Dance of Death (47 page)

He shoved the envelope at Smithback. "Somebody cleaned out the diamond hall last night while a big function was under way. There's going to be a press conference at ten. Your credentials are in there." He glanced at his watch. "That's half an hour, you better get moving."

"About the killing at the museum," Smithback said again. "Who was it?"

"Like I said, nobody important. A new hire named Green. Margo Green."

"What?"
Smithback found himself gripping the seat, reeling. It was impossible. Impossible.

Davies gazed at Smithback with alarm. "Are you all right?"

Smithback rose on shaking legs. "Margo Green ...
murdered?"

"Do you know her?"

"Yes." Smithback barely got the word out.

"Well, better that you're not handling the story, then," said Davies briskly. "Reporting on a subject too close to you, my old editor used to say, is like trying to be your own lawyer: you've got a fool for a lawyer and a fool for a-hey! Where're you going?"

FIFTY-SEVEN

AS Nora turned the corner from Columbus Avenue onto West 77th Street, she immediately realized something big had happened at the museum. Museum Drive was packed with police vehicles, unmarked cars, and scene-of-crime vans, these in turn surrounded by television vans and a seething crowd of reporters.

She checked her watch-it was quarter to ten, usually a time when the museum was still waking up. Her heart quickened: had there been another killing?

She walked briskly down the service drive to the employee entrance. The police had already cleared a path for arriving museum employees and were pushing back an increasingly unruly crowd of rubberneckers. Apparently, whatever happened had already been reported on the morning news, as the crowds were swelling even as she watched. But because of the opening the night before, she'd overslept and hadn't had time to listen to the radio.

"Museum employee?" one cop asked.

She nodded, pulling out her badge. "What's going on?"

"Museum's closed. Go over there."

"But what-?"

The cop was already shouting at someone else, and she found herself propelled toward the security entrance, which seemed to be mobbed with museum security. Manetti, the security director, was there, gesturing frantically at a pair of hapless guards.

"All arriving staff to the roped area on the right!" one of the guards shouted. "Have your badges ready!"

Nora saw George Ashton in the milling crowd of arriving employees and grabbed his arm. "What's happened?"

He stared at her. "You must be the only one in the city who doesn't know."

"I overslept," she said testily.

"This way!" a policeman bawled. "Museum employees this way!"

The velvet ropes that had blocked off the gawkers and press from the gala the night before were now being put to a second use, this time to funnel museum staff to a holding area near the security entrance, where guards were checking IDs and calming irate employees.

"Someone hit the Astor Hall last night," said Ashton breathlessly. "Cleaned it out. Right in the middle of the party."

"Cleaned it
out?
Even Lucifer's Heart?"

"Especially Lucifer's Heart."

"How?"

"Nobody knows."

"I thought the Astor Hall was impregnable."

"So they said."

"Move back and stay to the right!" a cop yelled. "We'll have you inside in a moment!"

Ashton grimaced. "Just what I need the morning after five glasses of champagne."

More like ten,
Nora thought wryly as she recalled Ashton's slurred ramblings of the previous evening.

Police and museum guards were checking IDs, questioning each employee, then moving them to a second penned area just before the security entrance.

"Any suspects?" Nora asked.

"None. Except that they're convinced the burglars had inside help."

"IDs!" a cop bawled in her ear.

She fished in her purse again and showed her ID. Ashton did the same.

"Dr. Kelly?" The cop had a clipboard. Another pulled Ashton aside.

"May I ask a few quick questions?"

"Fire away," Nora said.

"Were you at the museum last night?"

"Yes."

He marked something down.

"What time did you leave?"

"About midnight."

"That's all. Step over there and, as soon as we can, we'll open the museum and you can go to work. We'll be in touch with you later to schedule an interview."

Nora was shunted to the second holding area. She could hear Ash-ton's raised voice behind her, demanding to know why he hadn't been read his rights. The curators and staff waiting around her beat their hands in the cold, their breath filling the air. It was a gray day and the temperature hovered just below freezing. Voices were raised in complaint all around.

Nora heard a commotion from the street and looked. The press had suddenly surged forward, cameras juggling on shoulders, boom mikes swinging. Then she saw the reason: the museum doors had swung open. The museum's director, Frederick Watson Collopy, appeared, flanked by Rocker, the police commissioner. A phalanx of uniformed policemen stood behind them.

Immediately, the press erupted in a clamor of shouted questions and waved hands. It was the start, it seemed, of a press conference.

At that same moment, she saw a frantic movement off to one side. She turned toward it. It was her husband, fighting through the crowd, shouting frantically and trying to reach her.

"Bill!" She rushed forward.

"Nora!" Smithback plowed through a milling crowd of hangers-on, sent a beefy museum security guard sprawling, hopped the velvet ropes, and muscled his way through the museum employees. "Nora!"

"Hey, where's that guy going?" A policeman struggled to intercept him.

Smithback cut through the last of the crowd and almost ran into Nora, enveloping her in a bear hug and lifting her bodily off the ground.

"Nora! God, did I miss you!"

They hugged, kissed, hugged again.

"Bill, what happened to you? What's that bruise on the side of your head?"

"Never mind about that," Smithback replied. "I just heard about Margo. Was she really killed?"

Nora nodded. "I went to her funeral yesterday."

"Oh my God. I can't believe it's true." He wiped savagely at his face, and Nora saw that his eyes were leaking tears. "I can't believe it."

"Where were you, Bill? I was so worried!"

"It's a long story. I was locked in an insane asylum."

"What?"

"I'll tell you about it later. I've been worried about you, too. Pendergast thinks there's a maniac killer wandering around, knocking off all his friends."

"I know. He warned me. But it was right before the opening- there was nothing I could-"

"This man's not supposed to be here," a museum guard interrupted, stepping between them. "This is for museum employees only-"

Smithback swung around to respond, but they were interrupted by the shriek of feedback on an improvised P.A. system. A moment later, Commissioner Rocker stepped up to the mike and asked for silence-and, miraculously, got it.

"I'm with the
Times,"
said Smithback, scrounging some paper out of his pocket and fumbling for a pen.

"Here, use mine," Nora said, her arm still around his waist.

The crowd was silent as the police commissioner began to speak.

"Last night," Rocker began, "the Astor Hall of Diamonds was burglarized. At this point, the scene-of-crime teams are still on the site, along with some of the best forensic experts in the world. Everything that can be done is being done. It's too early for leads or suspects, but I promise you, as new developments arise, we will keep the press informed. I'm sorry I can't give you more, but it's still very early in the investigation. I will say this: it was an extremely professional job, obviously planned long in advance, by technologically sophisticated thieves who appear to have been intimately familiar with the museum's security system, and who used the distraction of last night's opening gala to their advantage. It will take a while to analyze and understand how they penetrated the museum's security. That's about all I have to say for the present. Dr. Collopy?"

The museum's director stepped forward, standing straight, trying to put the best face on things-and failing. When he spoke, a tremor underlay his words.

"I want to reiterate what Commissioner Rocker just said: all that can possibly be done is being done. The truth is, most of the diamonds stolen are unique and would be instantly recognizable to any gem dealer in the world. They cannot be fenced in their present form."

A murmur of unease went up at the implication they might be recut.

"My fellow New Yorkers, I know what a great loss this is to the museum and to the city. Unfortunately, we just don't know enough yet to be able to say who might have done it, or why, or what their intentions are."

"What about Lucifer's Heart?" someone shouted from among the press.

Collopy seemed to stagger. "We're doing all we can, I promise you."

"Was Lucifer's Heart stolen?" another shouted.

"I'd like to turn the floor over to the museum's public affairs director, Carla Rocco-"

A barrage of shouted questions followed and a woman stepped forward, holding up her hands. "I'll take the questions when there's silence," she said.

The clamor subsided and she pointed. "Ms. Lilienthal of ABC, your question?"

"What about Lucifer's Heart? Is it gone?"

"Yes, it was among the diamonds taken."

A turbulent murmur followed this unsurprising revelation. Rocco held up her hands again. "Please!"

"The museum claimed their security was the best in the world!" a reporter shouted. "How did the thieves get through?"

"We're analyzing it as we speak. Security is multilayered and redundant. The hall was under constant video surveillance. The thieves left behind a mass of technical equipment."

"What kind of technical equipment?"

"It'll take days, maybe weeks, to analyze."

More shouted questions. Rocco pointed to another reporter. "Roger?"

"How much is the collection insured for?"

"One hundred million dollars."

A murmur of awe.

"What's it
actually
worth?" the reporter named Roger persisted.

"The museum never put a value on it. Next question to Mr. Werth from NBC."

"What's Lucifer's Heart worth?"

"Again, you can't put a value on it. But let me
please
emphasize that we expect to recover the gems, one way or another."

Collopy stepped forward abruptly. "The museum's collection consists mostly of 'fancy' diamonds-that is, colored ones-and most are unusual enough to be recognizable from color and grade alone. That's especially true of a diamond like Lucifer's Heart. There's no other diamond in the world with its deep cinnamon color."

Nora watched as Smithback stepped over the velvet cord and into the group of press, waving his hand.

Rocco pointed to him, squinted. "Smithback, from the
Times?"

"Isn't Lucifer's Heart considered the finest diamond in the world?"

"The finest
fancy
diamond, yes. At least that's what I've been told."

"So how are you going to explain this to the people of New York? How are you going to explain the loss of this unique gemstone?" His voice was suddenly shaking with emotion. It seemed to Nora that all the anger Smithback felt at Margo's death, and at his enforced separation from her, was being channeled into his question.
"How
could the museum have allowed this to happen!"

"No one
allowed
this to happen," said Rocco defensively. "The security in the Astor Hall is the most sophisticated in the world."

"Apparently, not sophisticated enough."

More chaos and shouting erupted. Rocco waved her hands. "Please! Let me speak!"

The roar died to an uneasy rumble.

"The museum
deeply regrets
the loss of Lucifer's Heart. We understand its importance to the city and, indeed, to the country. We're doing all we can to recover it. Please be patient and give the police time to do their work. Ms. Carlson of the
Post?"

"This is for Dr. Collopy. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you were holding that diamond in trust for the people of New York, to whom it really belongs. How do you, personally, as the head of the museum, intend to bear responsibility for this?"

The rumble was rising again. But it suddenly died away as Collopy held up his hands. "The fact is," he said, "any security system devised by man can be defeated by man."

"That's a rather fatalistic view," Carlson continued. "In other words, you're admitting the museum can't ever guarantee the security of its collections."