Текст книги "The Cabinet of Curiosities"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Pendergast removed a piece of paper from his vest pocket and laid it in front of Brisbane.

“What’s this?” Brisbane said, without looking at it.

“The Museum’s charter with the City of New York.”

“What relevance is that?”

“It states that one of the responsibilities of Museum employees is to perform pro bono public service to the City of New York.”

“We do that every day by running the Museum.”

“Ah, but that is precisely the problem. Up until fairly recently, the Museum’s Anthropology Department regularly assisted the police in forensic matters. It was part of their duties, as a matter of fact. You remember, of course, the infamous Ashcan Murder of November 7, 1939?”

“Pity, I must have missed that particular piece in the Timesthat day.”

“A curator here was instrumental in solving that case. He found the burned rim of an orbit in an ashcan, which he was able to identify as positively human—”

“Mr. Pendergast, I am not here for a history lesson.” Brisbane rose out of his chair and flicked on his jacket. “The answer is no. I have business to attend to. Dr. Kelly, please return to your office.”

“I am sorry to hear that. There will be adverse publicity, of course.”

At these two words, Brisbane paused, then a cold smile crept onto his face. “That sounded remarkably like a threat.”

Pendergast continued in his genial, southern fashion. “The truth is, the charter clearly calls for service to the City outsideof regular curatorial duties. The Museum has not been keeping its contract with the City of New York now for close to a decade, despite the fact that it receives millions in tax dollars fromthe citizens of New York. Far from providing public service, you have now closed your library to all but Ph.D.’s; you have closed your collections to everyone except so-called accredited academics; and you charge fees for everything, all in the name of intellectual property rights. You have even begun suggesting an admission fee, despite the fact that this is clearly barred by your charter. It says right here: . . . for the Creation of a Museum of Natural History for the City of New York, to be Open and Free to all Members of the Public, without Restriction . . .”

“Let me see that.”

Brisbane read it, his smooth brow contracting into the faintest wrinkle.

“Old documents can be so inconvenient, don’t you think, Mr. Brisbane? Like the Constitution. Always there when you least want it.”

Brisbane let it drop to the desk, his face reddening for a moment before returning to its usual healthy pink. “I’ll have to take this up with the board.”

Pendergast smiled slightly. “An excellent start. I think perhaps the Museum can be left to work this little problem out on its own—what do you think, Mr. Brisbane?—provided I am given what little help I need from Dr. Kelly.”

There was a silence. Then Brisbane looked up, a new look in his eyes. “I see.”

“And I assure you I will not take up an undue amount of Dr. Kelly’s time.”

“Of course you won’t,” said Brisbane.

“Most of the work will be archival in nature. She’ll be on the premises and available, should you need her.”

Brisbane nodded.

“We will do all we can to avoid unpleasant publicity. Naturally, all this would be kept confidential.”

“Naturally. It is always best that way.”

“I just want to add that Dr. Kelly did not seek me out. I have imposed this duty on her. She has already informed me she would rather be working on her potsherds.”

“Of course.”

An opaque veil had dropped over Brisbane’s face. It was hard for Nora to tell what he was thinking. She wondered if this little hardball play of Pendergast’s was going to damage her prospects at the Museum. It probably would. She darted a reproachful glance toward Pendergast.

“Where did you say you were from?” Brisbane asked.

“I didn’t. New Orleans.”

Brisbane immediately pushed himself back in his chair, and with a smile said: “New Orleans. Of course. I should have known from the accent. You’re a rather long way from home, Mr. Pendergast.”

Pendergast bowed, holding the door open for Nora. She stepped through it, feeling shocked. Down the hall, she halted and spoke to Pendergast. “You totally blindsided me back there. I had no idea what you were up to until we were in Brisbane’s office. I don’t appreciate it.”

Pendergast turned his pale eyes on her. “My methods are unorthodox, but they have one advantage.”

“And what is that?”

“They work.”

“Yeah, but what about my career?”

Pendergast smiled. “May I offer a prediction?”

“For what it’s worth, why not?”

“When this is over, you will have been promoted.”

Nora snorted. “Right. After you blackmailed and humiliated my boss, he’s going to promote me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t suffer petty bureaucrats gladly. A very bad habit, but one I find hard to break. Nevertheless, you will find, Dr. Kelly, that humiliation and blackmail, when used judiciously, can be marvelously effective.”

At the stairwell, Nora paused once again.

“You never answered my question. Why is the FBI concerned with killings that are over a century old?”

“All in good time, Dr. Kelly. For now, let it suffice to say that, on a purely personal level, I find these killings rather—ah—interesting.”

Something in the way Pendergast said “interesting” sent the faintest of shudders through Nora.

Men of Science

ONE

THE MUSEUM’S VAST Central Archives lay deep in the basement, reachable only through several sets of elevators, winding corridors, stairs, and passageways. Nora had never been to the Archives before—she did not, in fact, know anybody who ever had—and as she descended deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Museum, she wondered if perhaps she had made a wrong turn somewhere.

Before accepting the job at the Museum, she had taken one of the tours that threaded their way through its endless galleries. She had heard all the statistics: it was physically the largest museum in the world, consisting of two dozen interconnected buildings built in the nineteenth century, forming a bizarre maze of more than three thousand rooms and almost two hundred miles of passageways. But mere numbers could not capture the claustrophobic feeling of the endless, deserted corridors. It was enough,she thought, to give the Minotaur a nervous breakdown.

She stopped, consulted her map, and sighed. A long brick passageway ran straight ahead, illuminated by a string of light bulbs in cages; another ran off from it at right angles. Everything smelled of dust. She needed a landmark, a fixed point to get her bearings. She looked around. A padlocked metal door nearby had a weathered sign: Titanotheres.A door across the hall from it read: Chalicotheres and Tapiroids.She checked the oversized map, finally locating her position with difficulty. She wasn’t lost, after all: it was just ahead and around the corner. Famous last words,she thought, walking forward, hearing the echoing rap of her heels against the concrete floor.

She stopped at a massive set of oaken doors, ancient and scarred, marked Central Archives.She knocked, listening to the rap resound cavernously on the far side. There came a sudden rattle of papers, the sound of a dropped book, a great clearing of phlegm. A high-pitched voice called out, “Just a moment, please!”

There was a slow shuffling, then the sound of numerous locks being unfastened. The door opened, revealing a short, round, elderly man. He had a vastly hooked red nose, and a fringe of long white hair descended from the gleaming dome above it. As he looked up at her, a smile of greeting broke out, dispelling the air of melancholy on his veined face.

“Ah, come in, do come in,” he said. “Don’t let all these locks frighten you. I’m an old man, but I don’t bite. Fortunate senex!”

Nora took a step forward. Dust lay everywhere, even on the worn lapels of the man’s jacket. A lamp with a green shade cast a small pool of light on the old desk, piled high with papers. On one side sat an elderly Royal typewriter, perhaps the only thing in the room not covered in dust. Beyond the desk, Nora could see cast-iron shelves laden with books and boxes stretching back into a gloom as deep as the ocean. In the dimness, it was impossible to judge how far the room extended.

“Are you Reinhart Puck?” Nora asked.

The man set up a vigorous nodding, his cheeks and bow tie flapping in response. “At your service.” He bowed, and for an alarmed moment Nora thought he might reach out to kiss her hand. Instead, there was another loud sound of phlegm being forced against its will somewhere within his windpipes.

“I’m looking for information on—on cabinets of curiosities,” Nora continued, wondering if that was the correct pluralization.

The man, busy re-locking the door, glanced over, his rheumy eyes lighting up. “Ah! You’ve come to the right place. The Museum absorbed most of the old cabinets of early New York. We have all their collections, their papers. Where shall we begin?” He slammed the last bolt home, then rubbed his hands together, smiling, clearly happy to be of service to someone.

“There was a cabinet of curiosities in lower Manhattan known as Shottum’s Cabinet.”

He wrinkled his brow. “Shottum’s . . . Ah, yes. Yes, indeed. Quite popular these days, Shottum’s. But first things first. Please sign the register, and then we can get started.” He motioned her to follow him around the desk, where he produced a leather-bound ledger, so old and rubbed that Nora was tempted to ask for a quill pen. She took the proffered ballpoint, wrote in her name and department.

“Why all the locks and bolts?” she asked, handing back the pen. “I thought all the really valuable stuff, the gold and diamonds and the rest, was kept in the Secure Area.”

“It’s the new administration. Added all this red tape, after the unpleasantness a few years back. It’s not as if we’re all that busy, you know. Just researchers and doctoral candidates, or the occasional wealthy patron with an interest in the history of science.” He returned the register, then shuffled over to a huge bank of old ivory light switches, big as clothes pegs, and snapped a few on. Deep in the vast space there was a flicker, then another, and a dim light appeared. Puck set off toward it at a slow hobble, his feet scraping on the stone floor. Nora followed, glancing up at the dark walls of shelving. She felt as if she were walking through a dark forest toward the distant glow of a welcoming cottage.

“Cabinets of curiosities, one of my favorite subjects. As you no doubt know, Delacourte’s was the first cabinet, established in 1804.” Puck’s voice echoed back over his stooped shoulders. “It was a marvelous collection. A whale eyeball pickled in whiskey, a set of hippo teeth, a mastodon tusk found in a bog in New Jersey. And of course the last dodo egg, of a Rodrigues Solitaire to be exact. The egg was brought back live in a crate, but then after they put it on display it appeared to have hatched, and—Aha, here we are.”

He stopped abruptly, reached up to drag a box down from a high shelf, and opened its lid. Instead of the Shottum’s Cabinet material Nora hoped for, inside was a large eggshell, broken into three pieces. “There’s no provenience on these things, so they didn’t accession them into the main Museum collection. That’s why we’ve got them here.” He pointed reverently at the pieces of shell, licking his lips. “Delacourte’s Cabinet of Natural History. They charged twenty-five cents admission, quite a sum at the time.”

Replacing the box, he slid a thick three-ring binder off an adjoining shelf and began flipping through it. “What would you like to know about the Delacourte Cabinet?”

“It was actually Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities that I was interested in. John Canaday Shottum.” Nora swallowed her impatience. It would clearly be useless to rush Mr. Puck.

“Yes, yes, Shottum’s.” He resumed his shuffling down the row of boxes, binders, and books.

“How did the Museum acquire these cabinets?” she asked.

“Once the Museum opened, with free admission, it put most of them out of business. Of course, a lot of the stuff the old cabinets displayed were fakes, you know. But some of it held real scientific value. As the cabinets went bankrupt, McFadden, an early curator here, bought them up for the Museum.”

“Fakes, you said?”

Puck nodded portentously. “Sewing two heads onto a calf. Taking a whale bone and dying it brown, saying it came from a dinosaur. We have some of those.”

As he moved on to the next row, Nora hastened to keep up, wondering how to guide this flood of information in the direction she wanted.

“Cabinets were all the rage. Even P. T. Barnum once owned a cabinet known as Scudder’s American Museum. He added live exhibits. And that, young lady, was the beginning of his circus.”

“Live exhibits?”

“He displayed Joice Heth, a wizened old black woman who Barnum claimed was George Washington’s 161-year-old nurse. Exposed as a fraud by the father of our own Tinbury McFadden.”

“Tinbury McFadden?” Nora was starting to panic. Would she ever get out of here?

“Tinbury McFadden. A curator here back in the late ninteenth century. He had a particular interest in cabinets of curiosities. Queer fellow. Just up and disappeared one day.”

“I’m interested in Shottum’s Cabinet. John Canaday Shottum.”

“We’re getting there, young lady,” said Puck, with the slightest touch of irritation. “We don’t have much from Shottum’s. It burned in 1881.”

“Most of the stuff was collected by a man named Marysas. Alexander Marysas,” Nora said, hoping to keep his mind on the subject at hand.

“Now, therewas an odd fellow. Marysas came from a rich New York family, died in Madagascar. I believe the chief made an umbrella out of his skin to protect his baby grandson from the sun . . .”

They followed a labyrinthine path between shelves groaning with papers, boxes, and bizarre artifacts. Puck snapped more ivory switches; more lights went on ahead of them, while others winked out behind, leaving them in an island of light surrounded by a vast ocean of darkness. They came to an open area in the shelves where some large specimens stood on oak platforms—a woolly mammoth, shriveled but still huge; a white elephant; a giraffe missing its head. Nora’s heart sank when Puck stopped.

“Those old cabinets would do anything to draw the paying public. Take a look at this baby mammoth. Found freeze-dried in Alaska.” He reached underneath it and pressed something; there was a soft click and a trapdoor flopped open in the belly.

“This was part of a sideshow routine. A label said the mammoth had been frozen for 100,000 years and that a scientist was going to thaw it out and try to revive it. Before the sideshow opened, a small man would climb in through that trapdoor. When the place had filled with spectators, another man posing as a scientist would come out and give a lecture and start warming the thing with a brazier. Then the man inside would start moving the trunk and making noises. Cleared the place out in seconds.” Puck chuckled. “People were a lot more innocent back then, weren’t they?” He reached under and carefully closed the trapdoor.

“Yes, yes,” said Nora. “This is very interesting, Mr. Puck, and I appreciate the tour. But I’m pressed for time, and I really would like to see the Shottummaterial now.”

“We’re here.” Puck rolled a metal ladder into place, climbed up into the gloom, and descended with a small box.

“ O terque quaterque beati!Here’s your Mr. Shottum. It wasn’t the most interesting cabinet, I’m afraid. And since it burned, we don’t have much from it—just these few papers.” Puck opened the box, peered inside. “Great heavens, what a mess,” he clucked disapprovingly. “I don’t understand, considering . . . Ah, well, when you’re done with these, I can show you the Delacourte papers. Much more comprehensive.”

“I’m afraid there won’t be time, at least not today.”

Puck grunted with dissatisfaction. Nora glanced at him, felt a stab of pity for the lonely old man.

“Ah, here’s a letter from Tinbury McFadden,” Puck said, plucking a faded paper from the box. “Helped Shottum classify his mammals and birds. He advised a lot of the cabinet owners. Hired himself out.” He rummaged some more. “He was a close friend of Shottum’s.”

Nora thought for a moment. “Can I check out this box?”

“Have to look at it in the Research Room. Can’t let it leave the Archives.”

“I see.” Nora paused, thinking. “You said Tinbury McFadden was a close friend of Shottum’s? Are his papers in here, too?”

“Are theyhere? Good heaven, we’ve got mountains of his papers. Andhis collections. He had quite a cabinet himself, only he never displayed it. Left it to the Museum, but none of the stuff had any provenience and was full of fakes, so they stuck it down here. For historical purposes. No scientific value, they said.” Puck sniffed. “Not worthy of the main collection.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course, of course!” And Puck was shuffling off again in a new direction. “Right around the corner.”

They stopped at last before two shelves. The upper was full of more papers and boxes. On top of one box was a promissory note, with a faded inventory of items transferred from J. C. Shottum to T. F. McFadden, as payment for Services Rendered and Promised. The lower shelf was stuffed with a variety of curious objects. Glancing over them, Nora saw stuffed animals wrapped in wax paper and twine, dubious-looking fossils, a double-headed pig floating in a glass jeroboam, a dried anaconda curled into a giant five-foot knot, a stuffed chicken with six legs and four wings, and a bizarre box made out of an elephant’s foot.

Puck blew his nose like a trumpet, wiped his eyes. “Poor Tinbury would turn over in his grave if he knew that his precious collection ended up down here. He thought it had priceless scientific value. Of course, that was at a time when many of the Museum’s curators were amateurs with poor scientific credentials.”

Nora pointed to the promissory note. “This seems to indicate Shottum gave McFadden specimens in exchange for his work.”

“A standard practice.”

“So some of these things came from Shottum’s Cabinet?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Could I examine these specimens, too?”

Puck beamed. “I’ll move all of it to the Research Room and set it up on tables. When it’s ready, I’ll let you know.”

“How long will that take?”

“A day.” His face reddened with the pleasure of being of use.

“Don’t you need help moving these things?”

“Oh, yes. My assistant, Oscar, will do it.”

Nora looked around. “Oscar?”

“Oscar Gibbs. He usually works up in Osteology. We don’t get many visitors down here. I call him down for special work like this.”

“This is very kind of you, Mr. Puck.”

“Kind? The pleasure’s all mine, I assure you, my dear girl!”

“I’ll be bringing a colleague.”

An uncertain look clouded Puck’s face. “A colleague? There are rules about that, what with the new security and all . . .” He hesitated, almost embarrassed.

“Rules?”

“Only Museum staff allowed. The Archives used to be open to everybody, but now we’ve been restricted to Museum staff. And trustees.”

“Special Agent Pendergast is, ah, connectedwith the Museum.”

“ AgentPendergast? Yes, the name’s familiar . . . Pendergast. I remember him now. The southern gentleman. Oh, dear.” A momentary look of distress crossed the man’s face. “Well, well, as you wish. I’ll expect you both tomorrow at nine o’clock.”

TWO

PATRICK MURPHY O’SHAUGHNESSY sat in the precinct captain’s office, waiting for him to get off the phone. He had been waiting five minutes, but so far Custer hadn’t even looked in his direction. Which was just fine with him. O’Shaughnessy scanned the walls without interest, his eyes moving from commendation plaques to departmental shooting trophies, lighting at last upon the painting on the far wall. It showed a little cabin in a swamp, at night, under a full moon, its windows casting a yellow glow over the waters. It was a source of endless amusement to the 7th Precinct that their captain, with all his mannerisms and his pretensions to culture, had a velvet painting proudly displayed in his office. There had even been talk of getting an office pool together, soliciting donations for a less revolting replacement. O’Shaughnessy used to laugh along with them, but now he found it pathetic. It was all so pathetic.

The rattle of the phone in its cradle brought him out of his reverie. He looked up as Custer pressed his intercom button.

“Sergeant Noyes, come in here, please.”

O’Shaughnessy looked away. This wasn’t a good sign. Herbert Noyes, recently transferred from Internal Affairs, was Custer’s new personal assistant and numero uno ass-kisser. Something unpleasant was definitely up.

Almost instantly, Noyes entered the office, the usual unctuous smile breaking the smooth lines of his ferret-like head. He nodded politely to Custer, ignored O’Shaughnessy, and took the seat closest to the captain’s desk, chewing gum, as usual. His skinny form barely made a dent in the burgundy-colored leather. He’d come in so fast it was almost as if he’d been hovering outside. O’Shaughnessy realized he probably had been.

And now, at last, Custer turned toward O’Shaughnessy. “Paddy!” he said in his high, thin voice. “How’s the last Irish cop on the force doing these days?”

O’Shaughnessy waited just long enough to be insolent, and then answered: “It’s Patrick, sir.”

“Patrick, Patrick. I thought they called you Paddy,” Custer went on, some of the hearty bluster gone.

“There are still plenty of Irish on the force, sir.”

“Yeah, yeah, but how many are named Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy? I mean, is that Irish or what? That’s like Chaim Moishe Finkelstein, or Vinnie Scarpetta Gotti della Gambino. Ethnic. Very ethnic. But hey, don’t get me wrong. Ethnic’s good.”

“Very good,” Noyes said.

“I’m always saying we need diversity on the force. Right?”

“Sure,” O’Shaughnessy replied.

“Anyway, Patrick,we’ve got a little problem here. A few days ago, thirty-six skeletons were uncovered at a construction site here in the precinct. You may have heard of it. I supervised the investigation myself. It’s a Moegen-Fairhaven development. You know them?”

“Sure I do.” O’Shaughnessy glanced pointedly at the oversized Montblanc fountain pen in Custer’s shirt pocket. Mr. Fairhaven had given them as Christmas presents to all the precinct captains in Manhattan the year before.

“Big outfit. Lots of money, lots of friends. Good people. Now these skeletons, Patrick, are well over a century old. It’s our understanding that some maniac back in the eighteen hundreds murdered these people and hid them in a basement. With me so far?”

O’Shaughnessy nodded.

“Have you ever had any experience with the FBI?”

“No, sir.”

“They tend to think working cops are stupid. They like to keep us in the dark. It’s fun for them.”

“It’s a little game they play,” said Noyes, with a small bob of his shiny head. It was hard to make a crew cut look oily, but somehow Noyes managed.

“That’s exactly right,” Custer said. “You know what we’re saying, Patrick?”

“Sure.” They were saying he was about to get some shit-stink assignment involving the FBI: that’s what he knew.

“Good. For some reason, we’ve got an FBI agent poking around the site. He won’t say why he’s interested. He’s not even local, from New Orleans, believe it or not. But the guy’s got pull. I’m still looking into it. The boys in the New York office don’t like him any more than we do. They told me some stories about him, and I didn’t like what I heard. Wherever this guy goes, trouble follows. You with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This guy’s been calling all over the place. Wants to see the bones. Wants to see the pathologist’s report. Wants everything under the sun. He doesn’t seem to get that the crime’s ancient history. So now, Mr. Fairhaven is concerned. He doesn’t want this getting blown out of proportion, you know? He’s gonna have to rent those apartments. You get my drift? And when Mr. Fairhaven gets concerned, he calls the mayor. The mayor calls Commissioner Rocker. The commissioner calls the commander. And the commander calls me. Which means that now I’mconcerned.”

O’Shaughnessy nodded. Which means now I’m supposed to be concerned, which I’m not.

“Very concerned,” said Noyes.

O’Shaughnessy allowed his face to relax into the most unconcerned of looks.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to assign you to be this guy’s NYPD liaison. You stick to him like a fly to, er, honey. I want to know what he’s doing, where he goes, and especially what he’s up to. But don’t get too friendly with the guy.”

“No, sir.”

“His name is Pendergast. Special Agent Pendergast.” Custer turned over a piece of paper. “Christ, they didn’t even give me his first name here. No matter. I’ve set up a meeting with you and him tomorrow, two P.M. After that, you stay with him. You’re there to helphim, that’s the official line. But don’t be toohelpful. This guy’s ticked off a lot of people. Here, read for yourself.”

O’Shaughnessy took the proffered file. “Do you want me to remain in uniform, sir?”

“Hell, that’s just the point! Having a uniformed cop sticking to him like a limpet is going to cramp his style. You get me?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain sat back in his chair, looking at him skeptically. “Think you can do this, Patrick?”

O’Shaughnessy stood up. “Sure.”

“Because I’ve been noticing your attituderecently.” Custer put a finger to the side of his nose. “A friendly word of advice. Save it for Agent Pendergast. Last thing you, of all people, need is more attitude.”

“No attitude, sir. I’m just here to protect and serve.” He pronounced sairvein his best Irish brogue. “Top of the mornin’ to you, Captain.”

As O’Shaughnessy turned and left the office, he heard Custer mutter “wise ass” to Noyes.

THREE

“A PERFECT AFTERNOON to take in a museum,” said Pendergast, looking up at a lowering sky.

Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy wondered if it was some kind of joke. He stood on the steps of the Elizabeth Street precinct house, staring off into nowhere. The whole thing was a joke. The FBI agent looked more like an undertaker than a cop, with his black suit, blond-white hair, and movie-cliché accent. He wondered how such a piece of work ever got his ass through Quantico.

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art is a cultural paradigm, Sergeant. One of the great art museums of the world. But of course you knew that. Shall we go?”

O’Shaughnessy shrugged. Museums, whatever, he was supposed to stay with this guy. What a crappy assignment.

As they descended the steps, a long gray car came gliding up from where it had been idling at the corner. For a second O’Shaughnessy could hardly believe it. A Rolls. Pendergast opened the door.

“Drug seizure?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“No. Personal vehicle.”

Figures. New Orleans. They were all on the take down there. Now he had the guy pegged. Probably up here on some kind of drug business. Maybe Custer wanted in. That’s why he put him, of all the cops in the precinct, on this guy’s ass. This was looking worse by the minute.

Pendergast continued holding the door. “After you.”

O’Shaughnessy slid in the back, sinking immediately into creamy white leather.

Pendergast ducked in beside him. “To the Metropolitan Museum,” he told the driver. As the Rolls pulled away from the curb, O’Shaughnessy caught a glimpse of Captain Custer standing on the steps, staring after them. He resisted the impulse to flip him the bird.

O’Shaughnessy turned to Pendergast and gave him a good look. “Here’s to success, Mister FBI Agent.”

He turned away to look out the window. There was a silence on the other side.

“The name is Pendergast,” came the soft voice, finally.

“Whatever.”

O’Shaughnessy continued to look out the window. He allowed a minute to pass, and then he said: “So what’s at the museum? Some dead mummies?”

“I have yet to meet a live mummy, Sergeant. However, it is not the Egyptian Department we are going to.”

A wise guy. He wondered how many more assignments he’d have like this. Just because he made a mistake five years ago, they all thought he was Mister Expendable. Any time there was something funny coming down the pike, it was always: We’ve got a little problem here, O’Shaughnessy, and you’re just the man to take care of it.But it was usually just penny-ante stuff. This guy in the Rolls, he looked big-time. This was different. This looked illegal. O’Shaughnessy thought of his long-gone father and felt a stab of shame. Thank God the man wasn’t around to see him now. Five generations of O’Shaughnessys in the force, and now everything gone to shit. He wondered if he could hack the eleven more years required before an early severance package became available.

“So what’s the game?” O’Shaughnessy asked. No more sucker work: he was going to keep his eyes open and his head up on this one. He didn’t want any stray shit to fall when he wasn’t looking up.

“Sergeant?”

“What.”

“There is no game.”

“Of course not.” O’Shaughnessy let out a little snort. “There never is.” He realized the FBI agent was looking at him intently. He continued looking away.

“I can see that you’re under a misapprehension here, Sergeant,” came the drawl. “We should rectify that at once. You see, I can understand why you’d jump to that conclusion. Five years ago, you were caught on a surveillance tape taking two hundred dollars from a prostitute in exchange for releasing her. I believe they call it a ‘shakedown.’ Have I got that right?”

O’Shaughnessy felt a sudden numbness, followed by a slow anger. Here it was again. He said nothing. What was there to say? It would have been better if they’d cashiered him.

“The tape got sent to Internal Affairs. Internal Affairs paid you a visit. But there were differing accounts of what happened, nothing was proven. Unfortunately, the damage was done, and since that time you’ve seen your career—how should I put it?—remain in stasis.”

O’Shaughnessy continued looking out the window, at the rush of buildings. Remain in stasis. You mean, go nowhere.

“And you’ve caught nothing since but a series of questionable assignments and gray-area errands. Of which you no doubt consider this one more.”

O’Shaughnessy spoke to the window, his voice deliberately tired. “Pendergast, I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t need to listen to this. I really don’t.”