Dance of Death (12 page)

"They're asking too much of you, Nora."

"Everybody's in the same boat. Sacred Images is the biggest thing to hit the museum in years. And on top of that, the geniuses that run the place have decided to upgrade the museum's security system. You remember what happened with the security system the last time they had a blockbuster exhibition? You know, Superstition?"

"Oh, God. Don't remind me."

"They don't want even the possibility of a repetition. Except that every time they upgrade the security for a new hall, they have to shut and lock the damn place down. It's impossible to get around-you never know what's going to be closed off. The bright side is that in six days it'll be over."

"Yeah, and then we'll be ready for another vacation."

"Or a stretch in a padded cell."

"We'll always have Angkor," Smithback intoned dramatically.

Nora laughed, squeezed his hand. "And how's the Duchamp story going?"

"Terrible. The homicide captain in charge is a woman named Hayward, a real ballbuster. Runs a tight ship. No leaks anywhere. I can't get a scoop to save my life."

"I'm sorry, Bill."

"Nora Kelly?"

A voice broke in, vaguely familiar. Smithback looked up to see a woman approaching their table-small, intense, brown hair, glasses. He froze in astonishment, and so did she. They stared at each other in silence.

Suddenly, she smiled. "Bill?"

Smithback grinned. "Margo Green! I thought you were living up in Boston, working for that company, what's its name?"

"GeneDyne. I was, but corporate life wasn't for me. Great money, but no fulfillment. So now I'm back at the museum."

"I had no idea."

"Just started six weeks ago. And you?"

"Wrote a few more books, as you probably know. I'm now at the
Times.
Got back from my honeymoon just a few weeks ago."

"Congratulations. Guess that means you won't be calling me Lotus Blossom anymore. I assume this is the lucky woman?"

"She sure is. Nora, meet an old friend of mine, Margo Green. Nora works at the museum, too."

"I know." Margo turned. "In fact, Bill, no offense, but I was actually looking for her, not you." She stretched out her hand. "Perhaps you don't remember, Dr. Kelly, but I'm the new editor of
Museology.
We met at the last departmental meeting."

Nora returned the handshake. "Of course. I read all about you in Bill's book
Relic.
How are things?"

"May I sit down?"

"To tell you the truth, we..." Nora's voice trailed off as Margo took a seat.

"I'll only be here for a moment."

Smithback stared.
Margo Green.
It seemed like another lifetime, it was so long ago. She hadn't changed much, except that maybe she seemed more relaxed, more confident. Still trim and athletic. She was wearing an expensive tailored suit, a far cry from the baggy L. L. Bean shirts and Levi's of her graduate student days. He glanced down at his own Hugo Boss suit. They had all grown up a little.

"I can't believe it," he said. "Two heroines from my books, together for the first time."

Margo cocked her head questioningly. "Oh, really? How's that?"

"Nora was the heroine of my book
Thunderhead."

"Oh. Sorry. Haven't read it."

Smithback kept smiling gamely. "What's it like to be back at the museum?"

"It's changed a lot since we were first there."

Smithback felt Nora's gaze upon him. He wondered if she assumed Margo was an old girlfriend and that perhaps there were certain salty things he'd left out of his memoirs.

"Seems like ages ago," Margo went on.

"It was ages ago."

"I often wonder what happened to Lavinia Rickman and Dr. Cuthbert."

"No doubt there's a special circle of hell reserved for those two."

Margo chuckled. "What about that cop D'Agosta? And Agent Pendergast?"

"Don't know about D'Agosta," Smithback said. "But the word around the
Times
foreign desk is that Pendergast went missing under mysterious circumstances a few months ago. Flew to Italy on assignment and never came back."

A shocked look came over Margo's face. "Really? How strange."

A brief silence settled over the table.

"Anyway," Margo resumed, turning once again to Nora, "I wanted to ask your help."

"Sure," Nora said. "What is it?"

"I'm about to publish an editorial on the importance of repatriating Great Kiva masks to the Tano tribe. You know about their request?"

"I do. I've also read the editorial. It's circulating the department in draft."

"Naturally, I've run into opposition from the museum administration, Collopy in particular. I've started contacting all the members of the Anthropology Department to see if I can build a united front. The independence of
Museology
must be maintained, and those masks must be returned. We've got to be together on this as a department."

"What is it you want me to do?" asked Nora.

"I'm not circulating a petition or anything quite so overt. I'm just asking for informal support from members of the department if it comes to a showdown. A verbal assurance. That's all."

Smithback grinned. "Sure, no problem, you can always count on Nora-"

"Just a minute," Nora said.

Smithback fell silent, surprised at the sharp tone.

"Margo was speaking to me," Nora said dryly.

"Right." Smithback hastily smoothed down an unrepentant cowlick and retreated to his drink.

Nora turned to Margo with a rather chilly smile. "I'm sorry, I won't be able to help."

Smithback stared from Nora to Margo in surprise.

"May I ask why not?" Margo asked calmly.

"Because I don't agree with you."

"But it's obvious that those Great Kiva masks belong to the Tanos-"

Nora held up a hand. "Margo, I am thoroughly familiar with them and with your arguments. In one sense, you're right. They belonged to the Tano and they shouldn't have been collected. But now they belong to all of humanity-they've become a part of the human record. What's more, taking those masks out of the Sacred Images exhibition would be devastating this late in the game-and I'm one of the curators of the show. Finally, I'm a southwestern archaeologist by training. If we started giving back every sacred item in the museum, there'd be nothing left.
Everything
is sacred to Native Americans-that's one of the beautiful things about Native American culture." She paused. "Look, what's done is done, the world is the way it is, and not all wrongs can be righted. I'm sorry I can't give you a better answer, but there it is. I have to be honest."

"But the issue of editorial freedom..."

"I'm with you one hundred percent on that one. Publish your editorial. But don't ask me to back your arguments. And don't ask the department to endorse your private opinions."

With that, Margo stared first at Nora, then at Smithback.

Smithback grinned nervously, took another sip of his drink.

Margo rose. "Thank you for your directness."

"You're welcome."

She turned to Smithback. "It's great to see you again, Bill."

"Sure thing," he mumbled.

He watched Margo walk away. Then he realized Nora's gaze was on him.

" 'Lotus Blossom'?" she said tartly.

"It was just a joke."

"Former girlfriend of yours?"

"No, never," he replied hastily.

"You're sure about that?"

"Not even a kiss."

"I'm glad to hear it. I can't stand that woman." She turned to stare at Margo's departing figure. Then she looked back. "And to think she hasn't read
Thunderhead.
I mean, that's much better than some of the earlier stuff you wrote. I'm sorry, Bill, but that book
Relic
-well, let's just say you've matured a lot as a writer."

"Hey, what was wrong with Relic?"

She picked up her fork and finished her meal in silence.

FOURTEEN

When D'Agosta arrived at the Omeleteria, Hayward had already taken their usual booth by the window. He hadn't seen her for twenty-four hours-she'd pulled an all-nighter at the office. He paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking at her. The morning sunlight had turned her glossy black hair almost blue, given her pale skin the sheen of fine marble. She was industriously making notes on a Pocket PC, chewing her lower lip, brow knitted in concentration. Just seeing her sent a throb of affection through him so sharp it was almost painful.

He didn't know if he was going to be able to do this.

She looked up suddenly, as if aware of his gaze. The look of concentration vanished and a smile broke over her beautiful features.

"Vinnie," she said as he approached. "Sorry I missed your lasagna
napoletana."

He kissed her, then took a seat opposite. "It's okay. Lasagna's lasagna. I'm worried you're working too hard."

"Nature of the business."

Just then a skinny waitress came up, placed an egg white omelette before Hayward, started to refill her coffee cup.

"Just leave the pot, please," Hayward said.

The waitress nodded, turned to D'Agosta. "Need a menu, hon?"

"No. Give me two fried eggs, over well, with rye toast."

"I went ahead and ordered," Hayward said, taking a gulp of her coffee. "Hope you don't mind. I've got to get back to the office and-"

"You're going back?"

Hayward frowned, gave her head a single vigorous shake. "I'll rest tonight."

"Pressure from on high?"

"There's always pressure from on high. No, it's the case itself. I just can't get a handle on it."

D'Agosta watched as she tucked into her omelet, feeling the dismay grow inside him.
Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me may die,
Pendergast had told him the night before.
Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward.
He glanced around the coffee shop, looking at the faces, looking for one bluish-white, one hazel eye. But, of course, Diogenes would be wearing contacts, disguising his most striking characteristic.

"Why don't you tell me about the case?" he asked as easily as he could.

She took another bite, dabbed at her mouth. "The autopsy results came back. No surprise there. Duchamp died of massive internal injuries resulting from his fall. Several pharyngeal bones were fractured, but the hanging itself didn't cause death: the spinal cord had not been severed and asphyxiation hadn't yet occurred. And here's the first of many weird things. The rope had been cut almost through beforehand with a very sharp blade. The killer
wanted
it to part during the hanging."

D'Agosta felt himself go cold.
My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner...

"Duchamp was initially subdued in his apartment, then tied up. There was a contusion on the left temple, but the head itself was so badly crushed in the fall we can't be certain that's what caused all the blood in the apartment. But get this: the contusion had been doctored and
bandaged,
apparently by the killer."

"I see." The case made sense to D'Agosta ... too much sense. And he could say nothing to Hayward.

"Then the perp pushed a long desk up against the window, convinced Duchamp to climb on it, and take a running jump out the window."

"Unassisted?"

Hayward nodded. "With his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck."

"Anyone see the perp?" D'Agosta felt a constriction in his chest; he knew who the perp was, yet he couldn't tell her directly. It was an unexpectedly difficult feeling.

"Nobody in the apartment building remembers seeing anybody unusual. There's only one possible sighting, by a basement security camera. Just a rear view of a man in a trench coat. Tall, thin. Light hair. We're having the image digitally enhanced, but the techs aren't hopeful we'll get enough to be useful. He knew the camera was there and took care passing through its field of view." She finished her coffee and poured herself another.

"We went through the victim's papers, his studio, looking for any motive," she went on. "None. Then we used his Rolodex to call up friends and acquaintances. Nobody we spoke with could believe it. A real Mister Rogers, this guy Duchamp. Oh, and here's a bizarre coincidence. Duchamp knew Agent Pendergast."

D'Agosta froze. He didn't know what to say, how to act. Somehow, he just couldn't be phony with Laura Hayward. He felt a flush spread across his face.

"Seems they were friends. Pendergast's Dakota address was on the Rolodex. According to Duchamp's appointment book, the two had lunch three times last year, always at '21.' Too bad we can't get Pendergast's take on this from beyond the grave. Right about now I think I'd welcome even his help."

Suddenly, she stopped, catching sight of D'Agosta's expression. "Oh, Vinnie," she said, sliding a hand across the table and grasping his. "I'm sorry. That was a thoughtless thing to say."