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 look 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.”
“Beats me,” Smithback said. “But Greg’s the kind of guy that always lands on his feet. He’s probably moonlighting in some think tank, earning three hundred grand a year.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got to file my story on the rally by nine. Which means we have time for another drink.”
Margo stared at him in mock amazement. “Bill Smithback, buying a friend a second round? How could I leave now? History is being made here tonight.”
= 16 =
NICK BITTERMAN eagerly climbed the stone steps of Belvedere Castle, then waited at the parapet for Tanya to catch up. Below him, the dark bulk of Central Park was spread out beneath a setting sun. Nick could feel the icy coldness of the bottle of Dom Pérignon creeping through the paper bag under his arm. It felt pleasant in the heat of evening. The glasses clinked in his jacket pocket as he moved. Automatically, he felt for the square box that contained the ring. A Tiffany-cut one-carat diamond set in platinum that had cost him four large on 47th Street. He’d done well. Here came Tanya, giggling and gasping. She knew about the champagne but she didn’t know about the ring.
He remembered seeing a movie in which two characters drank champagne on the Brooklyn Bridge, then threw the glasses into the river. That was pretty good, but this was going to be better. You couldn’t get a more spectacular view of Manhattan than from the ramparts of Belvedere Castle at sunset. You just had to make sure you got your ass out of the Park before dark.
He grabbed Tanya’s hand as she climbed the last steps, and they walked together to the edge of the stone parapet. The tower rose above them, black in the gloaming, its Gothic trappings humorously offset by the weather apparatus protruding from the topmost crenelations. He looked back the way they had come. At their feet lay the small castle pond, and beside it the Great Lawn, leading up to the row of trees that shaded the Reservoir. The Reservoir itself was a sheet of beaten gold in the sunset. To his right, the buildings of Fifth Avenue marched stolidly northward, their windows flashing orange; to his left sat the dark outlines of the ramparts of Central Park West, in shadow below a layer of clouds.
He pulled the bottle of champagne from its brown tissue, tore off the foil and the wire netting, took careful aim, then wiggled the cork inexpertly out of the neck. They watched as it burst free with a loud pop, sailing out of sight. In a few seconds there was a splash as it hit the pond far below.
“Bravo!” cried Tanya.
He filled the glasses and handed her one.
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses and he drank his down in a gulp, then watched as Tanya sipped gingerly. “Drink up,” he urged, and she drained the glass, wrinkling her nose as she did so.
“It tickles,” she giggled as he refilled the glasses, drinking his off again in a few quick gulps.
“Attention, citizens of Manhattan!” he yelled from the ramparts, holding up the empty glass, his voice disappearing into space. “This is Nick Bitterman speaking! I proclaim August seventh to be Tanya Schmidt day in perpetuity!”
Tanya laughed, as he filled the glasses a third time, overflowing the rims and draining the bottle. When the glasses were empty, Nick wrapped his arm around the girl. “Custom demands that we throw them off, too,” he said sternly.