The Inner Circle - Brad Meltzer [278]
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