Dance of Death (19 page)

Smithback did as requested. Pendergast shoved them in the glove compartment and handed him an expensive leather billfold.

"What's this?"

"Your new identity."

Smithback opened it. There was no money, only a Social Security card and a New York driver's license.

"Edward Murdhouse Jones?" he read off.

"Correct."

"Yes, but Jones? Come on, what a cliché."

"That's precisely why you'll have no trouble remembering it... Edward."

Smithback shoved the wallet in his back pocket. "How long is this going to last?"

"Not long, I hope."

"What do you mean not long? A day or two?"

No answer.

"Where the hell are you taking me, anyway?"

"River Oaks."

"River Oaks? The millionaire funny farm?"

"You are now the troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, a bit of undemanding therapy, and isolation from the hectic world."

"Hold on, I'm not checking into any mental hospital-"

"You'll find River Oaks to be quite luxurious. You'll have a private room, gourmet food, and elegant surroundings. The grounds are beautiful-pity they are buried in two feet of snow at the moment. There's a spa, library, game room, and every imaginable comfort. It's housed in a former Vanderbilt mansion in Ulster County. The director is a very sympathetic man. He'll be most solicitous, I assure you. Most important, it is
utterly secure
from the killer who is determined to end your life. I am sorry I can't tell you more, I really am."

Smithback sighed. "This director, he'll know all about me, right?"

"He's got all the information he could possibly need. You will be well treated. Indeed, you are guaranteed special treatment."

"No force-fed meds? Straitjackets? Shock therapy?"

Pendergast smiled faintly. "Nothing like that, trust me. You'll be waited on hand and foot. An hour of counseling a day, that's all. The director is fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. I've purchased some clothes that I think will fit you."

Smithback was silent a moment. "Gourmet food, you say?"

"As much as you could wish."

Smithback sat forward. "But Nora. She'll worry about me."

"As I mentioned, she'll be led to understand you are on a special assignment for the
Times.
Given the work she's doing for the opening, she'll hardly have time to think about you at all."

"If they're after me, she'll be in danger. I need to be there to protect her."

"I can tell you that Nora is in absolutely no danger at present. However, she
will
be in danger if you remain near her. Because
you
are the target. It is for
her
sake as much as yours that you must go into hiding. The farther away you are, the safer she'll be."

Smithback groaned. "This is going to be a disaster for my career."

"Your career will suffer more from your untimely death."

Smithback could feel the lump of the wallet in his back pocket.
Edward Murdhouse Jones.
"I'm sorry, but I don't like this at all."

"Like it or not, I'm saving your life."

Smithback did not reply.

"Are we clear on that, Mr. Smithback?"

"Yes," Smithback said, with a dreadful sinking feeling.

TWENTY-TWO

Nora Kelly tried to shut out the din of the exhibition hall and focus her attention on the box of sand in front of her. On one side, she had laid out the objects to be arranged: a skeleton in plasticine, along with a suite of grave goods-priceless objects in gold, jade, polychrome ceramics, bone, and carved shell. On the other side of the large box, she had set up a photograph of a real tomb, a photo taken only moments after its astonishing discovery. It was the grave of a ninth-century Mayan princess named Chac Xel, and Nora's job was to re-create it-in painstaking detail-for the Sacred Images exhibition.

As she contemplated the work, she could hear, over her shoulder, the heavy breathing from one very annoyed guard, upset at being pulled from his usual duty manning the sleepy Hall of Pelagic Birds and thrust into a manic hive of activity at the very center of the Sacred Images show. She heard the guard shift his enormous bulk and sigh theatrically as if to hurry her along.

But Nora wouldn't allow herself to be rushed. This was one of the most important exhibits in the entire exhibition. The artifacts to be arranged were extraordinarily delicate and demanded the utmost attention and care. Once again, she tried to shut out the uproar of construction, the growl of drills and the whine of Skilsaws, the shoutings back and forth, the furious comings and goings of curators, designers, and assistants. And on top of that, with the museum's security system being beefed up for the umpteenth time in preparation for the new opening, they had to drop everything and leave the exhibition now and then as sensors were installed and software tested. It was pure bedlam.

Nora refocused her attention on the sandbox in front of her. She began by arranging the bones, laying them in the sand after their original placement in the photograph. The princess had not been laid out flat, Western style; rather, her body had been bound into a mummy bundle, knees drawn up to the face, arms folded in front, the whole wrapped up like a package in beautiful woven blankets. The rotting of the bundle had caused the skeleton to fall open, spilling the bones in a crazy pattern on the floor of the tomb, which Nora carefully replicated.

Next came the placement of the objects found in the tomb. Unlike the bones, these were the real thing-and virtually priceless. She slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and lifted the largest object, a heavy pectoral in beaten electrum depicting a jaguar surrounded by glyphs. She held it up, momentarily spellbound by the
dazzle
of light off its golden curves. She laid it with care on the skeleton's chest. Next came a gold necklace, which she placed around the cervical vertebrae. Half a dozen gold rings were slipped onto the bony fingers. A solid-gold tiara set with jades and turquoises went atop the skull. She carefully arranged pots in a semicircle, filled with offerings of polished jade, turquoises, and glossy pieces of black obsidian. Next came a ceremonial obsidian knife, almost a foot long with many barbs, still sharp enough to make a nasty cut if not handled just so.

She paused. The last thing was the jade mask, worth millions, carved from a single flawless block of deep green nephrite jade, with rubies and white quartz set in the eyes, and turquoise teeth.

"Lady," said the guard, interrupting her reverie, "I've got a break in fifteen."

"I'm aware of that," said Nora dryly.

She was about to reach for the mask when she heard the voice of Hugo Menzies at some distance, not loud but somehow riding above the din. "Wonderful work!" he was saying. "Marvelous!"

Nora looked up to see the bushy-haired figure picking his way down the hall, stepping fastidiously across a floor strewn with electrical cables, sawdust, pieces of Bubble Wrap, and other construction detritus. The omnipresent canvas fishing bag he used instead of a briefcase was slung over one shoulder. He was shaking hands, nodding in approval, encouraging as he went along, knowing everyone's name, from the carpenters to the curators. Everyone got a nod, a smile, a word of encouragement. How different from Ashton, chief curator of this exhibition, who felt it beneath him to talk to anybody lacking a doctoral degree.

After the meeting, Nora had been furious with Menzies for coming down on Margo Green's side. But it was impossible to stay angry with a man like Menzies: he so clearly believed in what he was doing, and she'd personally witnessed so many other ways, large and small, in which he'd supported the department. No, you couldn't stay mad at Hugo Menzies.

It was a different story, though, with Margo Green.

Menzies approached. "Hello, Frank," he said to the guard, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Nice to see you here."

"You, too, sir," the guard said, straightening up and wiping the scowl off his face.

"Ahh," said Menzies, turning to Nora. "That High Classic jade mask is one of my favorite objects in the entire museum. You know how they made it so thin? Polished it down by hand with blades of grass. But I expect you already knew that."

"As a matter of fact, I did."

Menzies laughed. "Of course. What am I thinking? Excellent work, Nora. This is going to be a highlight of the show. May I watch while you place the mask?"

"Of course."

She reached down and picked it up with her white-gloved hands, not without trepidation. Carefully, she placed it in the sand above the head of the body, where it had been found, adjusting it and making sure it was secure.

"A trifle to the left, Nora."

She moved it slightly.

"Perfect. I'm glad I was in time to see that." He smiled, winked, and moved on through the chaos, leaving in his wake people who were working all the harder, if such a thing were possible. Nora had to admire his people skills.

The case was complete, but she wanted to check it one more time. She ran through the list of items, matching them to the photograph. She had only one shot to get this right: once the case was sealed under bulletproof, shatterproof glass, it wouldn't be opened until the end of the show, four months later.

As she ran the final check, for some reason her mind wandered to Bill. He'd run off to Atlantic City covering some casino story and wouldn't be back for-she realized she wasn't sure
when
he'd be back. He'd been so vague. And it had all happened so suddenly. Was this what it was like to be married to a reporter? What had happened to the murder he was covering? And wasn't he on the city desk? She supposed that a casino story in New Jersey might qualify for the city desk, but still... He'd sounded so strange on the telephone, so breathless, so tense.

She sighed, shook her head. It was probably for the better, given that she'd hardly been able to see him with all the craziness surrounding the opening. Everything was, as usual, behind schedule, and Ash-ton was on the warpath. She could hear the chief curator's voice, pitched high in querulous complaint in some far corner of the hall.

The guard issued another ostentatious sigh behind her, breaking her reverie.

"Just a minute," she said over her shoulder. "As soon as we get this sealed." She glanced at her watch. Three-thirty already. And she'd been going since six. She was going to be working at least until midnight, and every minute she wasted now was a minute of sleep lost at the end of the day.

Nora turned to the foreman, who had been nearby, waiting for this moment. "Ready to seal the case."

Soon a group of exhibition assistants, under the foreman's direction, began fitting the monstrously heavy sheet of glass over the tomb, accompanied by grunts and curses.

"Nora?"

She turned. It was Margo Green.
Bad timing, as usual.

"Hello, Margo," she said.

"Wow. Beautiful exhibit."

Nora saw out of the corner of her eye the scowling face of the guard, the gaggle of laborers sealing up the tomb.

"Thanks. We're really under the gun here, as you can see."

"I can." She hesitated. "I don't want to take up any more of your time than I have to."

Then don't,
thought Nora, trying to maintain her fake smile. She had four other cases to mount and seal. She couldn't help but watch as the workers struggled to seat the glass. If they dropped it...

Margo stepped closer, lowered her voice. "I wanted to apologize for my snarky comment in the meeting."

Nora straightened. This was unexpected.

"It was uncalled-for. Your points were all well taken and totally within professional bounds. I was the one who acted unprofessionally. It's just..." Margo hesitated.

"Just what?"

"You're so damned...
competent.
And articulate. I was intimidated."

Nora didn't quite know how to answer this. She looked closely at Margo, who was reddening from the effort to apologize. "You're not exactly a pushover yourself," she finally said.

"I know. We're both kind of stubborn. But stubborn is good-especially if you're a woman."

Nora couldn't help but smile, this time for real. "Let's not call it stubbornness. Let's call it the courage of our convictions."

Margo smiled in turn. "That sounds better. Although a lot of people might call it plain old bitchiness."

"Hey," said Nora. "Bitchy is good, too."

Margo laughed. "Anyway, Nora, I just wanted to say I was sorry."

"I appreciate the apology. I really do. Thank you, Margo."

"See you around."

Nora paused, the case temporarily forgotten in her surprise, as she watched Margo's slender form make its way back through the barely controlled chaos of the exhibition.

TWENTY-THREE

 Captain Laura Hayward sat in a plastic chair in the trace evidence lab on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, making a conscious effort not to glance at her watch. Archibald Quince, chief scientist of the fiber analysis unit, was holding forth: walking back and forth before a crowded evidence table, hands clasped behind the white lab coat one minute, then gesticulating the next. It was a rambling, repetitious tale, full of sound and fury, and yet it all came down to one easily grasped point: the man didn't have shit.