The Shell Collector (3 page)

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” He waves at a chair, and I sit.

“So you’re the reason my story didn’t run in this morning’s edition,” I say.

“That’s right. Your government needs you, Ms. Walsh.”

He smiles to let me know he’s being cheesy on purpose. And yeah, I am not dating a cop. I’m pretty sure the FBI are the cops. The CIA are the spooks, and the NSA monitors my online shopping habits. I feel like this is right. What I don’t understand is the ATF.

“As you may know, Ness Wilde—”

“I have a quick question,” I say.

“Shoot.”

I lean forward. “What exactly do tobacco and firearms have to do with one another?”

Agent Cooper blinks. Twice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“The ATF. Why put those things together?”

“It’s … uh … has to do with federal oversight of … state-level regulat—”

“Okay, so you don’t know either.” I settle back in my seat, reminding myself to Google this later.

Agent Cooper studies me for a prolonged moment, clears his throat, then seems to gather his wits. “Ms. Walsh—”

“Maya.”

“Of course. Maya. Your editor informs us that you’ve been digging into Ness Wilde’s past. You’ve got a series of pieces planned on him and his father, grandfather, et cetera.”

“That’s right. And I suppose I’m here because you’ve been doing some digging as well. Is this where we exchange notes?” I nod to the thick sheaf of papers Cooper was looking through when I entered. “Is that his folder?”

Agent Cooper laughs. He nods toward the row of filing cabinets that covers one wall of his office. “No. His folder is right there. This one is yours.”

I lean forward and grab it, and Cooper flinches, but doesn’t try to stop me. Inside I find a copy of an old résumé from a decade ago, one I think I uploaded to a public headhunting site. It’s woefully out of date except for my degrees and a few internships. Behind this are printouts of various columns I wrote for the
Times.
They go back quite a ways, and I have a feeling all of this was printed out recently, like Cooper has been cramming rather than studying.

“If this is all you’ve got on me, I need to live it up a bit more.”

Agent Cooper laughs. He opens a drawer in his desk and reaches inside. I half expect a different folder with some of my college exploits. Instead, he brings out a small plastic case, bright orange, about the size of a closed fist. “Three months ago, a man was found dead in his apartment in Portland, Maine—”

Cooper pauses as I gasp out loud and lean forward, eager to hear more. Worse, I think he can see my genuine excitement at the idea that Ness Wilde is guilty of actual direct murder rather than the indirect kind.

“The gentleman died of a heart attack,” Cooper says. “He was seventy-two years old. No foul play suspected.”

The reporter in me sags in her seat. The rest of me is happy for the deceased. I guess.

“Two weeks later,
this
goes up for auction alongside other items from the gentleman’s estate.”

Cooper slides the plastic case across the desk. It looks like one of those waterproof boxes snorkelers use to keep things dry while they’re out in the surf. There’s a complex latch with a slot for a key. It’s unlocked, but the latch is stiff. A tight seal. When I lift the lid and see what’s inside, the air seems to evacuate the room.

A lace murex, one of my favorite shells, is nestled inside. Medium-sized, just over an inch long. I move the box into the cone of light from the lamp and note the bright pink aperture and tight apex. The inner lip is so shiny, the shell must be wet. But touching it, I find it to be dry. It just hasn’t lost its luster.

“It looks flawless,” I whisper.

“It is,” Cooper says. “I understand you know a thing or two about shells.”

I think of all the articles he has in that folder, many of them from back when the
Times
had a science section where my shelling column used to run. “I studied to be a marine biologist,” I say. “Being a reporter happened by accident.” Which isn’t quite right, but the truth is too complicated to get into.

“I’d like to hear your expert opinion on this piece.” Cooper places a loupe on the desk, but I reach into my purse and retrieve my own. My palms are already a little clammy. It’s not often that I get to handle shells this rare.

“Can we open those blinds and get some more light in here?” I ask.

He hesitates, then gets up and raises the blinds. The sunlight streaming into the office catches the ensuing shower of dust. “Thanks,” I say. I bring the loupe to my eye and pull the shell close until it comes into focus.

The murex is distinct for the chaos of crenelations that adorn its edge. They jump off like crashing waves, like amoebas, or a pattern or paisley. The crenelations on this particular specimen are incredibly crisp. Untouched. And the sutures between the whorls are deep and pronounced. The lip of the aperture, where the slug would reside, hasn’t been chipped. And there’s no sign of sand-wear, no dulling of the periostracum from having been tumbled up a beach.

“Was it stolen from a museum?” I ask. For a moment, I wonder if maybe Ness Wilde isn’t a suspect in a case at all, but that perhaps this shell was taken from his collection.

“At what price would you value that shell?” Cooper asks me. He waves his hand when he sees I’m about to complain or make excuses. “Ballpark,” he says. “I’ve had others look at it. I just want your opinion.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I admit. “It doesn’t look like it rolled up on any beach.” I look at the crenelations again. They rarely survive any kind of rough handling. “I shouldn’t even be touching this without gloves, to be honest.”

“Just throw out a number,” Cooper says.

“Well, the market is a tad down right now, but a shell like this, I would guess the right buyer would pay between two and three million for it.”

Just hearing myself say this, I have to put the shell back into the box. Gingerly. Cooper quietly laughs at something, and I have to assume it’s my estimate, that their experts said something much different. So I start to defend it.

“You have to keep in mind that this species has been extinct for twenty or thirty years,” I say. “And price is all about condition. I have a murex in my collection that I’d be lucky to get a thousand dollars for. It has dozens of chips, plus a hole clear through the—”

“Your number is solid,” Cooper tells me. “Here’s the problem: we dated that shell, and it’s between two and three
years
old.”

“That’s impossible,” I say.

Agent Cooper reaches into his drawer again and pulls something else out. He extends his fist to me. I hold my palm out to accept, and he deposits a second lace murex in my hand. While I’m gawking at it, he brings out a third.

“What do you think now?” he asks.

A glance tells me that these are in a similar condition to the first. And now I understand why the FBI is involved. I look over the second murex with my loupe. “These are the best fakes I’ve ever seen,” I say. And I’ve seen my share. I don’t keep reproductions in my own collection, but I have friends who are less scrupulous, or who just get taken advantage of. Across Manhattan, there are thousands of tourist traps with windows full of shells and camera lenses and electronics at prices too good to be true. And for a reason.

“You’re in good company then,” Cooper says. “They’re the best fakes my department has ever seen. They’re good enough to fool our testing equipment—”

“Wait,” I say. I take in the collection of shells scattered around the room and see them in a new light. “I thought the Secret Service handled this sort of thing.”

“You’re thinking of currency,” Cooper says.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Like you, we assumed these were fake just from the condition. And the fact that someone was dumb enough to dump all three of them at once. So we took a sample and dated them, which was the nail in the coffin. At that point, we traced the shells back to the deceased.”

“Who was he?” I ask.

“Dimitri Arlov. Former physicist, among other things. A polymath. When he died he was in the employ of Ocean Oil.”

“The guy who owned these shells worked for Ness Wilde?”

“He worked for his company, yes. In exploration, we think.”

“I don’t get it. Ness is easily the foremost shell collector in the world—” But then I stop and think about what I’m doing in that office. I think about the fact that Henry hung up on Ness’s assistant, and that the FBI called Henry right back. For some reason, I had assumed they were listening in on the
Times
.

I look up from the shell and study Agent Cooper. “You guys have been tapping Ness Wilde’s phones.”

“That’s correct. We have a warrant, mind you. And I suppose now is as good time as any to tell you that all of this has to stay off the record. I’m sure you understand what it means to tamper with an ongoing investigation.”

“All too well,” I say. “So what do you want from me? Anyone could tell you that these shells are fakes.”

“We want you to take Ness Wilde up on his offer for an interview.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he wants to talk to you, and he hasn’t been too eager to talk to us. We don’t have enough here to bring him in. The connection is flimsy—”

“But you think these shells trace back to him.”

“We think it’s possible. We don’t think this Arlov character would have access to anything like this. But his boss might have. There’s also the chance that—” Agent Cooper seems to be searching for the right words. I think I know what he’s about to say and help him out.

“You think there’s a chance that there are more fakes like this out there,” I say. “Maybe even in Wilde’s collection.” And my skin tingles with the idea that Ness Wilde, the great shell collector, might be a phony.

“Exactly,” Cooper says.

“So, what, I go up there and interview him? You want me to wear a wire or something?”

“Precisely. And look, we’re not asking you to do anything other than your job. Get what you can from him. Push him. Prod him. Our job is to sit back and listen.”

“So he’s the hornet’s nest and I’m the stick.”

“Something like that. Just hear what he has to say about these articles you’re working on. Take him up on his offer. Get as close as you can or antagonize him as much as you want. It’s up to you.”

“What about these shells?” I ask.

“What about them?”

“Has he seen them? Have you confronted him with these?”

Agent Cooper shakes his head. “We’re trying to be very delicate about the existence of these shells.”

I dig into my purse and find a pack of tissues. Placing the first lace murex back into the plastic case, I pad the shell before adding the second, then wrap that one before adding the third.

“What are you doing?” Cooper asks, half-reaching for the box.

“If you want me to help, here’s what I’m thinking.” Cooper watches with a frown as the case disappears into my purse. “I’ll go talk to Mr. Wilde and get what I need for my story. And then we’ll hear what the great shell collector has to say when I show him these.”

This is how I find myself in Maine, driving down a dusty road in my electric car, with an FBI wire tucked in my bra. I agreed to wear the wire even though I explained to Cooper’s buddies that I plan on recording the entire interview with my cell phone. They said it made chain of custody easier on their end, and that often, what needs recording is said when the suspect doesn’t know they’re being recorded.

Whether or not I would take the assignment, of course, was never in question. I’m a reporter. Dropping these shells in my lap was like tossing a steak to a german shepherd. There was no way I wasn’t going. I want to see Ness Wilde’s face when I confront him with the shells.

What I did refuse was his offer to fly me up. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction or have him think I’m a pushover. A few hours in my car and two recharging stations later, I’m beginning to rethink that strategy. Just the guy’s driveway goes on for miles.

Eventually—with the second gate behind me—the road takes a sharp bend to the left, and some innate sense tells me that I had been approaching the sea and am now heading north up along the coast. If so, the ocean is hidden by the ridiculous trees. The palms bend toward one another like fingers about to interlock. Their dangling coconuts hang like a threat. But they form a tunnel that seems to hold the damaged world beyond at bay. They bore toward a place where people can be wealthy enough to ignore what’s happening around them.

That must be convenient for a man who played a large role in ushering our damaged world along. The irony is rich: Ness Wilde has made billions not just by drilling oil, but by collecting the shells made rare—and valuable—by the burning of fossil fuels. A double whammy.

Glancing down at my battery gauge, I imagine for a moment the horror of not having enough juice to get to my hotel tonight. When I look back up, a view of the house breaks through at the end of the road. As I get closer, I see that it looks a lot smaller than I imagined it would. On Google Maps, the house appeared audacious, a sprawl of additions and add-ons connected by breezeways and boardwalks.

But arriving from the front—because of the way the house is chopped up to stagger down the dunes toward the sea—the portion visible from the drive looks reasonable. Even adorable. Like a house rather than an estate. A small front porch with reproduction gaslight fixtures frames a pebble-bed walkway. The roof is pale pink tile. The siding is white clapboard with bright-blue trim. The house appears as though it belongs in the Caribbean, not on an isolated and prohibitively expensive patch of rocky Maine shoreline.

My car’s tires crunch to a stop on the gravel circle. The drive continues and disappears around a high sandstone wall studded with conch shells. A six- or seven-car garage full of boy toys is probably just around the corner. As I get out of the car, trying to reconcile the incongruous modesty of the front of the house with all I know of Ness Wilde, I see that the drive isn’t paved with gravel at all. It’s made of tiny shells. Millions of them. Billions. Most are ground up into tiny bits from years of traffic, but some are recognizable. Some are even miraculously intact. Periwinkles, ceriths, ravenelis, and cockles.