Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

“Do you mind?”

“Listen,” he said, talking fast. “I think we can help each other. You know, exchange information, that kind of thing.”

“If you have any information of an evidentiary nature, you better divulge it now or get slapped with an obstruction charge,” she said sharply.

“No, nothing like that! It’s just that… well, I think I know why you’re here. You’re not satisfied. You think maybe Pendergast isn’t the one who assaulted Margo. Am I right?”

“What makes you say that?”

“A busy homicide captain doesn’t waste her valuable time visiting the scene of the crime when the case is wrapped up. You must have your doubts.”

Hayward said nothing, concealing her surprise.

“You wonder if the killer might have been Diogenes Pendergast, the agent’s brother. That’s why you’re here.”

Still, Hayward said nothing, her surprise mounting.

“And that happens to be why I’m here, too.” He paused and peered at her curiously, as if to gauge the effect of his words.

“What makes you think it wasn’t Agent Pendergast?” asked Hayward cautiously.

“Because I know Agent Pendergast. I’ve been covering him-in a manner of speaking-since the museum murders seven years ago. And I know Margo Green. She phoned me from her hospital bed. She swears it wasn’t Pendergast. She says her attacker had eyes of two different colors, one green, the other milky blue.”

“Pendergast is known to be a master of disguises.”

“Yeah, but that description fits his brother. Why would he disguise himself as his brother? And we already know his brother pulled the diamond heist and kidnapped that woman, Lady Maskelene. The only logical answer is that Diogenes also assaulted Margo and framed his brother. QED.”

Once again, Hayward had to control her surprise, his thinking so closely paralleling her own. Finally she allowed a smile. “Well, Mr. Smithback, you seem to be quite the investigative reporter.”

“That I am,” he hastened to confirm, smoothing down his cowlick, which popped up again, unrepentant.

She paused a moment, considering. “All right, then. Maybe we can help each other. My involvement, naturally, will be strictly off the record. Background only.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I expect you to bring anything you find to me first. Before you bring it to your paper. That’s the only way I’ll consent to work with you.”

Smithback nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

“Very well. It seems Diogenes Pendergast has vanished. Completely. The trail stops dead at his hideout on Long Island, the place where he held Lady Maskelene prisoner. Such an utter disappearance just doesn’t happen these days, except for one possible circumstance: he slipped into an alter ego. A long-established alter ego.”

“Any ideas who?”

“We’ve drawn a blank. But if you were to publish a story about it… well, it just might shake something loose. A tip, a nosy neighbor’s observation: you understand? Naturally, my name couldn’t appear.”

“I certainly do understand. And-and what do I get in return?”

Hayward ’s smile returned, broader this time. “You’ve got it backward. I just did you the favor. The question now is, what do you do for me in return? I know you’re covering the diamond heist. I want to know all about it. Everything, big or small. Because you’re right: I think Diogenes is behind the Green assault and the Duchamp murder. I need all the evidence I can get, and because I am in Homicide, it’s difficult for me to access information at the precinct level.”

She didn’t say that Singleton, the precinct captain handling the diamond theft, was unlikely to share information with her.

“No problem. We have a deal.”

She turned away, but Smithback called after her. “Wait!”

She glanced back at him, raising an eyebrow.

“When do we meet again? And where?”

“We don’t. Just call me if-when-something important turns up.”

“Okay.”

And she left him in the semidarkness of the exhibition hall, jotting notes hurriedly onto the back of a scrap of paper.

Jay Lipper, computer effects consultant, paused in the empty burial chamber, peering about in the dim light. Four weeks had passed since the museum made the big announcement about the new opening of the Tomb of Senef; and Lipper himself had been on the job three weeks. Today was the big meeting, and he had arrived ten minutes early, to walk through the tomb and visualize the setup he’d diagrammed out: where to lay the fiber-optic cables, where to put the LEDs, where to mount the speakers, where to float the spots, where to put the holographic screens. It was two weeks before the grand opening, and an incredible amount still had to be done.

He could hear a medley of voices echoing down the multi-chambered tomb from somewhere near the entrance, distorted, mingled with the sound of hammering and the whine of Skilsaws. The teams of workmen were going flat out, and no expense was being spared. Especially his expense: he was charging $120 an hour, working eighty hours a week, making a fortune. On the other hand, he was earning every penny of it. Especially given the clown the museum had assigned him as cable-puller, duct-taper, and all-around electronic gofer. A real knuckle-dragger: if the guy was typical of the museum’s tech staff, they were in trouble. The man was so buffed and toned he looked like a brick of meat, with a bullet head that contained about as much gray matter as a spaniel. The man probably spent his weekends in the gym instead of boning up on the technology he was supposed to understand.

As if on cue, the clown’s voice rang down the corridor. “Dark as a tomb in here, hey, Jayce?” Teddy DeMeo came lumbering around the corner, arms full of an untidy bundle of rolled electronic diagrams.

Lipper tightened his lips and reminded himself once again of that $120 an hour. The worst of it was that, before he’d gotten to know what DeMeo was like, Lipper had unwisely mentioned to him the massively multiplayer online RPG he was involved in: Land of Darkmord. And DeMeo had immediately gone online and subscribed. Lipper’s character, a devious half-elf sorcerer with a +5 onyx cape and a full book of offensive spells, had spent weeks organizing a military expedition to a distant castle stronghold. He’d been recruiting warriors-and suddenly, there was DeMeo, in the character of a slope-faced orc carrying a club, volunteering for military service, acting like his best friend, full of asinine questions and stupid off-color jokes and embarrassing him in front of all the other players.

DeMeo came to a halt beside him, breathing hard, the sweat pouring off his brow, smelling like a damp sock.

“All right, let’s see…” He unrolled one of the plats. Naturally, DeMeo was holding it upside down, and it took him several seconds to right it.

“Give it to me,” said Lipper, snatching it from him and smoothing it out. He glanced at his watch. Still five minutes before the curatorial committee was due to arrive. No problem-at two dollars a minute, Lipper would wait for Godot.

He sniffed, looked around. “Someone’s going to have to do something about this humidity. I can’t have my electronics sitting in a sweatshop.”

“Yeah,” said DeMeo, looking around. “And will you look at this weird shit? I mean, what the hell’s that? Gives me the creeps.”

Lipper glanced over at the fresco in question, depicting a human being with the black head of an insect, wearing pharaonic dress. The burial chamber was creepy: walls black with hieroglyphics, ceiling covered with a representation of the night sky, strange yellow stars and a moon against a field of deep indigo. But the truth was, Lipper liked being creeped out. It was like being inside the world of Darkmord for real.