“Look at this,” Kawakita said, sliding something in Smithback’s direction. It was an engraved illustration of a family tree, etched in brown ink on hand-marbled paper. The branches of the tree were labeled with various Latin words.
“Nice,” said Smithback, taking a seat.
“That’s one word for it, I guess,” Kawakita replied.
[166] “A mid-nineteenth century view of human evolution. An artistic masterpiece, but a scientific travesty. I’m working on a little piece for the Human Evolution Quarterlyabout early evolutionary views.”
“When will it be published?” Smithback asked with professional interest.
“Oh, early next year. These journals are so slow.”
Smithback put the chart down on the desk. “So what does all this have to do with your current work—the GRE, or the SAT, or whatever it is?”
“G.S.E., actually.” Kawakita laughed. “Nothing whatsoever. This is just a little idea I had, some after-hours fun. I still enjoy getting my hands dirty from time to time.” He replaced the chart carefully in a binder, then turned toward the writer. “So, how’s the masterwork coming along?” he asked. “Is Madame Rickman still giving you a hard time?”
Smithback laughed. “Guess my struggles under the tyrant are common knowledge by now. But that’s a book in itself. Actually, I came by to talk to you about Margo.”
Kawakita took a seat across from Smithback. “Margo Green? What about her?
Smithback started paging aimlessly through one of the monographs scattered about the worktable. “I understand she needs your help on something.”
Kawakita’s eyes narrowed. “She called last night, asking if she could run some data through the Extrapolation program. I told her it wasn’t ready yet.” He shrugged. “Technically, that’s true. I can’t vouch one hundred percent for the accuracy of its correlations. But I’m terribly busy these days, Bill. I just don’t have the time to shepherd somebody through the program.”
“She’s not exactly some scientific illiterate you need to lead around by the nose,” Smithback replied. “She’s doing some heavy-duty genetics research of her own. You must see her around this lab all the time.” He pushed the monographs aside and leaned forward. “It [167] might not hurt to cut the kid a break,” he said. “It isn’t exactly an easy time for her. Her father died about two weeks ago, you know.”
Kawakita looked surprised. “Really? Is that what you were talking about in the staff lounge?”
Smithback nodded. “She hasn’t said much, but it’s been a struggle. She’s considering leaving the Museum.”
“That would be a mistake,” Kawakita frowned. He started to say something, then stopped abruptly. He leaned back in his chair and gave Smithback a long, appraising look. “This is a mighty altruistic gesture on your part, Bill.” He pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Bill Smithback, the good Samaritan. New image for you, eh?”
“That’s William Smithback Jr. to you.”
“Bill Smithback, the Eagle Scout,” Kawakita continued. Then he shook his head. “Nope, it just doesn’t ring true. You didn’t really come down here to talk about Margo, did you?”
Smithback hesitated. “Well, that was one of my reasons,” he admitted.
“I knew it!” Kawakita crowed. “Come on, out with it.”
“Oh, all right,” Smithback sighed. “Listen: I’m trying to get some information on the Whittlesey expedition.”
“The what?”
“The South American expedition that brought back the Mbwun figurine. You know, the showpiece for the new exhibition.”
Recognition flooded Kawakita’s face. “Oh, yes. That’s the one old man Smith must have been talking about in the herbarium the other day. What about it?”
“Well, we think there’s some kind of link between that expedition and these murders.”
“What?” Kawakita said incredulously. “Don’t tell [168] me you’restarting up with this Museum Beast stuff. And what do you mean, ‘we’?”
“I’m not saying I believe anything, okay?” Smithback replied evasively. “But I’ve been hearing a lot of strange stuff recently. And Rickman’s all tense about having the Mbwun figurine in the exhibition. Other things came back from that expedition besides this one relic—several crates, in fact. I want to find out more about them.”
“And what, exactly, do I have to do with all of this?” Kawakita asked.
“Nothing. But you’re an Assistant Curator. You have high-security access to the Museum computer. You can query the accession database, find out about those crates.”
“I doubt they’ve even been logged,” Kawakita said. “But either way, it wouldn’t matter.”
“Why not?” Smithback asked.
Kawakita laughed. “Wait here a minute.” He stood up and headed for the lab. In a few minutes he returned, a piece of paper in one hand.
“You must be psychic,” he said, handing over the paper. “Look what I found in my mail this morning.”
NEW YORK MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY
INTERNAL MEMORANDUM
To: Curators and Senior Staff
From: Lavinia Rickman
CC: Wright, Lewallen, Cuthbert, Lafore
As a result of recent unfortunate events, the Museum is under intense scrutiny by the media and by the public in general. This being the case, I [169] wanted to take the opportunity to review the Museum’s policy on external communications.
Any dealings with the press are to be handled through the Museum’s public relations office. No comments on Museum matters are to be made, either on or off the record, to journalists or other members of the media. Any statements made or assistance given to individuals who are engaged in preparing interviews, documentaries, books, articles, etc. dealing with the Museum are to be cleared through this office. Failure to follow these guidelines will result in disciplinary action from the Director’s Office.
Thank you for your cooperation in this difficult time.
“Christ,” muttered Smithback. “Look at this. ‘Individuals engaged in preparing books.’ ”
“She means you, Bill,” Kawakita laughed. “So you ace? My hands are tied.” He extracted a handkerchief From his back pocket and blew his nose. “Allergic to bone dust,” he explained.
“I just can’t believe this,” Smithback said, rereading the memo.
Kawakita clapped an arm around Smithback’s shoulder “Bill, my friend, I know this story would make great copy. And I’d like to help you write the most controversial, outrageous, and salacious book possible. Only I can’t. I’ll be honest. I’ve got a career here, and—” he tightened his grip “—I’m coming up for tenure. I can’t afford to make those kinds of waves right now. You’ll have to go some other route. Okay?”
Smithback nodded with resignation. “Okay.”
“You look unconvinced,” Kawakita laughed. “But I’m glad you understand, anyway.” He gently propelled the writer to his feet. “I’ll tell you what. How about a [170] little fishing on Sunday? They’re predicting an early hatch on the Connetquot.”
Smithback finally grinned. “Tie me some of your devilish little nymphs,” he said. “You’re on.”
= 26 =
D’Agosta was all the way on the other side of the Museum when yet another call came in. Emergency sighting, Section 18, Computer Room.
He sighed, shoving his radio back into its holster, thinking of his tired feet. Everyone in the damn place was seeing bogeymen.
A dozen people were crowding the hall outside the Computer Room, joking nervously. Two uniformed officers were standing by the closed door. “Okay,” said D’Agosta, unwrapping a cigar. “Who saw it?”
A young man edged forward. White lab coat, slope-shouldered, Coke bottle glasses, calculator and pager dangling off the belt. Cripes, thought D’Agosta, where did they get these guys?He was perfect.
“I didn’t actually seeanything,” he said, “but there was this loud thumping noise in the Electrical Systems Room. It sounded like banging, someone trying to get through the door—”