”
“Here comes Effinger now. You gonna report Beauregard?” McNitt asked.
“You kidding? I’m no damn baby-sitter.”
= 23 =
D’Agosta looked over at Pendergast, reclining in the shabby backseat of the Buick. Jesus, he thought, a guy like Pendergast ought to pull at least a late model Town Car. Instead, they gave him a four-year-old Buick and a driver who could barely speak English.
Pendergast’s eyes were half closed.
“Turn on Eighty-sixth and take the Central Park transverse,” shouted D’Agosta.
The driver swerved across two lanes of Central Park West and roared into the transverse.
“Take Fifth to Sixty-fifth and go across,” said D’Agosta. “Then go one block north on Third and take a right at Sixty-sixth.”
“Fifty-nine faster,” said the driver, in a thick Middle Eastern accent.
“Not in the evening rush hour,” called D’Agosta. Christ, they couldn’t even find a driver who knew his way around the city.
[155] As the car swerved and rattled down the avenue, the driver flew on past Sixty-fifth Street.
“What the hell are you doing?” said D’Agosta. “You just missed Sixty-fifth.”