The Bone Vault

9

Thibodaux closed the door of his office and left us at his secretary’s desk with Ms. Drexler, who was waiting to escort us to the basement.

“Could you give us some privacy while we make this call?” Chapman asked. Both women stepped into the hallway.

I watched him dial the number of the Special Victims Squad as he looked at his watch.

“Hey, Joey, Mercer Wallace working today?” He paused while the detective who had answered looked at the duty chart. “When he gets in, tell him to give me a call on my cell. I need him to check an old case. No thanks, no need to bother you with it.”

He hung up the phone. “Must be losing your touch, blondie. How is it you wouldn’t know about a legit complainant attacked in a public park?”

“‘Cause somebody tanked the case. Didn’t want to let us take a crack at it.”

“That means there’s a boss up there who doesn’t like you, or even the guy who took the squeal. You sure it doesn’t ring any bells?”

“I’ll have Laura check the screening sheets, but it’s got too many hot-button items not to stand out in my memory.” We had a detailed system of tracking sexual assault cases in the unit, in which every incident was cross-referenced by the name of the victim and the offender, the date and place of occurrence. Reports were made in each circumstance, whether or not an arrest was effected or the case went to trial. Sarah and I liked to think our record-keeping was foolproof, although the police department managed to keep things under wraps from time to time.

“You got a victim who’s a foreigner-which would make the mayor ballistic.” It was bad enough to assault or murder a New Yorker when City Hall was tracking crime stats so closely, but attacks on out-of-towners led to national headlines that threatened the income tourists fed to the hotel and restaurant industries. “She worked for a major art institution, attacked in a public park. Likely to cause a stir. Mercer’s coming in any minute on a four to twelve. He can dig around for the case folder.”

Mercer Wallace was the third man in what we liked to think of as our team. At forty-one, he was five years older than Mike and me, and about to become a father for the first time. He had remarried his ex-wife, Vickee, on New Year’s Day, after she reappeared in his life to help him through the aftermath of an investigation in which he had suffered a near-fatal gunshot wound to his chest.

Mercer’s great height and dark black skin made him a physical standout in any room. But it was his meticulous investigative style and compassionate manner with witnesses that won him the coveted spot as my favorite detective at the Special Victims Squad, which was responsible for handling every sexual assault and child abuse case in the borough. The son of a widowed airline mechanic who had worked several jobs to save for Mercer’s college education, he had at the last minute turned down a football scholarship to the University of Michigan to enroll in the Police Academy.

Mike and Mercer had worked together at Manhattan North Homicide for several years, until Mercer decided that he preferred to deal with witnesses who were still alive and needed the strength of a sensitive, smart detective to help restore their dignity and find some kind of justice for their assailant. More often than we liked, the work of the two units overlapped, and the victim of some kind of sexual violence became the subject of a murder investigation.

Eve Drexler was waiting for us in the hallway. She led us back to the elevator and pressed the button for the basement level. When the doors opened, she pointed to the sign across the corridor that had Lissen’s name printed on it. They closed before I remembered to ask her to finish her sentence about what had happened when Thibodaux received the call about his wife’s accidental death. I told Mike to add it to his list of questions.

The cubicle that was home to the shipping department head lacked the lavish accoutrements of the museum director’s office. Unframed reproduction posters were thumbtacked to the scratched walls, much as in a college dorm room. File cabinets ringed the perimeter, the dust on the computer looked so thick that it appeared to have been untouched since it was installed, and the desk was crowned by sloppy piles of yellow and white papers.

Lissen motioned us in and we sat on stools facing his desk. “Mr. Thibodaux asked a couple of the curators to come down. I’m really not supposed to poke around their storage areas unless they give me permission.”

“Can we sit somewhere else, so I can take notes while we talk?”

“We don’t got a lot of fancy rooms down here, Detective.”

I heard footsteps and turned to see several people in the doorway. I recognized the tall, balding man as one who had been with Mr. Lissen in the shipyard last night.

“I’m Timothy Gaylord. I’m afraid the Egyptian art collection is under my direction,” he said, extending a hand.

Mike and I stood up in the crowded space and made introductions all around. The second man told us he was Erik Poste, the curator in charge of European paintings, and the third staffer was Anna Friedrichs, who ran the department of the arts of Africa, Oceania, and the Americas.

Gaylord took command of the situation. “Maury, why don’t we all move into our storeroom?” He turned to Mike and me. “There’s a small office we can work in there, a lot more comfortably than in this.”

“Can we access your computer files from that one?” I asked Lissen.

“Only if we had any.” He waved a hand behind him at the dusty monitor. “We’re not the high-tech section of the museum. They got it all cataloged upstairs. We’re just the brawn. Someone tells us to move something, that’s what we do. Never had time to go to school to learn how to catch up on these machines. Sooner or later someone picks up the paperwork and puts it in order. I ain’t lost much more than a couple of African masks that’d scare you half to death anyway, and some fake statuettes. A few minor paintings that weren’t going to get hung.”

Lissen locked his door behind him and we all followed Timothy Gaylord into the hallway. We were at the southeast corner of the basement, and we walked for several minutes down a windowless stretch of corridor without a doorway or stairwell to break the long cement barriers.

“What’s back here?” Chapman was walking on Gaylord’s heels, anxious to find out what was behind the great gray walls.

Gaylord turned his head and smiled at us. “Surely, Detective, you can guess what the most lucrative part of this great art museum is?”

Neither of us had any idea.

“That’s the underground parking garage that was built thirty years ago. It’s entirely museum revenue. Unlike everything else, the city doesn’t get a nickel of that money.”

“It’s public parking?”

“Yes, the daily museum visitors and permanent tenants from the luxury buildings in the neighborhood. As an art lover, it pains me to say that the garage is probably the most significant source of income for the great Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

And I knew Mike was thinking that it was an entirely unexpected headache for him. The fact that one could bring in a private vehicle, park it off the street for days or weeks at a time, and have such immediate access to the institution made it something else to add to his list of facilities to search.

We turned a corner and were walking north now. There were a series of doorways, each with a numbered plaque above the lintel. Gaylord stopped in front of the third one and turned the handle. Inside the large square room two young women sat on opposite sides of a table, wearing magnifying glasses strapped to bands that circled their heads, bent over the model of an ancient boat.

“I’m going to need this area for an hour or so,” Gaylord said in his soft-spoken voice. “Would you mind terribly if we interrupted your work?”

Both of them removed their headpieces and assured us the break was welcome.

We seated ourselves around the table.

“Pierre called to tell me this latest piece of news, and I just want to say how distressing this is to me. To all of us, I’m sure. I have met Katrina Grooten.” He paused and ran a finger over his lower lip. “She was a very serious young scholar. And I’m holding myself responsible for the fact that Ms. Grooten was found in a sarcophagus that belonged to my department.

“I called Erik and Anna in on this because they might have some information that would be helpful. When Pierre told me it was Katrina, I was aware both of them knew her as well, so I’ve asked them to come down here with me. Where would you like us to begin?”

I wanted to know about my victim. The kind of person she was, the things she did for a living, and the things she liked to do when she left her job. What kind of people she socialized with, and whether she was a risk-taker. Who her family was and what they thought had become of her. I needed a sketch of Katrina Grooten that would keep her alive for me in my mind’s eye, so that I could try to re-create the events that had led up to her death.

Mike, on the other hand, did not want to know the deceased any better than the facts forced him to. He kept his sanity by staying at arm’s length from the person whose killer he would try to find. Although he would be dogged in learning every morsel about Katrina’s existence, he wanted to internalize nothing that would make him judgmental about her life or lifestyle. He didn’t care whether she was liked or despised by her peers, sexually active or a recluse. What mattered most to him was that she hadn’t deserved to die, and no one would try harder than he to get the bastard who had brought her to such an ugly end.

“Perhaps each of you could tell us what you knew about Katrina, personally and professionally. We need every detail you can remember.”

Gaylord spoke first. “I would say I have the least to contribute, so I might as well go first. Do you know about the project we’re collaborating on with the Museum of Natural History?”

“I know there’s to be a joint show next year, and that the celebratory announcement was last night. But neither Detective Chapman nor I know any of the details.”

“There’s been a rather intense rivalry between these two institutions for more than a century now. They were both founded in the 1870s, and in fact, the trustees had actually planned that each museum would occupy buildings on the very same site, known as Manhattan Square, on the west side of the park. Only later was the Met resituated to our present site, on what was then called Deer Park, the area between Seventy-ninth and Eighty-fourth streets on the Upper East Side.

“President Grant laid the cornerstone for the Natural History Museum, while President Hayes dedicated the Metropolitan.”

“Why the conflict?” Chapman asked. “Can’t they get over it and talk current events here?”

“Our trustees at the Metropolitan, the fabulously wealthy merchants and businessmen of that period, had extraordinarily lofty goals. They had models in all the great museums of Europe, most of which enjoyed the benefit of centuries of plundering their neighbors or being patronized by royalty. Both methods were tried-and-true for establishing collections. Our founders wanted to use art to educate and refine the American masses, and to provide for them a knowledge of the history of art that existed in civilized countries abroad.”

“Wasn’t Natural History doing the same thing?”

All three of the curators smirked in unison.

“That’s hardlyart, Mr. Chapman. Natural history museums developed from an entirely different type of collecting mania. They are the descendants of what are known as ‘cabinets of curiosities.’ Fossils, minerals, mollusks, shells, bugs, and the ever-popular dinosaurs. They have a fascinating repository of all the bizarre and wonderful creatures that have ever crawled and walked on Earth.”

“They make a good effort at calling themselves scientific in this day and age, but for those of us in the museum business, they’re just pickled remains. Lots of dead things in jars and behind glass walls,” said Erik Poste.

“But put the best of their exhibits beside a painting by Delacroix or Vermeer, or even next to the faience carving of the Sphinx of Amenhotep III, and it’s simply laughable,” said Gaylord. “We’re not a warehouse of the bizarre and extinct. We are quite simply the greatest repository of art in the Western Hemisphere, a living institution that is not only informative but uplifting, in a way that our sister across the park was never meant to be.”

“So, the joint exhibit?”

“Holding hands for the greater good, Detective. It’s all about profit-making, as you might guess. When the national economy took such a marked downward shift this year, the trustees had to ask Thibodaux to tighten his belt.”

“Why him?”

“Because he’s such a big spender. That’s what he was brought in here to do three years ago. All the fat-cat trustees had money to throw at him and adored his boldness. I’m not talking behind his back. One of the things we all like about having him at the helm is that great works of art are being offered to us all the time because collectors know that we have a rich board willing to pay for these masterpieces. No haggling, no bargaining.”

Erik Poste took over from Gaylord again. “The Met puts on special exhibitions all the time, as you probably know. Some more successful than others. This one has been in the planning stage for more than a year. It was Thibodaux’s idea to ask Natural History to partner it with us. It’s never been done that way before, and quite frankly, he thinks it has the potential to be a financial blockbuster.”

“So does UniQuest,” Gaylord said, reminding me of the purpose of last night’s party.

“So what’s this theme?”

“It’s our working title. ‘A Modern Bestiary.’”

“Doesn’t sound too thrilling to me,” Chapman said.

“Don’t worry. Our friends in Hollywood will probably dream up a snappier title before we’re done. We’ve already rejected things like ‘Satyrs, Sirens, and Sapiens.’ It’s actually been a riveting undertaking. There’s something in it to appeal to everyone, which is what makes Thibodaux such a genius at marketing. He and the woman who runs Natural History-Helen Raspen-she’s absolutely brilliant.”

“What’s a bestiary?”

Erik Poste spoke again. “They were originally medieval books, Mr. Chapman. They purported to depict and describe all the animals in the world, and then-because this was the thought in the Middle Ages-what human traits they each represented.”

“Animals with human traits?”

“Bestiaries are the source of all kinds of fabulous beasts, and artists throughout the centuries have used them as guides to literary symbolism. Think of the unicorn. A magnificent pure white beast with a single horn in its forehead. It’s long been the symbol of virginity.”

“And I used to think that was a blonde prosecutor,” Chapman mumbled under his breath.

Gaylord went on. “Lewis Carroll, James Thurber, Jorge Luis Borges-they’ve all done bestiaries. Much more recent, of course. This gives us a chance to pull together centuries of work from both collections with a common theme. We’ve got the artistic representations in our paintings and sculpture, while Natural History has the fossils and skeletons. Art lovers or animal fans, kids and grown-ups, there’s something for everyone to relate to in a show like this.”

Roll out those giant silk banners that announce new shows as they hang from the museums’ rooftops, open the cash registers, stock the gift shops, and the masses will come.

Where had we lost Katrina in this? “How was Ms. Grooten involved?”

Timothy Gaylord rolled his lacquered fountain pen back and forth between his palms. “When Thibodaux first proposed this idea in-house early last year, we decided to get together with someone from each collection within the Met.”

“How many are there?”

“Eighteen curatorial departments-everything from the three we represent to musical instruments and photography. We started with the heads of each group. Some of the smaller divisions sent representatives. I remember that Hiram Bellinger, from the Cloisters, came to the first meeting in Pierre’s office, isn’t that right?” Gaylord said, looking to Poste and Friedrichs for confirmation.

“Yes,” Friedrichs answered. “It was after that point he designated Katrina to work on the project and pick the exhibits that might be included from the Cloisters, which he runs.”

“Mr. Bellinger specializes in delegating assignments, Miss Cooper,” Erik Poste said, crossing his legs as he laughed aloud. “Pierre made it clear that even those of us who ran major departments in the museum-well, Timothy here, and me-had to sit on this show ourselves. It was a serious investment of our time and energy, but I knew Pierre would make it worthwhile for us with the money the exhibition could raise.”

“Bellinger himself is like a throwback to medieval times,” Gaylord said. “Sits up there as though he’s a monk in his own monastery, studying illuminated manuscripts. He doesn’t seem to realize that if we don’t make the money to support the museum, he’ll be taking the vow of poverty himself. Unfortunately, a lot of our scholars, like Hiram, have nothing but contempt for Thibodaux and his entrepreneurial vision.”

“And you?”

“I quite admire Pierre. I think all three of us do. There’s no other way to compete against the other great museums of the world if we don’t have the financial means to buy the pieces that come on the market. It can’t be any simpler than that.”

“Is it in these meetings where you first met Ms. Grooten?” I asked Gaylord.

“It’s the only place. Pierre put me in charge of the Met’s role in the joint exhibit. I chaired several of the planning sessions.”

“Was Mr. Thibodaux himself present for those?”

Gaylord took a moment to think. “Maybe one or two. Once he turned it over to me, I don’t remember that he came to many of them.”

“And Ms. Grooten?”

“As I said, she wasn’t at the first one.”

“But were they ever in meetings together?”

The three curators exchanged glances. “Hard to say,” Poste answered. “Thibodaux would occasionally stick his head in the room, when he wasn’t traveling abroad. Just to make the point that the program was his baby, a directive straight from the top.”

“Does he travel often?”

“All the time. Some middleman calls and says there’s a krater in the hands of a private owner in Athens who needs some cash, or a Caillebotte coming up for auction for the first time in Geneva, or a rich old dame who’s thinking about leaving her Stradivarius to whichever museum will give it the most prominent placement. That’s the way the game is played.”

“Did any of you ever socialize with Ms. Grooten, apart from these sessions?”

“We both did,” Anna Friedrichs said, pointing from herself to Erik Poste.

“What did you know about her? How well did you know her?”

“I was very fond of Katrina,” Friedrichs said. “We had dinner together on occasion, after work; sometimes lunch. She was about ten years younger than I. Twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Studied in England. Oxford, I believe. Got a master’s in medieval art before she came to the States three years ago to work with us.”

“Single?”

“Yes. Lived alone. Rented a studio apartment in Washington Heights so she’d be close to the Cloisters. She liked to bike to work.”

“Did she have any relatives here?”

“None that she spoke of. Her mother had died while she was at university. And I believe her father was quite ill, at home in South Africa.”

Erik Poste knew more about that. “It was one of the reasons she was torn about her work here. Her father was failing, and despite how much she loved her job, she talked about going home to care for him.”

“Any men in her life? People she dated?”

“Not that she spoke about. Like Anna, I had lunch with Katrina from time to time, if I happened to be working at the bestiary office when she was there. I believe we had dinner one time, with another one of the museum fellows, because they had business they wanted to discuss with me.”

“Did you and she ever-?”

“Not what you’re thinking, Detective. I’m forty-three years old, with a wife and three children. My relationship with Katrina was entirely professional. There was a good deal of overlap between our two departments, naturally, so we were thrust together on many occasions.”

“What do you mean by overlap?”

“I’m in charge of European paintings and sculpture. Katrina’s interest was medieval art, which is the reason she was assigned to work at the Cloisters. Her field was a subspecialty of my department’s, so I had a lot of contact with Hiram Bellinger and his staff. Quite frankly, I was hoping to lure her away from Bellinger and bring her down to supervise some projects here at the Met.”

“So you enjoyed working with Katrina?”

“Yes, I respected her intelligence and her desire to learn. She was mature beyond her years. And very quiet, very demure.”

Anna Friedrichs laughed. “Not in the meetings I attended. There was a feistiness about her that I loved in a young woman her age. Despite her lack of experience, she wasn’t afraid to take on the old boys who wanted to control the show.”

“I never saw that side of her. How interesting.”

Why were their recollections so different? “Were you two at the same meetings?”

“Rarely. My department is enormous,” said Poste. “It was easy for me to break away and attend things in this building. But once the idea for the big show got started, the action moved across the park.”

“I usually saw Katrina over at Natural History, after the joint planning got under way. It’s a bit looser over there than it is in this mausoleum, as you might guess. That whole place is a lot funkier than the Met,” Friedrichs added.

“Had Katrina worked in any other museums before coming here?”

Poste shrugged his shoulders. “I assume so. But I don’t know any details.”

Friedrichs gave it some thought. “I’m sure she must have had an internship somewhere. The Cloisters would be a pretty plum place to start out. I just don’t know where.”

“Did she confide in either of you?”

“About what?” Friedrichs asked.

“Anything personal. Any bad experience she had while she was here?”

“No. She did seem more somber the last few times we were together. In fact, she broke our dinner date after the last meeting we had. Complained about not feeling well.”

“That was in the fall, Anna, wasn’t it? That’s when she began to talk about going home to help with her father. She was very subdued, as I said. What kind of bad experience do you mean, Detective?” Erik Poste asked.

The telephone rang on a side table in the corner of the room. Gaylord got up to answer it, turning away from us to listen to the caller, then he walked back to the table and spoke to us without resuming his seat. “You’ll excuse me, Detective. Ms. Cooper. Erik and Anna will continue to show you around and answer your questions. I’ve got to go upstairs immediately.”

Gaylored ignored Chapman and me, speaking to his colleagues. “Pierre Thibodaux has just resigned.”