The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(107)

He turned and swiftly climbed the stairs, passing the chimpanzee and the paintings—and then he paused. All the doors along the hall were closed, and it seemed even darker than it had a few minutes before. He realized he had forgotten which door he had come through. It was near the end of the hall, that much he remembered. He approached the most likely, tried the handle, and to his surprise found it locked. Must have guessed wrong, he thought, moving to the next.

That, too, was locked.

With a rising sense of alarm he tried the door on the other side. It was locked, as well. So was the next, and the next. With a chill prickling his spine, he tried the rest—all, every one, securely locked.

Smithback stood in the dark hallway, trying to control the sudden panic that threatened to paralyze his limbs.

He was locked in.





FOUR




CUSTER’S UNMARKED CRUISER PULLED UP WITH A SATISFYING SQUEAL OF rubber before the Museum’s security entrance, five squad cars skidding up around him, sirens wailing, light bars throwing red and white stripes across the Romanesque Revival facade. He rolled out of the squad car and strode decisively up the stone steps, a sea of blue in his wake.

At the impromptu meeting with his top detectives, and then in the ride uptown to the Museum, the theory that had hit him like a thunderclap became a firm, unshakable conviction. Surprise and speed is the way to go in this case, he thought as he looked up at the huge pile of granite. Hit ’em hard and fast, leave them reeling—that was what his instructor at the Police Academy had always said. It was good advice. The commissioner wanted action. And it was action, in the form of Captain Sherwood Custer, that he was going to get.

A Museum security guard stood at the doorway, the police lights reflecting off his glasses. He looked bewildered. Several other guards were coming up behind him, staring down the steps, looking equally perplexed. A few tourists were approaching up Museum Drive, cameras dangling, guidebooks in hand. They stopped when they saw the cluster of police cars. After a brief parley, the group turned around and headed back toward a nearby subway entrance.

Custer didn’t bother to show the grunt his badge. “Captain Custer, Seventh Precinct,” he rapped out. “Brevetted to Homicide.”

The guard swallowed painfully. “Yes, Captain?”

“Is the Museum’s security chief in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get him down here. Right away.”

The guards scurried around, and within five minutes a tall man in a tan suit, black hair combed back with a little too much grease, arrived. He’s an unsavory-looking fellow, Custer thought; but then, so many people in private security were. Not good enough to join the real force.

The man held out his hand and Custer took it reluctantly. “Jack Manetti, director of security. What can I do for you, officers?”

Without a word, Custer displayed the embossed, signed, and notarized bench warrant he’d managed to get issued in close to record time. The security director took it, read it over, handed it back to Custer.

“This is highly unusual. May I ask what’s happened?”

“We’ll get to the specifics shortly,” Custer replied. “For now, this warrant should be all you need to know. My men will need unlimited access to the Museum. I’m going to require an interrogation room set up for the questioning of selected staff. We’ll work as quickly as we can, and everything will go smoothly—provided we get cooperation from the Museum.” He paused, thrust his hands behind his back, looked around imperiously. “You realize, of course, that we have the authority to impound any items that, in our judgment, are germane to the case.” He wasn’t sure what the word germane meant, but the judge had used it in the warrant, and it sounded good.

“But that’s impossible, it’s almost closing time. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“Justice doesn’t wait, Mr. Manetti. I want a complete list of Museum staff. We’ll single out the individuals we want to question. If certain staff members have gone home early, they’ll need to be called back in. I’m sorry, but the Museum will just have to be inconvenienced.”

“But this is unheard of. I’m going to have to check with the Museum’s director—”

“You do that. In fact, let’s go see him in person. I want to make sure we’re clear, clear as crystal, on all points of order, so that once our investigations are underway we will not be inconvenienced or delayed. Understood?”

Manetti nodded, displeasure contracting his face. Good, thought Custer: the more upset and flustered everyone became, the quicker he’d be able to flush out the killer. Keep them guessing, don’t give them time to think. He felt exhilarated.

He turned. “Lieutenant Detective Cannell, take three officers and have these gentlemen show you to the staff entrance. I want everyone leaving the premises to be ID’d and checked against personnel records. Get phone numbers, cell numbers, and addresses. I want everyone available to be called back at a moment’s notice, if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lieutenant Detective Piles, you come with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Custer turned a stern eye back on Manetti. “Show us the way to Dr. Collopy’s office. We have business to discuss.”

“Follow me,” said the security director, even more unhappily.