The Cabinet of Curiosities

WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR., in his best suit (the Amani, recently dry-cleaned), crispest white shirt, and most business-like tie, stood on the corner of Avenue of the Americas and Fifty-fifth Street. His eyes strayed upward along the vast glass-and-chrome monolith that was the Moegen-Fairhaven Building, rippling blue-green in the sunlight like some vast slab of water. Somewhere in that hundred-million-dollar pile was his prey.

He felt pretty sure he could talk his way into seeing Fairhaven. He was good at that kind of thing. This assignment was a lot more promising than that tourist murder in the Ramble his editor had wanted him to cover today. He conjured up the grizzled face of his editor, red eyes bug-big behind thick glasses, smoke-cured finger pointing, telling him that this dead lady from Oklahoma was going to be big. Big? Tourists were getting smoked all the time in New York City. It was too bad, but there it was. Homicide reporting was hackwork. He had a hunch about Fairhaven, the Museum, and these old killings Pendergast was so interested in. He always trusted his hunches. His editor wouldn’t be disappointed. He was going to cast his fly onto the water, and by God Fairhaven might just bite.

Taking one more deep breath, he crossed the street—giving the finger to a cabbie that shot past inches away, horn blaring—and approached the granite and titanium entry. Another vast acreage of granite greeted him upon entering the interior. There was a large desk, manned by half a dozen security officers, and several banks of elevators beyond.

Smithback strode resolutely toward the security desk. He leaned on it aggressively.

“I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”

The closest guard was shuffling through a computer printout. “Name?” he asked, not bothering to look up.

“William Smithback Jr., of the New York Times.”

“Moment,” mumbled the guard, picking up a telephone. He dialed, then handed it to Smithback. A crisp voice sounded. “May I help you?”

“This is William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times. I’m here to see Mr. Fairhaven.”

It was Saturday, but Smithback was gambling he’d be in his office. Guys like Fairhaven never took Saturdays off. And on Saturdays, they were usually less fortified with secretaries and guards.

“Do you have an appointment?” the female voice asked, reaching down to him from fifty stories.

“No. I’m the reporter doing the story on Enoch Leng and the bodies found at his jobsite on Catherine Street and I need to speak with him immediately. It’s urgent.”

“You need to call for an appointment.” It was an utterly neutral voice.

“Good. Consider this the call. I’d like to make an appointment for”—Smithback checked his watch—“ten o’clock.”

“Mr. Fairhaven is presently engaged,” the voice instantly responded.

Smithback took a deep breath. So he was in. Time to press the attack. There were probably ten layers of secretaries beyond the one on the phone, but he’d gotten through that many before. “Look, if Mr. Fairhaven is too busy to talk to me, I’ll just have to report in the article I’m writing for the Monday edition that he refused to comment.”

“He is presently engaged,” the robotic voice repeated.

“No comment. That’ll do wonders for his public image. And come Monday, Mr. Fairhaven will be wanting to know who in his office turned away the reporter. Get my drift?”

There was a long silence. Smithback drew in some more air. This was often a long process. “You know when you’re reading an article in the paper, and it’s about some sleazy guy, and the guy says I have no comment? How does that make you feel about the guy? Especially a real estate developer. No comment. I could do a lot with no comment.”

There was more silence. Smithback wondered if she had hung up. But no, there was a sound on a line. It was a chuckle.

“That’s good,” said a low, pleasant, masculine voice. “I like that. Nicely done.”

“Who’s this?” Smithback demanded.

“Just some sleazy real estate developer.”

“Who?” Smithback was not going to stand being made fun of by some lackey.

“Anthony Fairhaven.”

“Oh.” Smithback was momentarily struck speechless. He recovered quickly. “Mr. Fairhaven, is it true that—”

“Why don’t you come on up, so we can talk face-to-face, like grownup people? Forty-ninth floor.”

“What?” Smithback was still surprised at the rapidity of his success.

“I said, come up. I was wondering when you’d call, being the ambitious, careerist reporter that you so evidently are.”