The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [183]
He opened the car door for her, then climbed in himself. “Thank you, Dr. Kelly,” he said, indicating to his driver to start the car. “Tomorrow we will meet again. In a more official capacity, I trust.”
As they eased out into the Lower East Side traffic, Nora looked at him. “How did you learn about this site, anyway? It was just uncovered yesterday.”
“I have contacts. Most helpful in my line of work.”
“I’ll bet. Well, speaking of contacts, why didn’t you just try your friend the police commissioner again? Surely he could have backed you up.”
The Rolls turned smoothly onto East River Drive, its powerful engine purring. “Commissioner?” Pendergast blinked over at her. “I don’t have the pleasure of his acquaintance.”
“Then who were you calling back there, then?”
“My apartment.” And he smiled ever so slightly.
FIVE
WILLIAM SMITHBACK JR. STOOD, QUITE SELF-CONSCIOUSLY, in the doorway of Café des Artistes. His new suit of dark blue Italian silk rustled as he scanned the dimly lit room. He tried to keep his normal slouch in check, his back ramrod straight, his bearing dignified, aristocratic. The Armani suit had cost him a small fortune, but as he stood in the entryway he knew it had been worth every penny. He felt sophisticated, urbane, a bit like Tom Wolfe—though of course he didn’t dare try the full rig, white hat and all. The paisley silk handkerchief poking out of his pocket was a nice touch, though perhaps a bit flamboyant, but then again he was a famous writer—almost famous anyway, if only his last damn book had inched up two more slots it would have made the list—and he could get away with such touches. He turned with what he hoped was casual elegance and arched an eyebrow in the direction of the maître d’, who immediately strode over with a smile.
Smithback loved this restaurant more than any other in New York City. It was decidedly untrendy, old-fashioned, with superb food. You didn’t get the Bridge and Tunnel crowd in here like you did at Le Cirque 2000. And the Howard Chandler Christie mural added just the right touch of kitsch.
“Mr. Smithback, how nice to see you this evening. Your party just arrived.”
Smithback nodded gravely. Being recognized by the maître d’ of a first-class restaurant, although he would be loath to admit it, meant a great deal to him. It had taken several visits, several well-dropped twenties. What clinched it was the casual reference to his position at the New York Times.
Nora Kelly sat at a corner table, waiting for him. As usual, just seeing her sent a little electric current of pleasure through Smithback. Even though she’d been in New York well over a year, she still retained a fresh, out-of-place look that delighted him. And she never seemed to have lost her Santa Fe tan. Funny, how they’d met under the worst possible of circumstances: an archaeological expedition to Utah in which they’d both almost lost their lives. Back then, she’d made it clear she thought him arrogant and obnoxious. And here they were, two years later, about to move in together. And Smithback couldn’t imagine ever spending a day apart from her.
He slid into the banquette with a smile. She looked great, as always: her copper-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, deep green-brown eyes sparkling in the candle-light, the sprinkling of freckles on her nose adding a perfect touch of boyishness. Then his gaze dropped to her clothes. Now, those left something to be desired. God, she was actually dirty.
“You won’t believe the day I had,” she said.
“Hum.” Smithback adjusted his tie and turned ever so slightly, allowing the light to catch the elegantly cut shoulder of his suit.
“I swear, Bill, you aren’t going to believe it. But remember, this is off the record.”
Now Smithback felt slightly hurt. Not only had she failed to notice the suit, but this business about their conversation being off the record was unnecessary. “Nora, everything between us is off the record—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. “First, that scumbag Brisbane cut my budget ten percent.”
Smithback made a sympathetic