The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(40)

“Oh yeah? Just so you know, Harry, I’m here on the little matter of the Museum cocaine ring.”

“Museum cocaine ring?” Medoker looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

“Officer O’Shaughnessy,” came Pendergast’s mild warning.

O’Shaughnessy gave the man a little clap on the shoulder. “Don’t breathe a word. Imagine how the press would run with it. Think of the Museum, Harry.” He left the man white and shaking.

“I hate it when they don’t respect the man in blue,” said O’Shaughnessy.

For a moment, Pendergast eyed him gravely. Then he nodded toward the buffet. “Regulations may forbid drinking on the job, but they don’t forbid eating blini au caviar.”

“Blini auwhat?”

“Tiny buckwheat pancakes topped with crème fra?che and caviar. Delectable.”

O’Shaughnessy shuddered. “I don’t like raw fish eggs.”

“I suspect you’ve never had the real thing, Sergeant. Give one a try. You’ll find them much more palatable than a Die Walküre aria, I assure you. However, there’s also the smoked sturgeon, the foie gras, the prosciutto di Parma, and the Damariscotta River oysters. The Museum always serves an excellent table.”

“Just give me the pigs in a blanket.”

“Those can be obtained from the man with the cart on the corner of Seventy-seventh and Central Park West.”

More people were trickling into the hall, but the crowd was still thin. O’Shaughnessy followed Pendergast over to the food table. He avoided the piles of sticky gray fish eggs. Instead, he took a few pieces of ham, cut a slice from a wheel of brie, and with some pieces of French bread made a couple of small ham-and-cheese sandwiches for himself. The ham was a little dry, and the cheese tasted a little like ammonia, but overall it was palatable.

“You had a meeting with Captain Custer, right?” Pendergast asked. “How did it go?”

O’Shaughnessy shook his head as he munched. “Not too good.”

“I expect there was someone from the mayor’s office.”

“Mary Hill.”

“Ah, Miss Hill. Of course.”

“Captain Custer wanted to know why I hadn’t told them about the journal, why I hadn’t told them about the dress, why I hadn’t told them about the note. But it was all in the report—which Custer hadn’t read—so in the end I survived the meeting.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Thanks for helping me finish that report. Otherwise, they’d have ripped me a new one.”

“What a quaint expression.” Pendergast looked over O’Shaughnessy’s shoulder. “Sergeant, I’d like to introduce you to an old acquaintance of mine. William Smithback.”

O’Shaughnessy turned to see a gangling, awkward-looking man at the buffet, a gravity-defying cowlick jutting from the top of his head. He was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo, and he seemed utterly absorbed in piling as much food onto his plate as possible, as quickly as possible. The man looked over, saw Pendergast, and started visibly. He glanced around uneasily, as if marking possible exits. But the FBI agent was smiling encouragingly, and the man named Smithback came toward them a little warily.

“Agent Pendergast,” Smithback said in a nasal baritone. “What a surprise.”

“Indeed. Mr. Smithback, I find you well.” He grasped Smithback’s hand and shook it. “How many years has it been?”

“Long time,” said Smithback, looking like it had not been nearly long enough. “What are you doing in New York?”

“I keep an apartment here.” Pendergast released the hand and looked the writer up and down. “I see you’ve graduated to Armani, Mr. Smithback,” he said. “A rather better cut than those off-the-rack Fourteenth Street job-lot suits you used to sport. However, when you’re ready to take a real sartorial step, might I recommend Brioni or Ermenegildo Zegna?”

Smithback opened his mouth to reply, but Pendergast continued smoothly. “I heard from Margo Green, by the way. She’s up in Boston, working for the GeneDyne Corporation. She asked me to remember her to you.”

Smithback opened his mouth again, shut it. “Thank you,”he managed after a moment. “And—and Lieutenant D’Agosta? You keep in touch with him?”

“He also went north. He’s now living in Canada, writing police procedurals, under the pen name of Campbell Dirk.”

“I’ll have to pick up one of his books.”

“He hasn’t made it big yet—not like you, Mr. Smithback—but I must say the books are readable.”

By this point, Smithback had fully recovered. “And mine aren’t?”

Pendergast inclined his head. “I can’t honestly say I’ve read any. Do you have one you could particularly recommend?”

“Very funny,” said Smithback, frowning and looking about. “I wonder if Nora’s going to be here.”

“So you’re the guy who wrote the article, right?” asked O’Shaughnessy.

Smithback nodded. “Made a splash, don’t you think?”

“It certainly got everyone’s attention,” said Pendergast dryly.

“As well it should. Nineteenth-century serial killer, kidnapping and mutilating helpless kids from workhouses, all in the name of some experiment to extend his own wretched life. You know, they’ve awarded Pulitzers for less than that.” People were arriving more quickly now, and the noise level was increasing.