Pendergast spread his hands. “I have quite a bit of pull, as you put it. But remember, I’m off my turf. Because the killings were similar to those I investigated in New Orleans several years ago, I had good cause to be here—as long as there was no controversy, no call for [241] local involvement. But I knew that Dr. Wright and the Governor had been at Brown together. With the Governor making a formal request for FBI intervention, there’s only one possible outcome.”
“But what about the case?” D’Agosta asked. “Coffey’s gonna build on all the work you’ve done, and take the credit himself.”
“You assume there’s going to be credit here at all,” Pendergast said. “I have a bad feeling about this opening, Lieutenant. A very bad feeling. I’ve known Coffey for a long time, and he can be relied upon to make a bad situation worse. But you notice, Vincent, that he did notsend me packing. That he can’t do.”
“Don’t tell me you’re happy to lose the responsibility,” said D’Agosta. “ Mymain goal in life may be to keep the mower off my ass, but I always figured you different.”
“Vincent, I’m surprised at you,” Pendergast said. “It has nothing to do with shirking responsibility. However, this arrangement does allow me a certain degree of freedom. It’s true that Coffey has the final say, but his ability to direct myactions is limited. The only way I could come up here initially was if I took charge of the case. That tends to make one more circumspect. Now, I’ll be able to follow my own instincts.” He sat back in his chair, fixing D’Agosta with his pale stare. “I would continue to welcome your help. I may need someone inside the department to help expedite a few things.”
D’Agosta looked thoughtful for a few moments. “There’s one thing I could tell about this Coffey right from the get-go,” he said.
“What is that?”
“The guy’s dipped in green shit.”
“Ah, Vincent,” said Pendergast, “you have such a colorful way with words.”
= 35 =
Friday
The office, Smithback noted glumly, looked exactly the same: not a knickknack out of place. He slumped in his chair, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.
Rickman returned from her secretary’s office carrying a slim file, the ubiquitous prim smile frozen on her face. “Tonight’s the night!” she said cheerfully. “Planning to attend?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Smithback.
She passed him the file. “Read this, Bill,” she said, her voice a little less pleasant.
NEW YORK MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY
INTERNAL MEMORANDUM
To: William Smithback Jr.
From: Lavinia Rickman
Re: Untitled work on SuperstitionExhibition
Effective immediately, and until further notice, your work at the Museum will be governed by the following provisions:
1. All interviews conducted for the Work in Progress are to be done in my presence.
2. Recording of interviews by you, or the taking of notes during interviews by you, is forbidden. In the interests of timeliness and consistency, I will take on the responsibility of note-taking myself, and pass the edited scripts on to you for inclusion in the Work in Progress.
3. Discussion of Museum matters with employees, or any persons encountered upon the Museum grounds, is prohibited without first obtaining my written approval. Please sign in the space provided below to acknowledge your understanding of and agreement to these provisions.
Smithback read it twice, then looked up.
“Well?” she asked, tilting her head. “What do you think?”
“Let me get this straight,” said Smithback. “I’m not even allowed to talk to someone at, say, lunch without your permission?”
“About Museum matters. That is correct,” Rickman said, patting the paisley scarf around her neck.
“Why? Wasn’t that memo you sent around yesterday a big enough ball and chain?”
“Bill, you know why. You’ve proven yourself unreliable.”
“How so?” Smithback said in a strangled voice.
“I understand you’ve been running wild all over the Museum, talking to people you have no business with, asking absurd questions about matters that do not pertain to the new exhibition. If you think you can gather [244] information about the ... ah ... recent circumstances that have occurred, then I must remind you of paragraph seventeen of your contract, which forbids the use of any information not authorized by myself. Nothing, I repeat, nothingrelated to the unfortunate situation will be authorized.”
Smithback sat up. “Unfortunate situation!” he exploded. “Why don’t you call it what it is: murder!”
“Please don’t raise your voice in my office,” Rickman said.
“You hired me to write a book, not crank out a three-hundred-page press release. There’s been a string of brutal murders in the week before the Museum’s biggest opening ever. You mean to tell me that’s not part of the story?”
I and I alone define what will be in this book and what will not. Understood?”
“No.”
Rickman stood up. “This is growing tiresome. You will either sign this document now, or you will be terminated.”
“Terminated? What, do you mean shot or fired?”
“I will not stand for that kind of levity in my office. Either sign this agreement, or I will accept your resignation immediately.”
“Fine,” Smithback said. “I’ll simply take my manuscript to a commercial publisher. You need this book as much as I do. And you and I both know I could get a huge advance for the inside story on the Museum murders. And, believe me, I know the inside story. All of it.”
Rickman’s face was ghastly, yet still she held her smile. Her knuckles whitened against her desk.
“That would be a violation of your contract,” she said slowly. “The Museum has the Wall Street law firm of Daniels, Soller and McCabe on retainer. Undoubtedly you’ve heard of them. Should you take such action, you would instantly be party to a breach of contract lawsuit, [245] as would your agent and any publisher foolish enough to sign a contract with you. We’d bring everything we have to bear on this case, and I wouldn’t be surprised if, after you lose, you never find work in your chosen field again.”
“This is a gross violation of my First Amendment rights,” Smithback managed to croak out.
“Not at all. We would merely be seeking remedy for breach of contract. Nothing heroic in it for you, and it wouldn’t even make the Times. If you are really thinking of taking this course of action, Bill, I’d consult a good lawyer first and show him the contract you signed with us. I’m sure he’ll tell you it’s as airtight as they come. Or if you’d prefer, I’ll accept your resignation right now.” She opened a desk drawer and extracted a second piece of paper, leaving the drawer open as she did so.
Her intercom buzzed noisily. “Mrs. Rickman? Dr. Wright on line one.”
Rickman picked up the telephone. “Yes, Winston. What? The Postagain? Yes, I’ll talk to them. You sent for Ippolito? Good.”
She hung up and went to the office door. “Make sure Ippolito’s on his way to the Director’s office,” she said to her secretary. “As for you, Bill, I don’t have any more time to bandy civilities. If you won’t sign the agreement, then pack your things and get out.”
Smithback had grown very quiet. All of a sudden, he smiled. “Mrs. Rickman, I see your point.”
She leaned toward him, simpering, eyes bright. “And—?” she prompted.
“I’ll agree to the restrictions,” he said.
Rickman moved back behind her desk, triumphant. “Bill, I’m very glad I won’t need to use this.” She put the second sheet of paper back in her drawer and closed it. “I suppose you’re intelligent enough to know you have no choice.”
Meeting her eyes, Smithback reached for the folder. [246] “You don’t mind if I read this over again before I sign, do you?”
Rickman hesitated. “No, I suppose not. Although you’ll find it says exactly what it did the first time you read it. There’s no room for misinterpretation, so please don’t look for gray areas.” She looked around the office, swept up her pocketbook, and headed for the door. “Bill, I’m warning you. Don’t forget to sign it. Please follow me out, and give the signed document to my secretary. You’ll be sent a copy.”