The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [270]
Brisbane colored and Smithback knew his question had hit home. “That is an irresponsible allegation. As I said, we’ve cooperated all along—”
“So you deny threatening your employee, Dr. Nora Kelly, forbidding her to work on the case? Keep in mind, Mr. Brisbane, that we have yet to hear from Nora Kelly herself. The one who found the third victim’s body, I might add—and who was chased by the Surgeon and almost killed in turn.”
The clear implication was that Nora Kelly might have something to say that would not agree with Brisbane’s account. Brisbane’s face darkened as he realized he’d been backed into a corner. “I will not answer these hectoring questions.” Beside him, Collopy looked grim.
Smithback felt a swell of triumph.
“Mister Smithback,” said Mary Hill acidly, “are you quite done monopolizing this press conference? Clearly the nineteenth-century homicides have nothing to do with the current serial killings, except as inspiration.”
“And how do you know that?” Smithback cried out, his triumph now secure.
The mayor now turned to him. “Are you suggesting, sir,” he said facetiously, “that Dr. Leng is still alive and continuing his business?”
There was a solid round of laughter in the hall.
“Not at all—”
“Then I suggest you sit down, my friend.”
Smithback sat down, amid more laughter, his feelings of triumph squashed. He had scored a hit, but they knew how to hit back.
As the questions droned on, it slowly dawned on him just what he had done, dragging Nora’s name into the press conference. It didn’t take him nearly as long to figure out how she would feel about it.
TWO
DOYERS STREET WAS A SHORT, NARROW DOGLEG OF A lane at the southeastern edge of Chinatown. A cluster of tea shops and grocery stores stood at the far end, festooned with bright neon signs in Chinese. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, whipping scraps of paper and leaves off the sidewalk. There was a distant roll of thunder. A storm was coming.
O’Shaughnessy paused at the entrance of the deserted lane, and Nora stopped beside him. She shivered, with both fear and cold. She could see him peering up and down the sidewalk, eyes alert for any sign of danger, any possibility that they had been followed.
“Number ninety-nine is in the middle of the block,” he said in a low voice. “That brownstone, there.”
Nora followed the indicated direction with her eyes. It was a narrow building like all the others: a three-story structure of dirty green brick.
“Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?” O’Shaughnessy asked.
Nora swallowed. “I think it’d be better if you stayed here and watched the street.”
O’Shaughnessy nodded, then slipped into the shadow of a doorway.
Taking a deep breath, Nora started forward. The sealed envelope containing Pendergast’s banknotes felt like a lead weight within her purse. She shivered again, glancing up and down the dark street, fighting her feeling of agitation.
The attack on her, and Puck’s brutal murder, had changed everything. It had proven these were no mere psychotic copycat killings. It had been carefully planned. The murderer had access to the Museum’s private spaces. He had used Puck’s old Royal typewriter to type that note, luring her to the Archives. He had pursued her with terrifying coolness. She’d felt the man’s presence, mere inches away from her, there in the Archives. She’d even felt the sting of his scalpel. This was no lunatic: this was someone who knew exactly what he was doing, and why. Whatever the connection between the old killings and the new, this had to be stopped. If there was anything—anything—she could do to get the killer, she was willing to do it.
There were answers beneath the floor of Number 99 Doyers Street. She was going to find those answers.
Her mind returned to the terrifying chase, in particular to the flash of