Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

On a cold March day, eastern Long Island did not much look like the playground of the rich and famous it was supposed to be. At least, that was Smithback’s impression as he cruised past yet another muddy, stubble-strewn potato field, a bedraggled flock of crows wheeling about overhead.

Since his meeting with Hayward, Smithback had tried everything in his journalistic bag of tricks to find out more about Diogenes. He’d written suggestive articles, hinting at imminent breakthroughs and soliciting tips. He’d poked around the museum, asking questions and sifting rumors. Nothing. Pendergast remained in prison on charges of murder. Just as bad, Diogenes remained utterly vanished, free. The image of Pendergast’s brother at large and no doubt hatching some fresh outrage both angered and frightened Smithback.

He wasn’t sure, exactly, when the idea had come to him. But come it had… and now he was driving eastward on the island, heading for a house that he hoped-rather fervently hoped-was unoccupied.

Chances were, he’d find nothing. After all, what could he find that the police hadn’t? But it was the only thing still left for him to do.

“In five hundred feet, turn right on Springs Road,” spoke a mellifluous female voice from the dashboard.

“Thanks, Lavinia darling,” Smithback said with a jauntiness he didn’t feel.

“Turn right on Springs Road.”

Smithback complied, swinging onto a cracked macadam road sandwiched between more potato fields, shuttered beach houses, and bare-limbed trees. Beyond lay a marsh of dead cattails and sawgrass. He passed a faded wooden sign in a picturesque state of dilapidation. Welcome to the Springs, it told him. This was an unpretentious corner of eastern Long Island, only faintly perfumed with the odor of quiet money.

“The town, my dear Lavinia, is small and unremarkable, but not wholly without atmosphere,” said Smithback. “Wish you could see it.”

“In five hundred feet, turn right on Glover’s Box Road.”

“Very well.”

“Turn right on Glover’s Box Road,” came the smooth response.

“With a voice like that, you could make a fortune in the phone sex business, you know that?” Smithback was glad Lavinia was only a voice in his dashboard. The GPS navigation system couldn’t know just how nervous he felt.

He now found himself on a broad sandy spit of land, beach houses on either side among scraggly pines, cattail marshes, and scrub. A gray sheet of water lay to his left: Gardiners Bay. On his right was a bedraggled harbor, shut up for the winter, the yachts gone into tender.

“In three hundred feet, you will arrive at your destination.”

Smithback slowed. Ahead, he could see a sandy driveway leading through a sparse scattering of oaks to end at a gray, shingled house. Police sawhorses had been placed across the driveway, but there was no sign of a police presence. The house was shut up and dark.

The road curved past a few more houses, then ended in a loop where the spit came to an end. A sign to one side announced a public beach. Smithback pulled the car onto the side of the loop-he was the only one there-and stepped out, inhaling the fresh cold air. He zipped his jacket against the damp wind, shrugged his arms into a backpack, picked up a rock from the ground, placed it in his pocket, and strolled out onto the beach. The small waves slopped and hissed up the strand in a regular cadence. Strolling along, he picked up a few shells, tossed them back again, scuffed his sneakers along the sand, all the time making his way down the beach.

The houses stood just beyond the beginning of the sawgrass and dunes: gray shingles and white trim, silent and boarded up for the winter. The house he wanted was easy to identify: pieces of yellow crime scene tape still fluttered from stakes driven into the unkempt yard. It was a large house from the twenties, weather-beaten, with pitched roofs, a deep sea-facing porch, and two gables. Smithback continued past the house, but still there was no sign of any official presence. Still kicking sand nonchalantly, he strolled up through the dunes and sawgrass, hopped over a split rail fence, ducked under the police tape, and scooted across the yard into the lee of the house.

He pressed himself against the wall, hidden from sight behind a half-dead yew, and slipped on a pair of leather gloves. The house would be locked, of course. He edged around until he came to a side door, then peered inside. He made out a tidy, old-fashioned kitchen, devoid of the usual utensils.

Smithback removed the rock from his pocket, along with a handkerchief. He wrapped the handkerchief around the rock, gave the window a smart rap.

Nothing happened. He struck harder, this time making a fairly audible thump, but still it did not break.

He took a closer look at the glass and noticed something unusual: it was thick and blue-green in color, and the light dividers were of painted metal, not wood.

Bulletproof glass?

Somehow, Smithback wasn’t surprised. Diogenes would have retrofitted the house to be impregnable from the outside as well as escape-proof from the inside.

He paused, hoping he hadn’t just wasted a three-hour drive. Certainly Diogenes would have thought of everything-how could he have forgotten that? There was no point in probing for weaknesses: there would be none.

On the other hand, the police might have left a door open.

Keeping hidden in the shrubbery, he crept around to the front porch. The door had crime scene tape stretched across it. He hopped onto the porch, glanced up and down the road, then turned to examine the door. This was how the cops had broken in-the door frame had been bent by crowbars and the door itself was bowed, the lock shattered. It appeared as if a remarkable amount of force had been necessary. Having destroyed the door lock, the police had affixed a padlock of their own, and this Smithback examined carefully. It was of case-hardened steel, too thick to cut with bolt cutters; but the fasteners had been screwed into fresh holes drilled in the metal door.

Smithback dipped into the leather backpack and pulled out a Phillips-head screwdriver. In five minutes, he had unscrewed one side. He pulled the fastener back and eased open the badly warped metal door. In a moment, he was inside, the door shut behind him.

He paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together. It was warm in the house-the heat was still on. He was standing in a typical beach-house living room, with comfortable wicker furniture, braided and hooked rugs scattered about the floor, a gaming table set for chess, a grand piano in one corner, and a huge fireplace built from beach stones in the far wall. The light in the house was a curious green from the thick-glassed windows.

What was he looking for? He wasn’t sure. Some clue to where Diogenes might be, perhaps, or under what other identity or identities he might be hiding. He had a moment’s feeling of dismay, wondering how he could possibly find something that the police had missed or that-even more improbably-Diogenes himself had overlooked. Of course, the man had left in a hurry, leaving behind a slew of equipment and material, enough for the police to positively identify him as the museum diamond thief. Even so, he had proved himself to be not only exceptionally intelligent but also exceptionally careful. Diogenes wasn’t the type to make mistakes.

Walking noiselessly, Smithback moved through an archway into a dining room beautifully paneled in oak, with a heavy table and Chippendale chairs. Paintings and prints hung on the dark red walls. A door in the far wall led to the tiny kitchen, also spotless. The police would not have cleaned the house: he figured this was the way Diogenes habitually kept it.

Back in the living room, Smithback wandered to the piano, hit a few keys. It was beautifully in tune, the hammers working smoothly.