“Hum.” Smithback adjusted his tie and turned ever so slightly, allowing the light to catch the elegantly cut shoulder of his suit.
“I swear, Bill, you aren’t going to believe it. But remember, this is off the record.”
Now Smithback felt slightly hurt. Not only had she failed to notice the suit, but this business about their conversation being off the record was unnecessary. “Nora, everything between us is off the record—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. “First, that scumbag Brisbane cut my budget ten percent.”
Smithback made a sympathetic noise. The Museum was perpetually short of money.
“And then I found this really weird man in my office.”
Smithback made another noise, slyly moving his elbow into position beside his water glass. Surely she’d notice the dark silk against the white nap of the tablecloth.
“He was reading my books, acting like he owned the place. He looked just like an undertaker, dressed in a black suit, with really white skin. Not albino, just white.”
An uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu began to well up in Smithback’s mind. He dismissed it.
“He said he was from the FBI, and he dragged me downtown, to a building site where they’d uncovered—”
Abruptly, the feeling returned. “Did you say FBI?” No way. Not him. It couldn’t be.
“Yes, the FBI. Special Agent—”
“Pendergast,” Smithback finished for her.
Now it was Nora’s turn to look astonished. “You know him?”
“Know him? He was in my book on the Museum murders. That book of mine you said you read.”
“Oh yeah, right. Right.”
Smithback nodded, too preoccupied to be indignant. Pendergast was not back in Manhattan on a social visit. The man showed up only when there was trouble. Or maybe he just seemed to always bring trouble with him. Either way, Smithback hoped to God it wasn’t trouble like the last time.
The waiter appeared and took their orders. Smithback, who’d been anticipating a small dry sherry, ordered a martini instead. Pendergast. Oh, God. As much as he’d admired the man, he hadn’t been sorry to see him and his black suit heading back to New Orleans.
“So tell me about him,” Nora said, leaning back in her chair.
“He’s…” Smithback paused, feeling uncharacteristically at a loss for words. “He’s unorthodox. Charming, a southern aristocrat, lots of dough, old family money, pharmaceuticals or something. I really don’t know what his relationship is with the FBI. He seems to have free rein to poke into anything he likes. He works alone and he’s very, very good. He knows a lot of important people. As far as the man personally, I don’t know anything about him. He’s a cipher. You never know what he’s really thinking. Christ, I don’t even know his first name.”
“He can’t be that powerful. He got trumped today.”
Smithback arched his eyebrows. “What happened? What did he want?”
Nora told him about their hasty visit to the charnel pit at the construction site. She finished just as their morel and black truffle quenelles arrived.
“Moegen-Fairhaven,” said Smithback, digging a fork into the mousse, releasing a heavenly aroma of musk and the deep forest. “Weren’t those the guys that got in trouble for ripping down that SRO without a permit—when there were still people living there?”
“The single-room occupancy on East First? I think so.”
“Nasty bunch.”
“Fairhaven was arriving in a stretch limo just as we left.”
“Yeah. And in a Rolls, you said?” Smithback had to laugh. When he’d been investigating the Museum murders, Pendergast went around in a Buick. The conspicuousness of a Rolls had to mean something—everything Pendergast did served a purpose. “Well, you rode in style, anyway. But this really doesn’t sound like something Pendergast would be interested in.”
“Why not?”
“It’s an incredible site, but it is over a hundred years old. Why would the FBI, or any law enforcement agency, be interested in a crime scene that’s ancient history?”
“It isn’t an ordinary crime scene. Three dozen young people, murdered, dismembered, and walled up in a subterranean crawlspace. That’s one of the biggest serial killings in U.S. history.”
Their waiter returned, sliding a dish in front of Smithback: steak au poivre, cooked rare. “Nora, come on,” he said, lifting his knife eagerly. “The murderer is long dead. It’s a historical curiosity. It’ll make a great story in the paper—come to think of it—but I still can’t see why the FBI would take an interest.”
He felt Nora glowering at him. “Bill, this is off the record. Remember?”
“It’s almost prehistoric, Nora, and it would make a sensational story. How could it possibly hurt—?”
“Off the record.”
Smithback sighed. “Just give me first shot, Nora, when the time comes.”
Nora smirked. “You always get first shot, Bill. You know that.”