The Cabinet of Curiosities

Fairhaven stood. “Smithback, if you only knew how utterly predictable you and your questions are—if you only knew how tiresome and mediocre you are as a reporter and, I’m sorry to say, as a human being—you’d be mortified.”

“I’d like an explanation—”

But Fairhaven was pressing a buzzer. His voice smothered the rest of Smithback’s question. “Miss Gallagher, would you kindly show Mr. Smithback out?”

“Yes, Mr. Fairhaven.”

“This is rather abrupt—”

“Mr. Smithback, I am tired. I saw you because I didn’t want to read about myself in the paper having refused comment. I was also curious to meet you, to see if you were perhaps a cut above the rest. Now that I’ve satisfied myself on that score, I don’t see any reason to continue this conversation.”

The secretary stood in the door, stout and unmovable. “Mr. Smithback? This way, please.”

On his way out, Smithback paused in the outermost secretary’s office. Despite his efforts at self-control, his frame was quivering with indignation. Fairhaven had been parrying a hostile press for more than a decade; naturally, he’d gotten damn good at it. Smithback had dealt with nasty interviewees before, but this one really got under his skin. Calling him tiresome, mediocre, ephemeral, nugatory (he’d have to look that up)—who did he think he was?

Fairhaven himself was too slippery to pin down. No big surprise there. There were other ways to find things out about people. People in power had enemies, and enemies loved to talk. Sometimes the enemies were working for them, right under their noses.

He glanced at the secretary. She was young, sweet, and looked more approachable than the battle-axes manning the inner offices.

“Here every Saturday?” He smiled nonchalantly.

“Most of them,” she said, looking up from her computer. She was cute, with glossy red hair and a small splash of freckles. He winced inwardly, suddenly reminded of Nora.

“Works you hard, doesn’t he?”

“Mr. Fairhaven? Sure does.”

“Probably makes you work Sundays, too.”

“Oh no,” she said. “Mr. Fairhaven never works on Sunday. He goes to church.”

Smithback feigned surprise. “Church? Is he Catholic?”

“Presbyterian.”

“Probably a tough man to work for, I bet.”

“No, he’s one of the best supervisors I’ve had. He actually seems to care about us little folk.”

“Never would have guessed it,” Smithback said with a wink, drifting out the door. Probably boning her and the other “little folk” on the side, he thought.

Back on the street, Smithback allowed himself a most un-Presbyterian string of oaths. He was going to dig into this guy’s past until he knew every detail, down to the name of his goddamn teddy bear. You couldn’t become a big-time real estate developer in New York City and keep your hands clean. There would be dirt, and he would find it. Yes, there would be dirt. By God, there would be dirt.

FOUR

MANDY EKLUND CLIMBED the filthy subway stairs to First Street, turned north at Avenue A, and trudged toward Tompkins Square Park. Ahead, the park’s anemic trees rose up against a sky faintly smeared with the purple stain of dawn. The morning star, low on the horizon, was fading into oblivion.

Mandy pulled her wrap more tightly around her shoulders in a futile attempt to keep out the early morning chill. She felt a little groggy, and her feet ached each time they hit the pavement. It had been a great night at Club Pissoir, though: music, free drinks, dancing. The whole Ford crowd had been there, along with a bunch of photographers, the Mademoiselle and Cosmo people, everyone who mattered in the fashion world. She really was making it. The thought still amazed her. Only six months before, she’d been working at Rodney’s in Bismarck, giving free makeovers. Then, the right person happened to come through the shop. And now she was on the testing board at the Ford agency. Eileen Ford herself had taken her under her wing. It was all coming together faster than she’d ever dreamed possible.

Her father called almost every day from the farm. It was funny, kind of cute really, how worried he was about her living in New York City. He thought the place was a den of iniquity. He’d freak if he knew she stayed out till dawn. He still wanted her to go to college. And maybe she would—someday. But right now she was eighteen and having the time of her life. She smiled affectionately at the thought of her conservative old father, riding his John Deere, worrying himself about her. She’d make the call this time, give him a surprise.

She turned onto Seventh Street, passing the darkened park, keeping a wary eye out for muggers. New York was a lot safer now, but it was still wise to be careful. She felt into her purse, hand closing comfortingly around the small bottle of pepper spray attached to her key chain.