FIFTY-SIX

The cab pulled up in front of the Times Building. Smithback impatiently signed the credit card receipt-the fare was $425-paying with the card he'd picked up at his apartment. He handed the slip back to the cabbie, who took it with a frown.

"Where's the tip?" the driver said.

"Are you kidding? I could've flown to Aruba for what I just paid you."

"Look, pal, I got gas, insurance, expenses up the wazoo-"

Smithback slammed the door and ran into the building, sprinting for the elevator. He would just touch base with Davies, let his boss know he was back in town, make sure his job wasn't on the line- and then head straight to the museum and Nora. It was quarter after nine: she hadn't been at the apartment, and he assumed she'd already left for work.

He punched the button for the thirty-third floor and waited while the elevator rose with maddening slowness. At last, it arrived, and he exited the car and jogged down the hall, pausing outside Davies's door just long enough to catch his breath and smooth down the unruly cowlick that always seemed to pop up at the worst possible time.

He took a deep breath, gave the door a polite rap.

"It's open," came the voice.

Smithback stepped forward into the doorway. Thank God: Harriman wasn't anywhere in sight.

Davies glanced up from his desk. "Bill! They told me you were at St. Luke's, practically at death's door."

"I made a quick recovery."

Davies looked him over, his eyes veiled. "Glad to see you looking so fat and happy." He paused. "I take it you'll be providing us with a note from your doctor?"

"Of course, of course," Smithback stammered. He assumed Pendergast could fix that, as he seemed able to fix everything else.

"You picked a convenient time to disappear." Davies's voice was laced with irony.

"I didn't pick it. It picked me."

"Have a seat."

"Well, I was just on my way-"

"Oh, I beg your pardon-I didn't realize you had a pressing engagement."

On hearing the icy tone in the voice, Smithback decided to sit down. He was dying to see Nora, but it wouldn't pay to piss off Davies any more than he already had.

"Bryce Harriman was able to take up the slack during your recent indisposition, both on the Duchamp killing and that other one up at the museum, since the police are now saying they're linked-"

Smithback sat forward in the chair. "Excuse me. Did you say a murder up at the museum? What museum?"

"You really have been out of it. The New York Museum of Natural History. A curator was murdered there three days ago-"

"Who?"

"Nobody I'd heard of. Don't worry about it, you're long off that story-Harriman's taken it over." He snapped up a manila envelope. "Here's what I've got for you, instead. It's a big story, and I'll be frank with you, Bill: I feel a certain trepidation entrusting it to someone in shaky health. I'd have considered passing it on to Harriman, too, only he's got a lot on his plate as it is and he was already in the field when the news broke twenty minutes ago. There was a big robbery at the museum last night. Seems it's a busy place these days. You're the one with contacts there, you wrote that book on the place-so it's your story, despite my feelings of concern."

"But who-?"

He shoved the envelope at Smithback. "Somebody cleaned out the diamond hall last night while a big function was under way. There's going to be a press conference at ten. Your credentials are in there." He glanced at his watch. "That's half an hour, you better get moving."

"About the killing at the museum," Smithback said again. "Who was it?"

"Like I said, nobody important. A new hire named Green. Margo Green."

"What?" Smithback found himself gripping the seat, reeling. It was impossible. Impossible.

Davies gazed at Smithback with alarm. "Are you all right?"

Smithback rose on shaking legs. "Margo Green… murdered?"

"Do you know her?"

"Yes." Smithback barely got the word out.

"Well, better that you're not handling the story, then," said Davies briskly. "Reporting on a subject too close to you, my old editor used to say, is like trying to be your own lawyer: you've got a fool for a lawyer and a fool for a-hey! Where're you going?"

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