The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(150)

Ten feet. Nora gripped the scalpel tighter as adrenaline coursed through her. She would turn on her light and lunge forward. Surprise would give her the advantage, especially if he was wounded.

There was a loud wet snoring sound, another heavy footfall; a gasp, the spastic stamp of a foot; silence; then the dragging of a limb. He was almost upon her. She crouched, tensing all her muscles, ready to blind the man with her light and strike a fatal blow.

Another step, another snuffle: and she acted. She switched on the light—but, instead of leaping with her scalpel, she froze, arm raised, knife edge glittering in the beam of light.

And then she screamed.





THIRTEEN




CUSTER STOOD ATOP THE GREAT FLIGHT OF STEPS RISING ABOVE MUSEUM Drive, looking out over the sea of press with an indescribable feeling of satisfaction. To his left was the mayor of the City of New York, just arriving with a gaggle of aides; to his right, the commissioner of police. Just behind stood his two top detectives and his man, Noyes. It was an extraordinary assemblage. There were so many onlookers, they’d been forced to close Central Park West to traffic. Press helicopters hovered above them, cameras dangling, brilliant spotlights swiveling back and forth. The capture of the Surgeon, aka Roger C. Brisbane III—the Museum’s respected general counsel and first vice president—had riveted the media’s attention. The copycat killer who had terrorized the city hadn’t been some crazy homeless man, living in Central Park on a piece of cardboard. It had instead been one of the pillars of Manhattan society, the smiling, cordial fixture at so many glittering fundraisers and openings. Here was a man whose face and impeccably tailored figure was often seen in the society pages of Avenue and Vanity Fair. And now he stood revealed as one of New York’s most notorious serial killers. What a story. And he, Custer, had cracked the case single-handedly.

The mayor was conferring sotto voce with the commissioner and the Museum’s director, Collopy, who had at last been tracked down to his own West End residence. Custer’s gaze lingered on Collopy. The man had the gaunt, pinched look of a fire-and-brimstone preacher, and he wore clothes straight out of an old Bela Lugosi movie. The police had finally broken down his front door, suspecting foul play when they observed figures moving against the drawn shades. The scuttlebutt was that the police found him in a pink lace teddy, tied to his bed, with his wife and a second female dressed in dominatrix uniforms. Staring at the man, Custer refused to believe such a rumor. True, the man’s somber clothes looked just a tad disheveled. Still, it was impossible to believe such a pillar of propriety could ever have donned a teddy. Wasn’t it?

Now, Custer saw Mayor Montefiori’s eyes dart toward him. They were talking about him. Although he maintained his stolid expression, arranging his face into a mask of duty and obedience, he was unable to prevent a flush of pleasure from suffusing his limbs.

Commissioner Rocker broke away from the mayor and Collopy and came over. To Custer’s surprise, he did not look altogether happy.

“Captain.”

“Yes, sir.”

The commissioner stood there a moment, indecisive, face full of anxiety. Finally he leaned closer. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, sir?”

“Sure that it’s Brisbane.”

Custer felt a twinge of doubt, but quickly stepped down on it. The evidence was overwhelming.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he confess?”

“No, not confess—exactly—but he made a number of self-incriminating statements. I expect he’ll confess when he’s formally questioned. They always do. Serial killers, I mean. And we found incriminating evidence in his Museum office—”

“No mistake about it? Mr. Brisbane is a very prominent person.”

“No mistake about it, sir.”

Rocker scrutinized his face a moment longer. Custer stirred uneasily. He had been expecting congratulations, not the third degree.

Then the commissioner leaned still closer and lowered his voice to a slow, deliberate whisper. “Custer, all I can say is, you’d better be right.”

“I am right, sir.”

The commissioner nodded, a look of guarded relief, still mixed with anxiety, settling on his face.

Now Custer stepped respectfully into the background, letting the mayor, his aides, Collopy, and the commissioner arrange themselves before the throngs of press. A feeling like electricity, an anticipatory tingling, filled the air.

The mayor raised his hand, and a hush fell on the crowd. Custer realized the man wasn’t even permitting his aides to introduce him. He was going to handle this personally. With the election so near, he wasn’t going to let even a crumb of glory escape.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,”the mayor began. “We have made an arrest in the case of the serial killer popularly known as the Surgeon. The suspect taken into custody has been identified as Roger C. Brisbane III, first vice president and general counsel of the New York Museum of Natural History.”

There was a collective gasp. Although everyone in the crowd already knew this, hearing it from the mayor made it official.

“Although it’s important to state that Mr. Brisbane must naturally be presumed innocent at this time, the evidence against him is substantial.”

There was a brief hush.

“As mayor, I made this case a top priority. All available resources were brought to bear. I therefore want to thank, first of all, the fine officers of the NYPD, Commissioner Rocker, and the men and women of the homicide division, for their tireless work on this difficult case. And I would especially like to single out Captain Sherwood Custer. As I understand it, Captain Custer not only headed the investigation, but personally solved the case. I am shocked, as many of you must be, at the most unusual twist this tragic case has taken. Many of us know Mr. Brisbane personally. Nevertheless, the commissioner has assured me in no uncertain terms that they have the right man, and I am satisfied to rely on his assurances.”