The Cabinet of Curiosities (Pendergast #3)(89)

“Yeah?” Smithback took a casual sip, carefully concealing his interest. He knew very well what a “crazy theory” of Pendergast’s could turn out to mean.

“Yeah. I mean, I like this case. I’d hate to turn away from it. But I can’t work on something that’s nuts.”

“I hear that. So what’s Pendergast’s crazy theory?”

O’Shaughnessy hesitated, longer this time. He was clearly struggling with himself over this.

Smithback gritted his teeth. Get the man another drink.

He waved the waiter over. “We’ll have another round,” he said.

“Make mine Powers.”

“Have it your way. Still on me.”

They waited for the next round to arrive.

“How’s the newspaper business?” O’Shaughnessy asked.

“Lousy. Got scooped by the Post. Twice.”

“I noticed that.”

“I could’ve used some help there, Patrick. The phone call about Doyers Street was nice, but it didn’t get me inside.”

“Hey, I gave you the tip, it’s up to you to get your ass inside.”

“How’d Harriman get the exclusive?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, they hate you. They blame you for triggering the copycat killings.”

Smithback shook his head. “Probably going to can me now.”

“Not for a scoop.”

“Two scoops. And Patrick, don’t be so naive. This is a bloodsucking business, and you either suck or get sucked.” The metaphor didn’t have quite the ring Smithback intended, but it conveyed the message.

O’Shaughnessy laughed mirthlessly. “That about sums it up in my business, too.” His face grew graver. “But I know what it’s like to be canned.”

Smithback leaned forward conspiratorially. Time to push a little. “So what’s Pendergast’s theory?”

O’Shaughnessy took a sip of his drink. He seemed to arrive at some private decision. “If I tell you, you’ll use your resources, see if there’s any chance it’s true?”

“Of course. I’ll do whatever I can.”

“And you’ll keep it to yourself? No story—at least, not yet?”

That hurt, but Smithback managed to nod in agreement.

“Okay.” O’Shaughnessy shook his head. “Not that you could print it, anyway. It’s totally unpublishable.”

Smithback nodded. “I understand.” This was sounding better and better.

O’Shaughnessy glanced at him. “Pendergast thinks this guy Leng is still alive. He thinks Leng succeeded in prolonging his life.”

This stopped Smithback cold. He felt a shock of disappointment. “Shit, Patrick, that is crazy. That’s absurd.”

“I told you so.”

Smithback felt a wave of desperation. This was worse than nothing. Pendergast had gone off the deep end. Everybody knew a copycat killer was at work here. Leng, still alive after a century and a half? The story he was looking for seemed to recede further into the distance. He put his head in his hands. “How?”

“Pendergast believes that the examination of the bones on Doyers Street, the Catherine Street autopsy report, and the Doreen Hollander autopsy results, all show the same exact pattern of marks.”

Smithback continued to shake his head. “So Leng’s been killing all this time—for, what, the last hundred and thirty years?”

“That’s what he thinks. He thinks the guy is still living up on Riverside Drive somewhere.”

For a moment, Smithback was silent, toying with the matches. Pendergast needed a long vacation.

“He’s got Nora examining old deeds, identifying which houses dating prior to 1900 weren’t broken into apartments. Looking for property deeds that haven’t gone into probate for a very, very long time. That sort of thing. Trying to track Leng down.”

A total waste, Smithback thought. What’s going on with Pendergast? He finished his now tasteless drink.

“Don’t forget your promise. You’ll look into it? Check the obituaries, comb old issues of the Times for any crumbs you can find? See if there’s even a chance Pendergast might be right?”

“Sure, sure.” Jesus, what a joke. Smithback was now sorry he’d agreed to the arrangement. All it meant was more wasted time.

O’Shaughnessy looked relieved. “Thanks.”

Smithback dropped the matches into his pocket, drained his glass. He flagged down the waiter. “What do we owe you?”

“Ninety-two dollars,” the man intoned sadly. As usual, there was no tab: Smithback was sure a goodly portion went into the waiter’s own pockets.

“Ninety-two dollars!” O’Shaughnessy cried. “How many drinks did you have before I arrived?”

“The good things in life, Patrick, are not free,” Smithback said mournfully. “That is especially true of single malt Scotch.”

“Think of the poor starving children.”

“Think of the poor thirsty journalists. Next time, you pay. Especially if you come armed with a story that crazy.”

“I told you so. And I hope you won’t mind drinking Powers. No Irishman would be caught dead paying a tab like that. Only a Scotsman would dare charge that much for a drink.”