Linda Fairstein - The Bone Vault

“If her killer works here, maybe he’s trying to get us to look harder at someone at the Met,” I suggested. “Or vice versa. Shake us up a bit.”

“He shook Mamdouba, all right. Human body parts, no matter how ancient and laminated, can’t be good for the crowds.”

We waited until the severed arm had been photographed and vouchered as evidence before making our way back down to the underground quarters of the exhibition. It was after two o’clock, and none of the members present for our morning meeting had remained to finish the interviews.

Zimm was around the corner in his office. “Sorry I sounded so freaked out when I interrupted your meeting this morning. You wouldn’t have believed the commotion upstairs. There’s a message for you to call your office, Ms. Cooper.”

I looked at the slip of paper. “Laura called. Good news.”

Zimm offered his desk phone and stepped out of the room with Mike, who was suggesting he keep his ears open to see what the scoop would be about the arm in the diorama.

I dialed Laura. “Just a minute, Alex. I’ll patch you through to Ryan.”

A moment of silence, then, “Alex? It went like clockwork. My Internet perv, Frederick Welch III, is now in custody.”

“He went for the whole thing?”

“Showed up at the museum right on time. Met the undercover at the horse’s ass, if you’ll excuse me. Right behind the rear end of Teddy Roosevelt’s steed, on the Central Park West steps. Opened up his overnight bag to show her that he had brought some weed and some pills with him-to relax her, for the first time-and walked right around to Seventy-seventh Street to register at the hotel.”

“And you got it on tape? I mean, saying that she’s thirteen?”

“She was perfect. While they’re walking, she says to him, ‘I lied to you. I’m really not thirteen. I won’t have my birthday for another two weeks. I’m still only twelve.’ He gave her a big squeeze and told her that was even better. He said he’d never made love to a twelve-year-old before.”

“How’d he react when they slapped the cuffs on him?”

“Whimpered a bit. Didn’t start to cry until Harry told him they had to do a lineup. Naked. They wanted to match his penis to the picture he sent on the e-mail. Bawled like a baby. Had to admit it really wasn’t a self-portrait. Oh, Alex, I hope you don’t mind. I asked public info to give the story to Mickey Diamond, for thePost. He says unless you solve your homicide case by midnight, I’m good for page one.”

“Much as I’d like to, I won’t be stealing your ink. What’s he got?”

“A mug shot of Freddie, with a banner that mimics the AOL greeting when you log on to e-mail:YOU’VE GOT JAIL!”

“I like it. Good job, all of you. Oh, Ryan, would you tell Harry I may need to beep him later? We’ve got a witness coming into town who had an on-line relationship with our deceased. I may need a court order to search some of the museum employees’ hard drives, and it could get more urgent by tonight or tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell him to expect you.”

Mike and I trudged up the stairs, through the hallways, and out onto the brilliantly sunlit sidewalk south of the museum. “You could forget what time of day it is in there. No windows.”

“Don’t we need to fortify ourselves before Thibodaux? I’ll buy you a burger.”

We took the transverse across Central Park at Eighty-first Street and drove up Madison. At the corner of Ninety-second Street, we parked and went into “ 92” for a late lunch. I called Thibodaux to make sure that he was in. A woman answered, not Eve Drexler, and confirmed our appointment.

By three-thirty, we had been admitted to the director’s office. “I’ll have to get back to you about that later,” he said to someone, hanging up the telephone. Then to us: “A bit humbling to be doing a job search after landing this position.”

“We heard about your resignation last week, of course. We’ve got quite a way to go with our investigation and we’re going to need-”

“My departure from the museum has nothing to do with your murder case, Miss Cooper. Despite what the newspapers say. And I have no plans to leave town.”

“You already made yourself unavailable to us last Friday by going to Washington for the weekend. Perhaps we should begin by asking for a copy of your schedule.”

“My trip to Washington was canceled, Miss Cooper. I never left the city.”

“But-but Ms. Drexler told us-”

“Well, Miss Drexler was mistaken. I was supposed to deliver the keynote address at the annual meeting of the American Association of Museums. It was recommended to me the night before, as I was packing to leave, that because of the hint ofscandale, as we say in France, it might be best if I developed a mild flu. The twenty-four-hour variety.”

“So you didn’t go to Washington on Friday?” I asked, thinking of Pablo Bermudez and his fall from the museum roof.

“I took the advice I was given and stayed at home.”

“Did you come to the museum at all?”

“I slipped in early to pick up some correspondence that I could take care of from my apartment, but I really didn’t want to deal with anyone here. This is all a bit embarrassing and uncomfortable for me. I wasn’t anxious to be seen.”

Neither did whoever pushed Bermudez to his death.

“I’m sorry Ms. Drexler felt it necessary to lie to us.”

“I’m afraid she did that at my direction. I was not expecting a call from either of you. I just meant for her to hold to the original story. Not that the museum organization would get any press attention, but there would be less opportunity for the piranhas from the media to feed on, if they heard I had backed out of my speech.”

“The man who died on Friday-”

“Another unforeseeable tragedy. Very bad timing for me.”

“And for him,” Mike said.

“Did you know Mr. Bermudez?” I asked.

“He was around these offices quite a bit,” Thibodaux said, motioning in a sweep with his hand. “One of the most reliable workers here, so we used him a lot to help oversee the movement of fragile objects and paintings that had to go from place to place. Bright young man. I can’t tell you I had any more personal relationship with him than that.”

“Mr. Thibodaux, would you mind telling us the reason for your resignation?”

He stood at the window looking out over Fifth Avenue, his jaw clenched and his stance rigid. “It has to do with an inquiry, an antiquities dealer who’s about to be indicted by your federal counterparts.”

“What for?”

“There were a number of laws passed in the last twenty years, in countries all over the world, preventing the sale of ancient objects that would take them out of their respective countries. Our Egyptian man, Timothy Gaylord, for example. He can’t acquire anything unless we know it was taken out of Egypt before 1983.”

“What’s the purpose?”

“Bleeding hearts argue that rich nations like ours are robbing the poorer ones, the ancient civilizations, of their cultural patrimony.”

“Aren’t you?”

“You think things are safer when they’re left at home in some of these impoverished, politically unstable environments, rather than made available for the world to see and learn from, Detective? You think the Taliban’s destruction of those magnificent Bamiyan Buddhas in 2001 was better than moving them out of Afghanistan? Imagine the risk some of these works of art are exposed to when left in their natural habitats.”

“And the indictment?” I asked.

“This dealer had a habit of getting some unique treasures out of very undesirable locations.”

“Smuggling?” I thought of Katrina’s file that we had retrieved from Bellinger’s office-the flea market fiasco-and how appalled she had been that Thibodaux had arranged to have the small ivory piece smuggled out of Geneva.