“Not compared to Dr. Frock, he isn’t. What about the Callisto Effect?” Margo asked. “That’s some of the most cutting-edge work being done today.”
“Does he have a single speck of proof to back up his speculations? Have you seen evidence of any unknown, monstrous species roaming the earth?” Moriarty shook his head again, sending his glasses plunging dangerously down his nose. “Theoretical hype. I mean, theory has its place, but it has to be backed up with fieldwork. And that sidekick of his, Greg Kawakita, just encourages Frock with that extrapolation program he’s developing. I suppose Kawakita’s got his own reasons. But it’s pretty sad, really, to see a great mind take such a bad detour. I mean, just look at Frock’s new book. Fractal Evolution? Even the title sounds more like a kid’s computer game than science.”
Margo listened with rising indignation. Perhaps Smithback had been right about Moriarty, after all. “Well,” she said, “considering my affiliations to Dr. Frock, I don’t suppose you’d want me messing with your exhibit. I might add too much hype to the script.” She turned and walked briskly out the door and down the corridor.
Moriarty looked shocked. Too late, he remembered that Frock was her major advisor. He danced after her.
“Oh, no, no, I didn’t mean—“ he stammered. “Please, I was just ... You know that Frock and Cuthbert don’t get along. I guess I’ve picked up some of that.”
He looked so horrified that Margo felt her anger fade.
“I didn’t know they had that much of a problem with each other,” she said, allowing Moriarty to stop her.
“Oh, yes. From way back. You know that ever since Frock came forward with this Callisto Effect, his star has been falling in the Museum. Now he’s a department head in name only, and Cuthbert pulls the strings. Of course, I’ve just heard one side of the story. I’m very sorry, really. You will do the case for me, right?”
“On the condition,” Margo countered, “that you get me out of this maze. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry,” Moriarty said. The gaffe had brought back all of his shyness, and as they began retracing their way to the fifth floor, he was silent.
“So tell me more about your exhibition.” Margo tried to put him at ease. “I’ve heard a little about some fabulously rare artifacts that will be on display.”
“I guess you must mean the Kothoga tribe material,” Moriarty said. “Only one expedition has ever found any traces of them. The figurine of their mythical beast Mbwun is—well, it’s one of the centerpieces of the show.” He hesitated. “Or I should say, it will be one of the centerpieces. It’s not on display yet.”
“Really?” Margo asked. “Isn’t that waiting till the last minute?”
“The situation is kind of unusual,” Moriarty replied. “But listen, Margo, this isn’t for public consumption.” They had returned to the catwalks, and Moriarty led her down the long corridors, speaking low. “There’s been a lot of high-level interest in the Kothoga artifacts recently. People like Rickman, Dr. Cuthbert ... even Wright, apparently. There’s been controversy over whether the material should be included in the exhibition. Surely you’ve heard the stories of a curse on the figurine, that sort of nonsense?”
“Not much,” Margo said.
“The expedition that found the Kothoga material met with tragedy,” Moriarty continued, “and nobody’s been near the stuff since. It’s still in the original crates. Just last week, all the crates were taken from the basement area where they’d sat all these years and moved to the Secure Area. Nobody’s had access to them since, and I haven’t been able to prepare the final displays.”
“But why were they moved?” Margo pressed.
They entered the elevator. Moriarty waited until the door had closed before answering. “Apparently, the crates had been recently tampered with.”
“What? You mean somebody had broken in?”
Moriarty stared at Margo, his owlish face wearing its look of perpetual surprise. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.
He turned the key, and the elevator lurched downward.
= 10 =
D’Agosta wished with all his heart that the double-chili-cheeseburger in his stomach would disappear. Not that it was bothering him—yet—but it was an unwelcome presence.
The place smelled like they all did. In fact it stank. All the disinfectants in the world couldn’t cover up the smell of death. And the vomit-green walls in the Medical Examiner’s Office didn’t help things any. Nor did the large gurney, currently empty, sitting like an uninvited guest under the bright lights of the autopsy suite.