The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  He untied the packet, riffled through the envelopes within. On the front and back of each were dozens of lines for addresses. The envelopes had a little red tie string and could be reused until they fell apart, simply by adding a new name to the next blank line. And there, on the second-to-last line was Puck’s name. And following it was Nora’s name.

  Brisbane’s hand tightened around the envelope. What was it that arrogant FBI agent, Pendergast, had said? Most of the work will be archival in nature.

  He unwound the string and slid out a single piece of paper. A whiff of dust rose from the envelope and Brisbane hastily raised a protective tissue to his nose. Holding the paper at arm’s length, he read:

  Dear Dr. Kelly,

  I found another small box of papers on Shottum’s Cabinet, which somehow had been recently misplaced. Not nearly as astonishing as what you have already uncovered, yet interesting in its own way. I will leave it for you in the Archives Reading Room.

  P.

  Color crept into Brisbane’s face, then drained out again. It was just as he thought: she was still working for that arrogant FBI agent, and she was continuing to enlist Puck’s help. This thing had to be stopped. And Puck had to go. Just look at this note, Brisbane thought: manually typed on what was clearly an ancient typewriter. The very inefficiency of it made Brisbane’s blood boil. The Museum was not a welfare program for eccentrics. Puck was a fossilized anachronism who should have been put out to pasture long before. He would gather suitable evidence, then draw up a recommended termination list for the next Executive Committee meeting. Puck’s name would be at the top.

  But what about Nora? He remembered the words of the Museum director, Collopy, at their recent meeting. Doucement, doucement, the director had murmured.

  And softly it would be. For now.

  SEVEN

  SMITHBACK STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK, MIDWAY BETWEEN Columbus and Amsterdam, gazing speculatively up at the red-brick facade before him. One hundred eight West Ninety-ninth Street was a broad, prewar apartment house, unembarrassed by any distinguishing architecture, bright in the noonday sun. The bland exterior didn’t bother him. What mattered lay within: a rent-stabilized, two-bedroom apartment, near the Museum, for only eighteen hundred a month.

  He stepped back toward the street, giving the neighborhood a once-over. It wasn’t the most charming Upper West Side neighborhood he had seen, but it had possibilities. Two bums sat on a nearby stoop, drinking something out of a paper bag. He glanced at his watch. Nora would be arriving in five minutes. Christ, this was going to be an uphill battle anyway, if only those bums would take a walk around the corner. He fished into his pocket, found a five dollar bill, and sauntered over.

  “Nice day if it don’t rain,” he said.

  The bums eyed him suspiciously.

  Smithback brandished the five. “Hey, guys, go buy yourself lunch, okay?”

  One of them grinned, exposing a row of decaying teeth. “For five bucks? Man, you can’t buy a cup of Starbucks for five bucks. And my legs hurt.”

  “Yeah,” said the other, wiping his nose.

  Smithback pulled out a twenty.

  “Oh, my aching legs—”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  The closest bum took the twenty and the pair rose to their feet with histrionic groans and sniffles. Soon they were shuffling toward the corner, heading no doubt to the nearby liquor store on Broadway. Smithback watched their retreating backs. At least they were harmless rummys, and not crackheads or worse. He glanced around and saw, right on schedule, a blade-thin woman in black come clicking down the block, a bright, fake lipstick smile on her face. The real estate broker.

  “You must be Mr. Smithback,” she said in a smoker’s croak as she took his hand. “I’m Millie Locke. I have the key to the apartment. Is your, er, partner here?”

  “There she is now.” Nora had just rounded the corner, cotton trenchcoat billowing, knapsack thrown over her shoulder. She waved.

  When Nora arrived the agent took her hand, saying, “How lovely.”

  They entered a dingy lobby, lined on the left with mailboxes and on the right with a large mirror: a feeble attempt to make the narrow hall look bigger than it actually was. They pressed the button for the elevator. There was a whir and a rattle somewhere overhead.

  “It’s a perfect location,” said Smithback to Nora. “Twenty-minute walk to the Museum, close to the subway station, a block and a half from the park.”

  Nora did not respond. She was staring at the elevator door, and she did not look happy.

  The elevator creaked open and they stepped in. Smithback waited out the excruciatingly long ride, silently willing the damn elevator to hurry up. He had the unpleasant feeling that he, not just the apartment, was undergoing an inspection.

  At last they got out at the sixth floor, took a right in a dim hallway, and stopped in front of a brown metal door with an eyehole set into it. The real estate broker unlocked four separate locks and swung the door open.

  Smithback was pleasantly surprised. The apartment faced the street, and it was cleaner than he expected. The floors were oak; a bit warped, but oak nevertheless. One wall was exposed brick, the others painted sheetrock.

  “Hey, what do you think?” he said brightly. “Pretty nice, huh?”

  Nora said nothing.

  “It’s the bargain of the century,” said the broker. “Eighteen hundred dollars, rent-stabilized. A/C. Great location. Bright, quiet.”

  The kitchen had old appliances, but was clean. The bedrooms were sunny with south-facing windows, which gave the little rooms a feeling of space.

  They stopped in the middle of the living room. “Well, Nora,” Smithback asked, feeling uncharacteristically shy, “what do you think?”

  Nora’s face was dark, her brow furrowed. This did not look good. The real estate broker withdrew a few feet, to give them the pretense of privacy.

  “It’s nice,” she said.

  “Nice? Eighteen hundred bucks a month for an Upper West Side two-bedroom? In a prewar building? It’s awesome.”

  The real estate broker leaned back toward them. “You’re the first to see it. I guarantee you it’ll be gone before sunset.” She fumbled in her purse, removed a cigarette and a lighter, flicked on the lighter, and then with both hands poised inches apart, asked, “May I?”

  “Are you all right?” Smithback asked Nora.

  Nora waved her hand, took a step toward the window. She appeared to be looking intently at something far away.

  “You did talk to your landlord about moving out, didn’t you?”

  “No, not quite yet.”

  Smithback felt his heart sink a little. “You haven’t told him?”

  She shook her head.

  The sinking feeling grew more pronounced. “Come on, Nora. I thought we’d decided on this.”

  She looked out a window. “This is a big move for me, Bill. I mean, living together…” Her voice trailed off.

  Smithback glanced around at the apartment. The real estate broker caught his eye, quickly looked away. He lowered his voice. “Nora, you do love me, right?”

  She continued looking out the window. “Of course. But… this is just a really bad day for me, okay?”

  “It’s no big deal. It’s not like we’re engaged.”

  “Let’s not talk about it.”

  “Not talk about it? Nora, this is the apartment. We’re never going to find a better one. Let’s settle the broker’s fee.”

  “Broker’s fee?”

  Smithback turned to the agent. “What did you say your fee was for this place?”

  The agent exhaled a cloud of smoke, gave a little cough. “I’m glad you asked. It’s quite reasonable. Of course, you can’t just rent an apartment like this. I’m doing you a special favor just showing it to you.”

  “So how much is this fee?” Nora asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Eighteen what? Dollars?”

  “Percent. Of the first year’s r
ent, that is.”

  “But that’s—” Nora frowned, did the calculation in her head. “That’s close to four thousand dollars.”

  “It’s cheap, considering what you’re getting. And I promise you, if you don’t go for it, the next person will.” She glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. That’s how much time you have to make your decision.”

  “What about it, Nora?” Smithback asked.

  Nora sighed. “I have to think about this.”

  “We don’t have time to think about it.”

  “We have all the time in the world. This isn’t the only apartment in Manhattan.”

  There was a brief, frozen silence. The real estate broker glanced again at her watch.

  Nora shook her head. “Bill, I told you. It’s been a bad day.”

  “I can see that.”

  “You know the Shottum collection I told you about? Yesterday we found a letter, a terrible letter, hidden among that collection.”

  Smithback felt a feeling akin to panic creeping over him. “Can we talk about this later? I really think this is the apartment—”

  She rounded on him, her face dark. “Didn’t you hear what I said? We found a letter. We know who murdered those thirty-six people!”

  There was another silence. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker, who was pretending to examine a window frame. Her ears were practically twitching. “You do?” he asked.

  “He’s an extremely shadowy figure named Enoch Leng. He seems to have been a taxonomist and a chemist. The letter was written by a man named Shottum, who owned a kind of museum on the site, called Shottum’s Cabinet. Leng rented rooms from Shottum and performed experiments in them. Shottum grew suspicious, took a look into Leng’s lab when he was away. He discovered that Leng had been kidnapping people, killing them, and then dissecting out part of their central nervous system and processing it—apparently, for self-administered injections.”

  “Good God. What for?”

  Nora shook her head. “You’re not going to believe this. He was trying to extend his life span.”

  “That’s incredible.” This was a story—a gigantic story. Smithback glanced over at the real estate broker. She was now intently examining the door jambs, her next appointment seemingly forgotten.

  “That’s what I thought.” Nora shuddered. “God, I just can’t get that letter out of my head. All the details were there. And Pendergast—you should have seen how grim his face was while he was reading it. Looked as if he was reading his own obituary or something. And then this morning, when I went down to check on some more Shottum material that had turned up, I learn that orders had come down for some conservation work in the Archives. All the Shottum papers were included. And now, they’re gone. You can’t tell me that’s coincidence. It was either Brisbane or Collopy, I’m sure of that, but of course I can’t come right out and ask them.”

  “Did you get a photocopy?”

  The dark look on Nora’s face lifted slightly. “Pendergast asked me to make one after we first read the letter. I didn’t understand his hurry then. I do now.”

  “Do you have it?”

  She nodded toward her briefcase.

  Smithback thought for a moment. Nora was right: the conservation orders, of course, were no coincidence. What was the Museum covering up? Who was this man Enoch Leng? Was he connected to the early Museum in some way? Or was it just the usual Museum paranoia, afraid to let out any information that wasn’t buffed and polished by their PR people? Then of course there was Fairhaven, the developer, who also happened to be a big contributor to the Museum… This whole story was getting good. Very good.

  “Can I see the letter?”

  “I was going to give it to you for safekeeping—I don’t dare bring it back into the Museum. But I want it back tonight.”

  Smithback nodded. She handed him a thick envelope, which he shoved into his briefcase.

  There was a sudden buzz of the intercom.

  “There’s my next appointment,” said the broker. “Should I tell them you’re taking it, or what?”

  “We’re not,” said Nora decisively.

  She shrugged, went to the intercom, and buzzed them in.

  “Nora,” Smithback implored. He turned to the real estate agent. “We are taking it.”

  “I’m sorry, Bill, but I’m just not ready.”

  “But last week you said—”

  “I know what I said. But I can’t think about apartments at a time like this. Okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay.”

  The doorbell rang and the broker moved to open the door. Two men came in—one bald and short, one tall and bearded—gave the living room a quick look, swept through the kitchen and into the bedrooms.

  “Nora, please,” Smithback said. “Look, I know this move to New York, the job at the Museum, hasn’t been as smooth as you hoped. I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t mean you should—”

  There was a lengthy interval while the shower was being turned on, then off. And then the couple were back in the living room. The inspection had taken less than two minutes.

  “It’s perfect,” said the bald one. “Eighteen percent broker’s fee, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Great.” A checkbook appeared. “Who do I make it out to?”

  “Cash. We’ll take it to your bank.”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Smithback said, “we were here first.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said one of the men politely, turning in surprise.

  “Don’t mind them,” said the broker harshly. “Those people are on their way out.”

  “Come on, Bill.” Nora began urging him to the door.

  “We were here first! I’ll take it myself, if I have to!”

  There was a snap as the man detached the check. The broker reached for it. “I’ve got the lease right here,” she said, patting her bag. “We can sign it at the bank.”

  Nora dragged Smithback out the door and slammed it shut. The ride downstairs was silent and tense.

  A moment later, they were standing on the street. “I’ve got to get back to work,” Nora said, looking away. “We can talk about this tonight.”

  “We certainly will.”

  Smithback watched her stride down Ninety-ninth Street in the slanting light, the trenchcoat curling away from her perfect little behind, her long copper hair swinging back and forth. He felt stricken. After all they had been through, she still didn’t want to live with him. What had he done wrong? Sometimes he wondered if she blamed him for pressuring her to move east from Santa Fe. It wasn’t his fault the job at the Lloyd Museum had fallen through and her boss here in Manhattan was a prize asshole. How could he change her mind? How could he prove to her that he really loved her?

  An idea began to form in his mind. Nora didn’t really appreciate the power of the press, particularly the New York Times. She didn’t realize just how cowed, how docile and cooperative, the Museum could be when faced with bad publicity. Yes, he thought, this would work. She would get the collections back, and get her carbon-14 dating funded, and more. She would thank him in the end. If he worked fast, he could even make the early edition.

  Smithback heard a hearty yell. “Hey, friend!”

  He turned. There were the two bums, fiery-faced now, holding on to each other, staggering up the sidewalk. One of them lifted a paper bag. “Have a drink on us!”

  Smithback took out another twenty and held it up in front of the bigger and dirtier of the two. “Tell you what. In a few minutes, you’ll see a thin lady dressed in black come out of this building with two guys. Her name’s Millie. Give her a really big hug and kiss for me, will you? The sloppier the better.”

  “You bet!” The man snatched the bill and stuffed it into his pocket.

  Smithback went down the street toward Broadway, feeling marginally better.

  EIGHT

  ANTHONY FAIRHAVEN SETTLED HIS LEAN, MUSCULAR frame into the chair, spread a heavy linen napk
in across his lap, and examined the breakfast that lay before him. It was minuscule, yet arrayed with excessive care on the crisp white damask: a china glass of tea, two water biscuits, royal jelly. He drained the tea in a single toss, nibbled absently at the cracker, then wiped his lips and signaled the maid for his papers with a curt motion.

  The sun streamed in through the curved glass wall of his breakfast atrium. From his vantage point atop the Metropolitan Tower, all of Manhattan lay prostrate at his feet, glittering in the dawn light, windows winking pink and gold. His own personal New World, waiting for him to claim his Manifest Destiny. Far below, the dark rectangle of Central Park lay like a gravedigger’s hole in the midst of the great city. The light was just clipping the tops of the trees, the shadows of the buildings along Fifth Avenue lying across the park like bars.

  There was a rustle and the maid laid the two papers before him, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Freshly ironed, as he insisted. He picked up the Times and unfolded it, the warm scent of newsprint reaching his nostrils, the sheets crisp and dry. He gave the paper a little shake to loosen it, and turned to the front page. He scanned the headlines. Middle East peace talks, mayoral election debates, earthquake in Indonesia. He glanced below the fold.

  Momentarily, he stopped breathing.

  NEWLY DISCOVERED LETTER SHEDS LIGHT ON 19TH-CENTURY KILLINGS

  BY WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR.

  He blinked his eyes, took a long, deep breath, and began to read.

  NEW YORK—October 8. A letter has been found in the archives of the New York Museum of Natural History that may help explain the grisly charnel discovered in lower Manhattan early last week.

  In that discovery, workmen constructing a residential tower at the corner of Henry and Catherine streets unearthed a basement tunnel containing the remains of thirty-six young men and women. The remains had been walled up in a dozen alcoves in what was apparently an old coal tunnel dating from the middle of the nineteenth century. Preliminary forensic analysis showed that the victims had been dissected, or perhaps autopsied, and subsequently dismembered. Preliminary dating of the site by an archaeologist, Nora Kelly, of the New York Museum of Natural History, indicated that the killings had occurred between 1872 and 1881, when the corner was occupied by a three-story building housing a private museum known as “J. C. Shottum’s Cabinet of Natural Productions and Curiosities.” The cabinet burned in 1881, and Shottum died in the fire.