The Inner Circle

by Brad Meltzer

  “Yes?” Pendergast’s voice came instantly.

  “We’ve got a skull here.”

  “Keep digging, if you please.” Pendergast didn’t sound surprised.

  Working carefully with the brush, heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest, Nora cleared away more dirt. The frontal bone came slowly into view, then two eye sockets, slimy, sticky matter still clinging inside. A foul smell rose and she gagged involuntarily. This was no clean Anasazi skeleton that had been buried a thousand years in dry sand.

  Plucking her T-shirt up over her nose and mouth, she continued. A bit of nasal bone became exposed, the opening cradling a twisted piece of cartilage. Then, as the maxilla was exposed, came a flash of metal.

  “Please describe.” Again Pendergast’s weak voice broke the silence of the room.

  “Give me another minute.”

  Nora brushed, working down the craniofacial bones. When the face was exposed, she sat back on her heels.

  “All right. We have a skull of an older adult male, with some hair and soft matter remaining, probably due to the anaerobic environment of the site. Just below the maxilla there are two silver teeth, partly fallen from the upper jaw, attached to some old bridgework. Below that, just inside the jaws, I see a pair of gold spectacles, one lens of which has black opaque glass.”

  “Ah. You have found Tinbury McFadden.” There was a pause and Pendergast added, “We must keep going. Still to be found are James Henry Perceval and Dumont Burleigh, members of the Lyceum and colleagues of our Dr. Leng. Two people unlucky enough to have also received J. C. Shottum’s confidences. The little circle is complete.”

  “That reminds me,” Nora said. “I remembered something, while I was digging last night. The first time I asked Puck to show me the Shottum material, he said in passing that Shottum was quite popular these days. I didn’t pay much attention to it then. But after what happened, I began to wonder who had—” She stopped.

  “Who had made that particular journey ahead of us,” Pendergast finished the thought for her.

  Suddenly there was the rattle of the doorknob.

  All eyes turned.

  The knob rattled, turned, turned again.

  There was a series of concussive raps on the door, which reverberated through the small apartment. A pause followed; then a second volley of frantic pounding.

  O’Shaughnessy looked up, hand dropping to his automatic. “Who’s that?”

  A shrill female voice sounded outside the door. “What go on here? What that smell? What you do in there? Open up!”

  “It’s Mrs. Lee,” Nora said as she rose to her feet. “The landlady.”

  Pendergast lay still. His pale cat’s eyes flitted open for a moment, then closed again. He looked as if he was settling in for a nap.

  “Open up! What go on in there?”

  Nora climbed out of the trench, moved to the door. “What’s the problem?” she said, keeping her voice steady. O’Shaughnessy joined her.

  “Problem with smell! Open up!”

  “There’s no smell in here,” said Nora. “It must be coming from somewhere else.”

  “It come from here, up through floor! I smell all night, it much worse now when I come out of apartment. Open up!”

  “I’m just cooking, that’s all. I’ve been taking a cooking class, but I guess I’m not very good yet, and—”

  “That no cooking smell! Smell like shit! This nice apartment building! I call police!” Another furious volley of pounding.

  Nora looked at Pendergast, who lay still, wraith-like, eyes closed. She turned to O’Shaughnessy.

  “She wants the police,” he said with a shrug.

  “But you’re not in uniform.”

  “I’ve got my shield.”

  “What are you going to say?”

  The pounding continued.

  “The truth, of course.” O’Shaughnessy slid toward the door, undid the locks, and let the door fall open.

  The squat, heavyset landlady stood in the door. Her eyes darted past O’Shaughnessy, saw the gigantic hole in the living room floor, the piles of dirt and bricks beyond, the exposed upper half of a skeleton. A look of profound horror blossomed across her face.

  O’Shaughnessy opened his wallet to display his shield, but the woman seemed not to notice. She was transfixed by the hole in the floor, the skeleton grinning up at her from the bottom.

  “Mrs.—Lee, was it? I’m Sergeant O’Shaughessy of the New York Police Department.”

  Still the lady stared, slack-jawed.

  “There’s been a murder in this apartment,” O’Shaughnessy said matter-of-factly. “The body was buried under the floor. We’re investigating. I know it’s a shock. I’m sorry, Mrs. Lee.”

  Finally, the woman seemed to take notice of him. She turned slowly, looking first at his face, then at his badge, then at his gun. “Wha—?”

  “A murder, Mrs. Lee. In your apartment.”

  She looked back at the huge hole. Within it, the skeleton lay peacefully, wrapped in its mantle of earth. Above, in the bed, Pendergast lay still, arms crossed over his chest, in a similar attitude of repose.

  “Now, Mrs. Lee, I’m going to ask you to go back quietly to your apartment. Tell no one about this. Call no one. Lock and bolt your door. Do not let anyone in unless they show you one of these.” O’Shaughnessy shoved the badge closer to her face.

  “Do you understand, Mrs. Lee?”

  She nodded dumbly, eyes wide.

  “Now go on upstairs. We need twenty-four hours of absolute quiet. Then of course there will be a large group of police arriving. Medical examiners, forensic experts—it will be a mess. Then you can talk. But for now—” He lifted a finger to his lips and pantomimed an exaggerated shhhhhh.

  Mrs. Lee turned and shuffled up the stairs. Her movements were slow, like a sleepwalker’s. Nora heard the upstairs door open, then close. And then all was quiet once again.

  In the silence, Pendergast opened one eye. It swiveled around to O’Shaughnessy, then to Nora.

  “Well done, you two,” he said in a weak voice. And the faintest of smiles played about his lips.

  SEVEN

  AS THE SQUAD CAR CARRYING CAPTAIN SHERWOOD CUSTER turned the corner onto Doyers Street, the captain stared through the windshield, tensing at the noisy group of reporters. It was a smallish group, but he could see they were the worst of the lot.

  Noyes angled the car into the curb and Custer opened his door, heaving his frame out onto the street. As he approached the brownstone, the reporters began calling to him. And there was the worst of all, that man—Smithbutt, or whatever—arguing with the uniformed officer standing on the front steps. “It isn’t fair!” he was crying in an outraged tone, oversized cowlick jiggling atop his head. “You let him in, so you’ve got to let me in!”

  The officer ignored this, stepping aside to let Custer pass the yellow crime scene tape.

  “Captain Custer!” the reporter cried, turning to him: “Commissioner Rocker has refused to speak with the press. Will you comment on the case, please?”

  Custer did not respond. The commissioner, he thought. The commissioner himself was here. He was going to be chewed out but good. Let this particular sleeping dog lie, the man had said. Custer had not only wakened the dog, but it had bitten him in the ass. Thanks to O’Shaughnessy.

  They signed him in at the door and Custer stepped through, Noyes following at his heels. They made their way quickly down to the basement apartment. Outside, the reporter could still be heard, voice raised in protest.

  The first thing Custer noticed when he stepped into the apartment was a big hole, lots of dirt. There were the usual photographers, lights, forensics, an ME, the SOC people. And there was the commissioner.

  The commissioner glanced up and spotted him. A spasm of displeasure went across his face. “Custer!” he called, nodding him over.

  “Yes, sir.” Custer swallowed, gritted his teeth. This was it.

  “Congratulations.”

  C
uster froze. Rocker’s sarcasm was a bad sign. And right in front of everybody, too.

  He stiffened. “I’m sorry, sir, this was completely unauthorized from beginning to end, and I’m personally going to—”

  He felt the commissioner’s arm snake around his shoulder, pull him closer. Custer could smell stale coffee on his breath. “Custer?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Please, just listen,” the commissioner muttered. “Don’t speak. I’m not here to attend to excuses. I’m here to put you in charge of this investigation.”

  This was a really bad sign. He’d been victimized by the commissioner’s sarcasm before, but not like this. Never like this.

  Custer blinked. “I’m truly sorry, sir—”

  “You’re not listening to me, Captain.” Arm still around his shoulder, the commissioner steered Custer away from the press of officials, back into the rear of the narrow apartment. “I understand your man O’Shaughnessy had something to do with uncovering this site.”

  “Yes, and I am going to severely reprimand—”

  “Captain, will you let me finish?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The mayor has called me twice this morning. He’s delighted.”

  “Delighted?” Custer wasn’t sure if this was more sarcasm, or something even worse.

  “Delighted. The more attention that gets deflected from the new copycat murders, the happier he is. New murders are very bad for approval ratings. Thanks to this discovery, you’re the cop of the hour. For the mayor, at least.”

  Silence. It was clear to Custer that Rocker didn’t fully share the mayor’s good opinion.

  “So are we crystal-clear, Captain? This is now officially your case.”

  “What case?” Custer was momentarily confused. Were they opening an official investigation into these old killings, too?

  “The Surgeon case.” Rocker waved his hand dismissively at the huge hole with their skeletons. “This is nothing. This is archaeology. This is not a case.”

  “Right. Thank you, sir,” Custer said.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the mayor. It was his, ah, suggestion that you handle it.”

  Rocker let his arm slip from Custer’s shoulder. Then he stood back and looked at the captain: a long, appraising glance. “Feel you can do this, Captain?”

  Custer nodded. The numbness was beginning to fade.

  “The first order of business is damage control. These old murders will give you a day, maybe two, before the public’s attention returns to the Surgeon. The mayor may like seeing these old murders getting the attention, but frankly I don’t. It’ll give the copycat killer ideas, egg him on.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I brought in Bryce Harriman. You know him?”

  “No.”

  “He’s the one who first put a finger on the copycat angle. We need to keep him where we can see him. We’ll give him an exclusive, but we’ll control the information he gets. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. He’s a nice sort, eager to please. He’s waiting out front. Remember to keep the conversation on the old bones and on this site. Not on the Surgeon or the new killings. The public may be confounding the two, but we’re sure as hell not.”

  Custer turned back toward the living room. But Rocker put out a hand to stop him.

  “And, Captain? Once you’re done with Harriman, I’d suggest you get to work on this new case of yours. Get right to work. Catch that killer. You don’t want another, fresher stiff turning up on your watch—do you? Like I said, you’ve got a little breathing space here. Make use of it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rocker continued to peer at him from beneath lowered brows. Then he grunted, nodded, and gestured Custer on ahead of him.

  The living room was, if possible, even more crowded than it had been moments before. At the commissioner’s signal, a tall, slender man stepped out of the shadows: horn-rimmed glasses, slicked-back hair, tweed jacket, blue oxford shirt, tasseled loafers.

  “Mr. Harriman?” Rocker said. “This is Captain Custer.”

  Harriman gave Custer’s hand a manly shake. “Nice to meet you in person, sir.”

  Custer returned the handshake. Despite his instinctive distrust of the press, he found himself approving of the man’s deferential attitude. Sir. When was the last time a reporter had called him sir?

  The commissioner glanced gravely from one man to the other. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Captain? I have to get back to One Police Plaza.”

  Custer nodded. “Of course, sir.”

  He watched the man’s broad back as it disappeared through the door.

  Noyes was suddenly there, in front of Custer, hand extended. “Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, sir.”

  Custer shook the limp hand. Then he turned back to Harriman, who was smiling beneath the horn-rims, impeccably knotted repp tie snugged against a buttoned-down collar. A dweeb, without doubt. But a very useful dweeb. It occurred to Custer that giving Harriman an exclusive would take that other pesky reporter—the one whose voice was still clamoring out in the street—down a few notches. Slow him down, get him off their asses for a while. It was bracing how quickly he was adjusting to his new responsibility.

  “Captain Custer?” the man said, notebook poised.

  “Yeah?”

  “May I ask you a few questions?”

  Custer gestured magnanimously. “Shoot.”

  EIGHT

  O’SHAUGHNESSY STEPPED INTO THE CAPTAIN’S OUTER office, automatically looking around for Noyes. He had a pretty good idea why Custer wanted to see him. He wondered if the subject of the prostitute’s two hundred bucks would come up, as it sometimes did when he got a little too independent for some ass-kisser’s taste. Normally he wouldn’t care; he’d had years to practice letting it all roll off his back. Ironic, he thought, that the shit was about to come down now—now, just when he’d gotten on an investigation he found himself caring about.

  Noyes came around the corner, chewing gum, his arms full of papers, his perpetually wet lower lip hanging loose from a row of brown teeth. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.” He dropped the pile on his desk, took his sweet time sitting down, then leaned toward a speaker.

  “He’s here,” he called into it.

  O’Shaughnessy sat down, watching Noyes. The man always chewed that nasty, old-fashioned, violet-scented gum favored by dowagers and alcoholics. The outer office reeked of it.

  Ten minutes later the captain appeared in the door, hiking up his pants and tucking in his shirt. He jerked his chin at O’Shaughnessy to indicate he was ready for him.

  O’Shaughnessy followed him back into the office. The captain sank heavily into his chair. He rolled his eyes toward O’Shaughnessy with a stare that was meant to be tough but only looked baleful.

  “Jesus Christ, O’Shaughnessy.” He wagged his head from side to side, jowls flapping like a beagle. “Jesus H. Christ.”

  There was a silence.

  “Gimme the report.”

  O’Shaughnessy took a long breath. “No.”

  “Whaddya mean, no?”

  “I don’t have it anymore. I gave it to Special Agent Pendergast.”

  The captain stared at O’Shaughnessy for at least a minute. “You gave it to that prick?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I ask why?”

  The captain stared at O’Shaughnessy did not answer immediately. Fact was, he didn’t want to get put off this case. He liked working with Pendergast. He liked it a lot. For the first time in years, he found himself lying awake at night, thinking about the case, trying to fit the pieces together, dreaming up new lines of investigation. Still, he wasn’t going to kiss ass. Let the showdown come.

  “He requested it. For his investigation. You asked me to assist him, and that’s what I did.”

  The jowls began to quiver. “O’Shaughnessy, I thought I made it clear that you were to seem to be helpful, not to be helpful.”

  O’Shaughnessy
tried to look puzzled. “I don’t think I quite understand you, sir.”

  The captain rose from his chair with a roar. “You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

  O’Shaughnessy stood his ground, feigning surprise now as well as puzzlement. “No, sir, I don’t.”

  The jowls began to shake with rage. “O’Shaughnessy, you impudent little—” Custer broke off, swallowed, tried to get himself under control. Sweat had broken out above his thick, rubbery upper lip. He took a deep breath. “I’m putting you down for administrative leave.”

  God damn it. “On what grounds?”

  “Don’t give me that. You know why. Disobeying my direct orders, freelancing for that FBI agent, undermining the department—not to mention getting involved in that excavation down on Doyers Street.”

  O’Shaughnessy knew well that the discovery had been a boon to Custer. It had temporarily taken the heat off the mayor, and the mayor had thanked Custer by putting him in charge of the investigation.

  “I followed procedure, sir, in my liaison work with Special Agent Pendergast.”

  “The hell you did. You’ve kept me in the dark every step of the way, despite these endless goddamn reports you keep filing which you know damn well I don’t have time to read. You went way around me to get that report. Christ, O’Shaughnessy, I’ve given you every opportunity here, and all you do is piss on me.”

  “I’ll file a grievance with the union, sir. And I’d like to state for the record that, as a Catholic, I am deeply offended by your profanity involving the name of Our Savior.”

  There was an astonished silence, and O’Shaughnessy saw that Custer was about to lose it completely. The captain spluttered, swallowed, clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “As for the police union,” said Custer, in a strained, high voice, “bring ’em on. As for the other, don’t think you can out-Jesus me, you sanctimonious prick. I’m a churchgoing man myself. Now lay your shield and piece down here”—he thumped his desk—“and get your Irish ass out. Go home and boil some potatoes and cabbage. You’re on administrative leave pending the result of an Internal Affairs investigation. Another Internal Affairs investigation, I might add. And at the union hearing, I’m going to ask for your dismissal from the force. With your record, that won’t be too hard to justify.”