Cemetery Dance

Chapter 14

Caitlyn Kidd nosedher car into a bus — only zone across the street from the New York Museum of Natural History. Before getting out, she draped a copy of yesterday'sWest Sider — with the headline and her byline prominently displayed — on the dash. That, along with her press plates, just might help her avoid a second parking ticket in as many days.

She walked briskly across Museum Drive, inhaling the frosty fall air. It was quarter to five, and as she suspected a number of people were exiting purposefully from an unmarked door set into the ground floor of the vast structure. They carried bags and briefcases — employees, not visitors. She threaded her way through them toward the door.

Beyond the door lay a narrow corridor, leading to a security station. A few people were showing their museum IDs and being waved past the station by a pair of bored — looking guards. Caitlyn rummaged in her bag, plucked out her press ID.

She stepped up and showed the pass to the guard. "Staff only," he said.

"I'm with the West Sider," she replied. "I'm doing a story on the museum."

"Got an appointment?"

"I've got an interview set up with…" She glanced at the badge of a curator just passing the little guard station. It would be at least a few minutes before he reached his office. "Dr. Prine."

"Moment." The guard checked a phone book, lifted the phone, dialed a number, let it ring a few times. Then he raised his sleepy eyes to her. "He ain't in. You'll have to wait here."

"May I sit down?" She indicated a bench a dozen yards off.

The guard hesitated.

"I'm pregnant. I'm not supposed to be on my feet."

"Go ahead."

She sat down, crossed her legs, opened a book, keeping an eye on the guard station. A knot of employees arrived and began piling up around the entrance — janitors by the look of them, arriving for the night shift. As the guards became fully engrossed in checking IDs and ticking off names, Caitlyn quickly rose and joined the stream of employees already through the security checkpoint.

The room she was looking for was in the basement — a five — minute search on the Internet had secured an employee directory and layout of the museum — but the place was a rabbit warren of intersecting passages and endless, unmarked corridors. Nobody challenged her access or even seemed to notice her, however, and a few well — placed queries finally led her to a long, dimly lit hallway, opposing walls punctuated every twenty feet by doors with frosted windows set into them. Caitlyn made her way slowly down the corridor, glancing at the names on the doors. A smell lingered in the air, faintly unpleasant, that she couldn't identify. Some of the doors were open, and beyond she could see laboratory setups, cluttered offices, and — bizarrely — jars of pickled animals and fierce — looking beasts, stuffed and mounted.

She paused outside a door labeled kelly, n. The door was ajar, and Caitlyn heard voices within. One voice, she realized: Nora Kelly was on the phone.

She edged forward, listening.

"Skip, I can't," the voice was saying. "I just can't come home now."

There was a pause. "No, it's not that. If I went back to Santa Fe right now, I might never return to New York. Don't you understand? Besides, it's vital for me to find out what really happened, track down Bill's killer. That's the only thing keeping me going right now."

This was too personal. Caitlyn pushed the door wider, clearing her throat as she did so. The lab beyond was cramped yet orderly. Half a dozen pottery fragments lay on a worktable beside a laptop computer. In one corner, a woman on the telephone looked up at her. She was slim, attractive, with bronze — colored hair spilling down over her shoulders, a haunted look in her hazel eyes.

"Skip," the woman said. "I'm going to have to call you back. Yes. Okay, tonight." She hung up, stood up from the desk. "Can I help you?"

Caitlyn took a deep breath. "Nora Kelly?"

"That's right."

Caitlyn pulled the press ID from her bag, held it open. "I'm Caitlyn Kidd, from the West Sider."

Nora Kelly abruptly flushed. "The author of that piece of garbage?" Her voice was sharp with anger and grief.

"Ms. Kelly—"

"That was quite a piece of work. Another one like that and you might get an offer from the Weekly World News. I suggest you leave before I call security."

"Did you actually read my story?" Caitlyn blurted out hastily.

A look of uncertainty crossed Nora's face. Caitlyn had guessed right: the woman hadn't read it.

"It was a good story, factual and unbiased. I don't write the headlines, I just report the news."

Nora took a step forward, and Caitlyn instinctively moved back. For a moment, Nora stared at her, eyes flashing. Then she turned back toward the desk, picking up the phone.

"What are you doing?" Caitlyn asked.

"Calling security."

"Ms. Kelly, please don't do that."

She finished dialing and waited while it rang.

"You're only hurting yourself. Because I can help you find your husband's murderer."

"Yes?" Nora spoke into the phone. "This is Nora Kelly, in the anthro lab."

"We both want the same thing," Caitlyn hissed. "Please let me show you how I can help you. Please."

A silence. Nora stared at her, and then said into the phone, "I'm sorry, I dialed the wrong number." She slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.

"Two minutes," she said.

"Okay. Nora — can I call you Nora? I knew your husband. Did he ever mention that? We used to run into each other at journalistic events, press conferences, crime scenes. Sometimes we were after the same story but, well… it was kind of hard for me, a cub reporter with a throwaway tabloid like theWest Sider, to compete with theTimes. "

Nora said nothing. "Bill was a good guy. It's like I said: you and I have a common goal — find his murderer. We each have unique resources at our disposal; we should use them. You know him better than anyone. And I've got a paper. We could pool our talents, help each other."

"I'm still waiting to hear how."

"You know that story Bill was working on, the animal rights piece? He mentioned it to me a few weeks ago."

Nora nodded. "I already told the police about that." She hesitated. "You think it's connected?"

"That's what my gut tells me. But I don't have enough information yet. Tell me more about it."

"It was that business of animal sacrifice up in Inwood. There was a flurry of stories and then it got dropped. But it held Bill's interest. He kept it on the back burner, kept looking for new angles."

"Did he tell you much about it?"

"I just got the sense that some people weren't thrilled about his interest in the subject, but what else is new? He was never happier than when he was pissing off people. Unpleasant people in particular. And there was no one he hated more than an animal abuser." She glanced at her watch. "Thirty seconds left. You still haven't told me how you can help me."

"I'm a tireless researcher. Ask any of my colleagues. I know how to work the police, the hospitals, the libraries, the morgue — I mean, the newspaper's morgue. My press card gets me in places you can't go. I can devote my nights and my days to this, twenty — four/seven. It's true, I want a story. But I also want to do right by Bill."

"Your two minutes are up."

"Okay, I'll leave now. I want you to do something — for yourself as much as for me." Caitlyn tapped her head. "Get out his notes on that piece. The animal rights piece. Share them with me. Remember: we reporters look after our own. I want to get to the bottom of this almost as much as you do. Help me do that, Nora."

And with that, she smiled briefly, gave Nora her card, then turned and let herself out of the lab.