The Cabinet of Curiosities

The jowls began to shake with rage. “O’Shaughnessy, you impudent little—” Custer broke off, swallowed, tried to get himself under control. Sweat had broken out above his thick, rubbery upper lip. He took a deep breath. “I’m putting you down for administrative leave.”

God damn it. “On what grounds?”

“Don’t give me that. You know why. Disobeying my direct orders, freelancing for that FBI agent, undermining the department—not to mention getting involved in that excavation down on Doyers Street.”

O’Shaughnessy knew well that the discovery had been a boon to Custer. It had temporarily taken the heat off the mayor, and the mayor had thanked Custer by putting him in charge of the investigation.

“I followed procedure, sir, in my liaison work with Special Agent Pendergast.”

“The hell you did. You’ve kept me in the dark every step of the way, despite these endless goddamn reports you keep filing which you know damn well I don’t have time to read. You went way around me to get that report. Christ, O’Shaughnessy, I’ve given you every opportunity here, and all you do is piss on me.”

“I’ll file a grievance with the union, sir. And I’d like to state for the record that, as a Catholic, I am deeply offended by your profanity involving the name of Our Savior.”

There was an astonished silence, and O’Shaughnessy saw that Custer was about to lose it completely. The captain spluttered, swallowed, clenched and unclenched his fists.

“As for the police union,” said Custer, in a strained, high voice, “bring ’em on. As for the other, don’t think you can out-Jesus me, you sanctimonious prick. I’m a churchgoing man myself. Now lay your shield and piece down here”—he thumped his desk—“and get your Irish ass out. Go home and boil some potatoes and cabbage. You’re on administrative leave pending the result of an Internal Affairs investigation. Another Internal Affairs investigation, I might add. And at the union hearing, I’m going to ask for your dismissal from the force. With your record, that won’t be too hard to justify.”

O’Shaughnessy knew this wasn’t an empty threat. He removed his gun and badge and dropped them one at a time on the table.

“Is that all, sir?” he asked, as coolly as possible.

With satisfaction, he saw Custer’s face blacken with rage yet again. “Is that all? Isn’t that enough? You better start pulling your résumé together, O’Shaughnessy. I know a McDonald’s up in the South Bronx that needs a rent-a-cop for the graveyard shift.”

As O’Shaughnessy left, he noticed that Noyes’s eyes—brimming with wet sycophantic satisfaction—followed him out the door.

He paused on the steps of the station house, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. He thought of the many times he’d trudged up and down these stairs, on yet another aimless patrol or pointless piece of bureaucratic busywork. It seemed a little odd that—despite his carefully groomed attitude of nonchalance—he felt more than a twinge of regret. Pendergast and the case would have to make do without him. Then he sighed, shrugged, and descended the steps. His career was over, and that was that.

To his surprise, a familiar car—a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith—was idling silently at the curb. The door was opened by the invisible figure in the rear. O’Shaughnessy approached, leaned his head inside.

“I’ve been put on administrative leave,” he said to the occupant of the rear seat.

Pendergast, leaning back against the leather, nodded. “Over the report?”

“Yup. And that mistake I made five years ago didn’t help any.”

“How unfortunate. I apologize for my role in your misfortune. But get in, if you please. We don’t have much time.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“I did. You’re working for me now.”

O’Shaughnessy paused.

“It’s all arranged. The paperwork is going through as we speak. From time to time, I have need of, ah, consulting specialists.” Pendergast patted a sheaf of papers lying on the seat beside him. “It’s all spelled out in here. You can sign them in the car. We’ll stop by the FBI office downtown and get you a photo ID. It’s not a shield, unfortunately, but it should serve almost as well.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pendergast, but you should know, they’re opening an—”

“I know all about it. Get in, please.”

O’Shaughnessy climbed in and closed the door behind him, feeling slightly dazed.

Pendergast gestured toward the papers. “Read them, you won’t find any nasty surprises. Fifty dollars an hour, guaranteed minimum thirty hours a week, benefits, and the rest.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Pendergast gazed at him mildly. “Because I’ve seen you rise to the challenge. I need a man with the courage of his convictions. I’ve seen how you work. You know the streets, you can talk to the people in a way I can’t. You’re one of them. I’m not. Besides, I can’t push this case alone. I need someone who knows his way around the byzantine workings of the NYPD. And you have a certain compassion. Remember, I saw that tape. I’m going to need compassion.”

O’Shaughnessy reached for the papers, still dazed. Then he stopped.