Smithback chuckled and sliced a tender corner off his steak. “So what did you find down there?”
“Not much. A bunch of stuff in the pockets—some old coins, a comb, pins, string, buttons. These people were poor. I took a vertebra, a hair sample, and…” She hesitated. “There was something else.”
“Out with it.”
“There was a piece of paper sewed into the lining of one girl’s dress. It felt like a letter. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Smithback leaned forward. “What’d it say?”
“I had to put the dress back before I could take a closer look.”
“You mean it’s still there?”
Nora nodded.
“What are they going to do with the stuff?”
“The ME took away the bones, but they said they were going to bag the rest. I got the sense they were eager to lose track of the stuff in some warehouse. The quicker they can get rid of it, the less chance it’ll be declared an archaeological site. I’ve seen developers tear up a site just to make sure that when the archaeologists arrive there’s nothing left to examine.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it? Aren’t they supposed to stop if it’s important?”
“If the site’s gone, how can you prove it was important? Developers destroy dozens of archaeological sites in America in just this way, every single day.”
Smithback mumbled his righteous indignation as he made headway into the steak. He was famished. Nobody did steak like Café des Artistes. And the helpings were decent, man-sized, none of this nouvelle cuisine crap, the tippy little structure of food in the middle of a giant white plate splashed with Jackson Pollock–like dribbles of sauce…
“Why would the girl sew the letter into her dress?”
Smithback looked up, took a swig of red wine, another bite of steak. “Love letter, perhaps?”
“The more I think about it, the more I think it could be important. It would at least be a clue to who these people were. Otherwise, we may never find out, with their clothes gone and the tunnel destroyed.” She was looking at him earnestly, her entrée untouched. “Damn it, Bill, that was an archaeological site.”
“Probably torn up by now, like you said.”
“It was late in the day. I stowed the dress back in the alcove.”
“They probably removed it with the rest of the stuff, then.”
“I don’t think so. I stuffed it into a crevice in the rear of the alcove. They were rushing. They could easily have missed it.”
Smithback saw the gleam in Nora’s hazel eyes. He’d seen that look before.
“No way, Nora,” he said quickly. “They must have security at the site. It’s probably lit up brighter than a stage. Don’t even think about it.” Next thing, she would insist on his coming along.
“You’ve got to come with me. Tonight. I need that letter.”
“You don’t even know if it is a letter. It might be a laundry slip.”
“Bill, even a laundry slip would be an important clue.”
“We could be arrested.”
“No, you won’t.”
“What’s this you shit?”
“I’ll distract the guard while you go over the fence. You can make yourself inconspicuous.” As she spoke, Nora’s eyes grew brighter. “Yes. You can be dressed like a homeless bum, say, just poking through the garbage. If they catch you, the worst they’ll do is make you move on.”
Smithback was aghast. “Me? A bum? No way. You be the bum.”
“No, Bill, that won’t work. I have to be the hooker.”
The last forkful of steak froze halfway to Smithback’s mouth.
Nora smiled at him. Then she spoke. “You just spilled brandy sauce all down the front of your nice new Italian suit.”
SIX
NORA PEERED AROUND THE CORNER OF HENRY STREET, SHIVERING slightly. It was a chilly night, and her scant black mini-dress and silver spandex top provided little warmth. Only the heavy makeup, she thought, added any R-factor to her person. In the distance, traffic droned through Chatham Square, and the vast black bulk of the Manhattan Bridge loomed ominously nearby. It was almost three o’clock in the morning, and the streets of the Lower East Side were deserted.
“What can you see?” Smithback asked from behind her.
“The site’s pretty well lit. I can only see one guard, though.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Sitting in a chair, smoking and reading a paperback.”
Smithback scowled. It had been depressingly easy to transform him to bumhood. His rangy frame was draped in a shiny black raincoat over a checked shirt, a dirty pair of jeans, and tattered Keds. There had been no shortage of cheesy old clothing in Smithback’s closet to choose from. A bit of charcoal on the face, olive oil rubbed into the hair, and a tote consisting of five nested plastic bags with unwashed clothes at the bottom completed the disguise.
“What’s he look like?” Smithback asked.