“Special Agent Pendergast is, ah, connected with the Museum.”
“Agent Pendergast? Yes, the name’s familiar… Pendergast. I remember him now. The southern gentleman. Oh, dear.” A momentary look of distress crossed the man’s face. “Well, well, as you wish. I’ll expect you both tomorrow at nine o’clock.”
TWO
PATRICK MURPHY O’SHAUGHNESSY SAT IN THE PRECINCT CAPTAIN’S office, waiting for him to get off the phone. He had been waiting five minutes, but so far Custer hadn’t even looked in his direction. Which was just fine with him. O’Shaughnessy scanned the walls without interest, his eyes moving from commendation plaques to departmental shooting trophies, lighting at last upon the painting on the far wall. It showed a little cabin in a swamp, at night, under a full moon, its windows casting a yellow glow over the waters. It was a source of endless amusement to the 7th Precinct that their captain, with all his mannerisms and his pretensions to culture, had a velvet painting proudly displayed in his office. There had even been talk of getting an office pool together, soliciting donations for a less revolting replacement. O’Shaughnessy used to laugh along with them, but now he found it pathetic. It was all so pathetic.
The rattle of the phone in its cradle brought him out of his reverie. He looked up as Custer pressed his intercom button.
“Sergeant Noyes, come in here, please.”
O’Shaughnessy looked away. This wasn’t a good sign. Herbert Noyes, recently transferred from Internal Affairs, was Custer’s new personal assistant and numero uno ass-kisser. Something unpleasant was definitely up.
Almost instantly, Noyes entered the office, the usual unctuous smile breaking the smooth lines of his ferret-like head. He nodded politely to Custer, ignored O’Shaughnessy, and took the seat closest to the captain’s desk, chewing gum, as usual. His skinny form barely made a dent in the burgundy-colored leather. He’d come in so fast it was almost as if he’d been hovering outside. O’Shaughnessy realized he probably had been.
And now, at last, Custer turned toward O’Shaughnessy. “Paddy!” he said in his high, thin voice. “How’s the last Irish cop on the force doing these days?”
O’Shaughnessy waited just long enough to be insolent, and then answered: “It’s Patrick, sir.”
“Patrick, Patrick. I thought they called you Paddy,” Custer went on, some of the hearty bluster gone.
“There are still plenty of Irish on the force, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, but how many are named Patrick Murphy O’Shaughnessy? I mean, is that Irish or what? That’s like Chaim Moishe Finkelstein, or Vinnie Scarpetta Gotti della Gambino. Ethnic. Very ethnic. But hey, don’t get me wrong. Ethnic’s good.”
“Very good,” Noyes said.
“I’m always saying we need diversity on the force. Right?”
“Sure,” O’Shaughnessy replied.
“Anyway, Patrick, we’ve got a little problem here. A few days ago, thirty-six skeletons were uncovered at a construction site here in the precinct. You may have heard of it. I supervised the investigation myself. It’s a Moegen-Fairhaven development. You know them?”
“Sure I do.” O’Shaughnessy glanced pointedly at the oversized Montblanc fountain pen in Custer’s shirt pocket. Mr. Fairhaven had given them as Christmas presents to all the precinct captains in Manhattan the year before.
“Big outfit. Lots of money, lots of friends. Good people. Now these skeletons, Patrick, are well over a century old. It’s our understanding that some maniac back in the eighteen hundreds murdered these people and hid them in a basement. With me so far?”
O’Shaughnessy nodded.
“Have you ever had any experience with the FBI?”
“No, sir.”
“They tend to think working cops are stupid. They like to keep us in the dark. It’s fun for them.”
“It’s a little game they play,” said Noyes, with a small bob of his shiny head. It was hard to make a crew cut look oily, but somehow Noyes managed.
“That’s exactly right,” Custer said. “You know what we’re saying, Patrick?”
“Sure.” They were saying he was about to get some shit-stink assignment involving the FBI: that’s what he knew.
“Good. For some reason, we’ve got an FBI agent poking around the site. He won’t say why he’s interested. He’s not even local, from New Orleans, believe it or not. But the guy’s got pull. I’m still looking into it. The boys in the New York office don’t like him any more than we do. They told me some stories about him, and I didn’t like what I heard. Wherever this guy goes, trouble follows. You with me?”