Hugh Howey - The Shell Collector

“It looks flawless,” I whisper.

“It is,” Cooper says. “I understand you know a thing or two about shells.”

I think of all the articles he has in that folder, many of them from back when the Times had a science section where my shelling column used to run. “I studied to be a marine biologist,” I say. “Being a reporter happened by accident.” Which isn’t quite right, but the truth is too complicated to get into.

“I’d like to hear your expert opinion on this piece.” Cooper places a loupe on the desk, but I reach into my purse and retrieve my own. My palms are already a little clammy. It’s not often that I get to handle shells this rare.

“Can we open those blinds and get some more light in here?” I ask.

He hesitates, then gets up and raises the blinds. The sunlight streaming into the office catches the ensuing shower of dust. “Thanks,” I say. I bring the loupe to my eye and pull the shell close until it comes into focus.

The murex is distinct for the chaos of crenelations that adorn its edge. They jump off like crashing waves, like amoebas, or a pattern or paisley. The crenelations on this particular specimen are incredibly crisp. Untouched. And the sutures between the whorls are deep and pronounced. The lip of the aperture, where the slug would reside, hasn’t been chipped. And there’s no sign of sand-wear, no dulling of the periostracum from having been tumbled up a beach.

“Was it stolen from a museum?” I ask. For a moment, I wonder if maybe Ness Wilde isn’t a suspect in a case at all, but that perhaps this shell was taken from his collection.

“At what price would you value that shell?” Cooper asks me. He waves his hand when he sees I’m about to complain or make excuses. “Ballpark,” he says. “I’ve had others look at it. I just want your opinion.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” I admit. “It doesn’t look like it rolled up on any beach.” I look at the crenelations again. They rarely survive any kind of rough handling. “I shouldn’t even be touching this without gloves, to be honest.”

“Just throw out a number,” Cooper says.

“Well, the market is a tad down right now, but a shell like this, I would guess the right buyer would pay between two and three million for it.”

Just hearing myself say this, I have to put the shell back into the box. Gingerly. Cooper quietly laughs at something, and I have to assume it’s my estimate, that their experts said something much different. So I start to defend it.

“You have to keep in mind that this species has been extinct for twenty or thirty years,” I say. “And price is all about condition. I have a murex in my collection that I’d be lucky to get a thousand dollars for. It has dozens of chips, plus a hole clear through the—”

“Your number is solid,” Cooper tells me. “Here’s the problem: we dated that shell, and it’s between two and three years old.”

“That’s impossible,” I say.

Agent Cooper reaches into his drawer again and pulls something else out. He extends his fist to me. I hold my palm out to accept, and he deposits a second lace murex in my hand. While I’m gawking at it, he brings out a third.

“What do you think now?” he asks.

A glance tells me that these are in a similar condition to the first. And now I understand why the FBI is involved. I look over the second murex with my loupe. “These are the best fakes I’ve ever seen,” I say. And I’ve seen my share. I don’t keep reproductions in my own collection, but I have friends who are less scrupulous, or who just get taken advantage of. Across Manhattan, there are thousands of tourist traps with windows full of shells and camera lenses and electronics at prices too good to be true. And for a reason.

“You’re in good company then,” Cooper says. “They’re the best fakes my department has ever seen. They’re good enough to fool our testing equipment—”

“Wait,” I say. I take in the collection of shells scattered around the room and see them in a new light. “I thought the Secret Service handled this sort of thing.”

“You’re thinking of currency,” Cooper says.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Like you, we assumed these were fake just from the condition. And the fact that someone was dumb enough to dump all three of them at once. So we took a sample and dated them, which was the nail in the coffin. At that point, we traced the shells back to the deceased.”

“Who was he?” I ask.

“Dimitri Arlov. Former physicist, among other things. A polymath. When he died he was in the employ of Ocean Oil.”

“The guy who owned these shells worked for Ness Wilde?”

“He worked for his company, yes. In exploration, we think.”

“I don’t get it. Ness is easily the foremost shell collector in the world—” But then I stop and think about what I’m doing in that office. I think about the fact that Henry hung up on Ness’s assistant, and that the FBI called Henry right back. For some reason, I had assumed they were listening in on the Times .

I look up from the shell and study Agent Cooper. “You guys have been tapping Ness Wilde’s phones.”

“That’s correct. We have a warrant, mind you. And I suppose now is as good time as any to tell you that all of this has to stay off the record. I’m sure you understand what it means to tamper with an ongoing investigation.”

“All too well,” I say. “So what do you want from me? Anyone could tell you that these shells are fakes.”

“We want you to take Ness Wilde up on his offer for an interview.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he wants to talk to you, and he hasn’t been too eager to talk to us. We don’t have enough here to bring him in. The connection is flimsy—”

“But you think these shells trace back to him.”

“We think it’s possible. We don’t think this Arlov character would have access to anything like this. But his boss might have. There’s also the chance that—” Agent Cooper seems to be searching for the right words. I think I know what he’s about to say and help him out.

“You think there’s a chance that there are more fakes like this out there,” I say. “Maybe even in Wilde’s collection.” And my skin tingles with the idea that Ness Wilde, the great shell collector, might be a phony.

“Exactly,” Cooper says.

“So, what, I go up there and interview him? You want me to wear a wire or something?”

“Precisely. And look, we’re not asking you to do anything other than your job. Get what you can from him. Push him. Prod him. Our job is to sit back and listen.”

“So he’s the hornet’s nest and I’m the stick.”

“Something like that. Just hear what he has to say about these articles you’re working on. Take him up on his offer. Get as close as you can or antagonize him as much as you want. It’s up to you.”

“What about these shells?” I ask.

“What about them?”

“Has he seen them? Have you confronted him with these?”

Agent Cooper shakes his head. “We’re trying to be very delicate about the existence of these shells.”

I dig into my purse and find a pack of tissues. Placing the first lace murex back into the plastic case, I pad the shell before adding the second, then wrap that one before adding the third.

“What are you doing?” Cooper asks, half-reaching for the box.

“If you want me to help, here’s what I’m thinking.” Cooper watches with a frown as the case disappears into my purse. “I’ll go talk to Mr. Wilde and get what I need for my story. And then we’ll hear what the great shell collector has to say when I show him these.”

This is how I find myself in Maine, driving down a dusty road in my electric car, with an FBI wire tucked in my bra. I agreed to wear the wire even though I explained to Cooper’s buddies that I plan on recording the entire interview with my cell phone. They said it made chain of custody easier on their end, and that often, what needs recording is said when the suspect doesn’t know they’re being recorded.