Smithback looked at him sharply. Had the guy searched his apartment? But no: Fairhaven was merely fishing. He returned to the chair. “Mr. Fairhaven—”
Fairhaven interrupted him, his tone suddenly brisk, unfriendly. “Look, Smithback, I know you’re exercising your constitutional right to skewer me. The big bad real estate developer is always an easy target. And you like easy targets. Because you fellows are all cut from the same cloth. You all think your work is important. But today’s newspaper is lining tomorrow’s bird cage. It’s ephemera. What you do, in the larger scheme of things, is nugatory.”
Nugatory? What the hell did that mean? It didn’t matter: clearly it was an insult. He was getting under Fairhaven’s skin. That was good—wasn’t it?
“Mr. Fairhaven, I have reason to believe that you’ve been pressuring the Museum to stop this investigation.”
“I’m sorry. What investigation?”
“The one into Enoch Leng and the nineteenth-century killings.”
“That investigation? Why should I care one way or another about it? It didn’t stop my construction project, and frankly that’s all I care about. They can investigate it now until they’re blue in the face, if they so choose. And I love this phrase all you journalists use: I have reason to believe. What you really mean is: I want to believe but I haven’t a shred of evidence. All you fellows must’ve taken the same Journalism 101 class: Making an Ass of Yourself While Pretending to Get the Story.” Fairhaven allowed himself a cynical laugh.
Smithback sat stiffly, listening to the laughter subside. Once again he tried to tell himself he was getting under Fairhaven’s skin. He spoke at last, keeping his voice as cool as possible.
“Tell me, Mr. Fairhaven, just why is it that you’re so interested in the Museum?”
“I happen to love the Museum. It’s my favorite museum in the world. I practically grew up in that place looking at the dinosaurs, the meteorites, the gems. I had a nanny who used to take me. She necked with her boyfriend behind the elephants while I wandered around by myself. But you’re not interested in that, because it doesn’t fit your image of the greedy real estate developer. Really, Smithback, I’m wise to your game.”
“Mr. Fairhaven—”
Fairhaven grinned. “You want a confession?”
This temporarily stopped Smithback.
Fairhaven lowered his voice to confessional level. “I have committed two unforgivable crimes.”
Smithback tried to maintain the hard-bitten reportorial look he cultivated in instances like these. He knew this was going to be some kind of trick, or joke.
“My two crimes are these—are you ready?”
Smithback checked to see if the recorder was still running.
“I am rich, and I am a developer. My two truly unforgivable sins. Mea culpa.”
Against all his better journalistic instincts, Smithback found himself getting pissed off. He’d lost the interview. It was, in fact, a dead loss. The guy was a slimeball, but he was remarkably adroit at dealing with the press. So far Smithback had nothing, and he was going to get nothing. He made one last push anyway. “You still haven’t explained—”
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.