The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(83)

Silence. It was clear to Custer that Rocker didn’t fully share the mayor’s good opinion.

“So are we crystal-clear, Captain? This is now officially your case.”

“What case?” Custer was momentarily confused. Were they opening an official investigation into these old killings, too?

“The Surgeon case.” Rocker waved his hand dismissively at the huge hole with their skeletons. “This is nothing. This is archaeology. This is not a case.”

“Right. Thank you, sir,” Custer said.

“Don’t thank me. Thank the mayor. It was his, ah, suggestion that you handle it.”

Rocker let his arm slip from Custer’s shoulder. Then he stood back and looked at the captain: a long, appraising glance. “Feel you can do this, Captain?”

Custer nodded. The numbness was beginning to fade.

“The first order of business is damage control. These old murders will give you a day, maybe two, before the public’s attention returns to the Surgeon. The mayor may like seeing these old murders getting the attention, but frankly I don’t. It’ll give the copycat killer ideas, egg him on.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I brought in Bryce Harriman. You know him?”

“No.”

“He’s the one who first put a finger on the copycat angle. We need to keep him where we can see him. We’ll give him an exclusive, but we’ll control the information he gets. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. He’s a nice sort, eager to please. He’s waiting out front. Remember to keep the conversation on the old bones and on this site. Not on the Surgeon or the new killings. The public may be confounding the two, but we’re sure as hell not.”

Custer turned back toward the living room. But Rocker put out a hand to stop him.

“And, Captain? Once you’re done with Harriman, I’d suggest you get to work on this new case of yours. Get right to work. Catch that killer. You don’t want another, fresher stiff turning up on your watch—do you? Like I said, you’ve got a little breathing space here. Make use of it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rocker continued to peer at him from beneath lowered brows. Then he grunted, nodded, and gestured Custer on ahead of him.

The living room was, if possible, even more crowded than it had been moments before. At the commissioner’s signal, a tall, slender man stepped out of the shadows: horn-rimmed glasses, slicked-back hair, tweed jacket, blue oxford shirt, tasseled loafers.

“Mr. Harriman?” Rocker said. “This is Captain Custer.”

Harriman gave Custer’s hand a manly shake. “Nice to meet you in person, sir.”

Custer returned the handshake. Despite his instinctive distrust of the press, he found himself approving of the man’s deferential attitude. Sir. When was the last time a reporter had called him sir?

The commissioner glanced gravely from one man to the other. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Captain? I have to get back to One Police Plaza.”

Custer nodded. “Of course, sir.”

He watched the man’s broad back as it disappeared through the door.

Noyes was suddenly there, in front of Custer, hand extended. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, sir.”

Custer shook the limp hand. Then he turned back to Harriman, who was smiling beneath the horn-rims, impeccably knotted repp tie snugged against a buttoned-down collar. A dweeb, without doubt. But a very useful dweeb. It occurred to Custer that giving Harriman an exclusive would take that other pesky reporter—the one whose voice was still clamoring out in the street—down a few notches. Slow him down, get him off their asses for a while. It was bracing how quickly he was adjusting to his new responsibility.

“Captain Custer?” the man said, notebook poised.

“Yeah?”

“May I ask you a few questions?”

Custer gestured magnanimously. “Shoot.”





EIGHT




O’SHA UGHNESSY STEPPED INTO THE CAPTAIN’S OUTER OFFICE, automatically looking around for Noyes. He had a pretty good idea why Custer wanted to see him. He wondered if the subject of the prostitute’s two hundred bucks would come up, as it sometimes did when he got a little too independent for some ass-kisser’s taste. Normally he wouldn’t care; he’d had years to practice letting it all roll off his back. Ironic, he thought, that the shit was about to come down now—now, just when he’d gotten on an investigation he found himself caring about.

Noyes came around the corner, chewing gum, his arms full of papers, his perpetually wet lower lip hanging loose from a row of brown teeth. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.” He dropped the pile on his desk, took his sweet time sitting down, then leaned toward a speaker.

“He’s here,” he called into it.

O’Shaughnessy sat down, watching Noyes. The man always chewed that nasty, old-fashioned, violet-scented gum favored by dowagers and alcoholics. The outer office reeked of it.

Ten minutes later the captain appeared in the door, hiking up his pants and tucking in his shirt. He jerked his chin at O’Shaughnessy to indicate he was ready for him.

O’Shaughnessy followed him back into the office. The captain sank heavily into his chair. He rolled his eyes toward O’Shaughnessy with a stare that was meant to be tough but only looked baleful.