Pendergast nodded.
“Thanks for helping me finish that report. Otherwise, they’d have ripped me a new one.”
“What a quaint expression.” Pendergast looked over O’Shaughnessy’s shoulder. “Sergeant, I’d like to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine. William Smithback.”
O’Shaughnessy turned to see a gangling, awkward-looking man at the buffet, a gravity-defying cowlick jutting from the top of his head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, and he seemed utterly absorbed in piling as much food onto his plate as possible, as quickly as possible. The man looked over, saw Pendergast, and started visibly. He glanced around uneasily, as if marking possible exits. But the FBI agent was smiling encouragingly, and the man named Smithback came toward them a little warily.
“Agent Pendergast,” Smithback said in a nasal baritone. “What a surprise.”
“Indeed. Mr. Smithback, I find you well.” He grasped Smithback’s hand and shook it. “How many years has it been?”
“Long time,” said Smithback, looking like it had not been nearly long enough. “What are you doing in New York?”
“I keep an apartment here.” Pendergast released the hand and looked the writer up and down. “I see you’ve graduated to Armani, Mr. Smithback,” he said. “A rather better cut than those off-the-rack Fourteenth Street job-lot suits you used to sport. However, when you’re ready to take a realsartorial step, might I recommend Brioni or Ermenegildo Zegna?”
Smithback opened his mouth to reply, but Pendergast continued smoothly. “I heard from Margo Green, by the way. She’s up in Boston, working for the GeneDyne Corporation. She asked me to remember her to you.”
Smithback opened his mouth again, shut it. “Thank you,” he managed after a moment. “And—and Lieutenant D’Agosta? You keep in touch with him?”
“He also went north. He’s now living in Canada, writing police procedurals, under the pen name of Campbell Dirk.”
“I’ll have to pick up one of his books.”
“He hasn’t made it big yet—not like you, Mr. Smithback—but I must say the books are readable.”
By this point, Smithback had fully recovered. “And mine aren’t?”
Pendergast inclined his head. “I can’t honestly say I’ve read any. Do you have one you could particularly recommend?”
“Very funny,” said Smithback, frowning and looking about. “I wonder if Nora’s going to be here.”
“So you’re the guy who wrote the article, right?” asked O’Shaughnessy.
Smithback nodded. “Made a splash, don’t you think?”
“It certainly got everyone’s attention,” said Pendergast dryly.
“As well it should. Nineteenth-century serial killer, kidnapping and mutilating helpless kids from workhouses, all in the name of some experiment to extend his own wretched life. You know, they’ve awarded Pulitzers for less than that.” People were arriving more quickly now, and the noise level was increasing.
“The Society for American Archaeology is demanding an investigation into how the site came to be destroyed. I understand the construction union is also asking questions. With this upcoming election, the mayor’s on the defensive. As you can imagine, Moegen-Fairhaven wasn’t terribly happy about it. Speak of the devil.”
“What?” Smithback said, clearly surprised by this sudden remark.
“Anthony Fairhaven,” Pendergast said, nodding toward the entrance.
O’Shaughnessy followed the glance. The man standing in the doorway to the hall was much more youthful than he’d expected; fit, with the kind of frame a bicyclist or rock climber might have—wiry, athletic. His tuxedo draped over his shoulders and chest with a lightness that made him look as if he’d been born in it. Even more surprising was the face. It was an open face, an honest-looking face; not the face of the rapacious money-grubbing real estate developer Smithback had portrayed in the Timesarticle. Then, most surprising of alclass="underline" Fairhaven looked their way, noticed their glance, and smiled broadly at them before continuing into the hall.
A hissing came over the PA system; “Tales from the Vienna Woods” died away raggedly. A man was at the podium, doing a sound check. He retreated, and a hush fell on the crowd. After a moment, a second man, wearing a formal suit, mounted the podium and walked to the microphone. He looked grave, intelligent, patrician, dignified, at ease. In short, he was everything O’Shaughnessy hated.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“The distinguished Dr. Frederick Collopy,” said Pendergast. “Director of the Museum.”
“He’s got a 29-year-old wife,” Smithback whispered. “Can you believe it? It’s a wonder he can even find the—Look, there she is now.” He pointed to a young and extremely attractive woman standing to one side. Unlike the other women, who all seemed to be dressed in black, she was wearing an emerald-green gown with an elegant diamond tiara. The combination was breathtaking.
“Oh, God,” Smithback breathed. “What a stunner.”
“I hope the guy keeps a pair of cardiac paddles on his bedside table,” O’Shaughnessy muttered.
“I think I’ll go over and give him my number. Offer to spell him one of these nights, in case the old geezer gets winded.”
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,began Collopy. His voice was low, gravelly, without inflection. When I was a young man, I undertook the reclassification of the Pongidae, the Great Apes . . .
The level of conversation in the room dropped but did not cease altogether. People seemed far more interested in food and drink than in hearing this man talk about monkeys,O’Shaughnessy thought.
. . . And I was faced with a problem: Where to put mankind? Are we in the Pongidae, or are we not? Are we a Great Ape, or are we something special? This was the question I faced . . .
“Here comes Dr. Kelly,” said Pendergast.
Smithback turned, an eager, expectant, nervous look on his face. But the tall, copper-haired woman swept past him without so much as a glance, arrowing straight for the food table.
“Hey Nora! I’ve been trying to reach you all day!” O’Shaughnessy watched the writer hustle after her, then returned his attention to his ham-and-cheese sandwiches. He was glad he didn’t have to do this sort of thing for a living. How could they bear it? Standing around, chatting aimlessly with people you’d never seen before and would never see again, trying to cough up a vestige of interest in their vapid opinions, all to a background obbligato of speechifying. It seemed inconceivable to him that there were people who actually liked going to parties like this.
. . . our closest living relatives . . .
Smithback was returning already. His tuxedo front was splattered with fish eggs and crème fraîche.He looked stricken.
“Have an accident?” asked Pendergast dryly.
“You might call it that.”
O’Shaughnessy glanced over and saw Nora heading straight for the retreating Smithback. She did not look happy.
“Nora—” Smithback began again.
She rounded on him, her face furious. “How could you? I gave you that information in confidence.”
“But Nora, I did it for you. Don’t you see? Now they can’t touch—”
“You moron.My long-term career here is ruined. After what happened in Utah, and with the Lloyd Museum closing, this job was my last chance. And you ruined it!”
“Nora, if you could only look at it my way, you’d—”
“You promisedme. And I trusted you! God, I can’t believe it, I’m totally screwed.” She looked away, then whirled back with redoubled ferocity. “Was this some kind of revenge because I wouldn’t rent that apartment with you?”
“No, no, Nora, just the opposite, it was to helpyou. I swear, in the end you’ll thank me—”
The poor man looked so helpless, O’Shaughnessy felt sorry for him. He was obviously in love with the woman—and he had just as obviously blown it completely.