Dance of Death (4 page)

"I am glad to hear it.
Museology
is the oldest journal in its field, publishing continuously since 1892, and still the most respected. It is a great responsibility and challenge you've taken on, Margo."

"I hope to carry on the tradition."

"And so do we." He stroked his closely trimmed iron-gray beard meditatively. "One of the things we are proud of is the strongly independent editorial voice of
Museology."

"Yes," said Margo. She knew where this was going, and she was ready.

"The museum has never interfered with the editorial opinions expressed in
Museology,
and we never will. We consider the editorial independence of the journal to be well-nigh sacred."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"On the other hand, we would not like to see
Museology
devolve into a ... what should one call it? An
op-ed
organ." The way he said it made it sound like another kind of organ entirely. "With independence comes responsibility. After all,
Museology
bears the name of the New York Museum of Natural History."

The voice remained soft-spoken, and yet it had taken on an edge. Margo waited. She would remain cool and professional. In fact, she had already prepared her response-even written it out and memorized it so she could express herself more eloquently-but it was important to let Collopy have his say.

"That is why the previous editors of
Museology
have always been exceedingly careful about how they exercised their editorial freedom." He let the words hang in the air.

"I assume you're referring to the editorial I am about to publish on the repatriation request of the Tano Indians."

"Exactly. The letter from the tribe, asking for the return of the Great Kiva masks, arrived only last week. The board of trustees has not yet discussed it. The museum hasn't even had time to consult its lawyers. Isn't it a bit premature to be editorializing on something that hasn't even begun to be evaluated? Especially when you're so new to the position?"

"It seems to me a straightforward issue," she said quietly.

At this, Collopy leaned back in his chair, a patronizing smile on his face. "It is anything
but
straightforward, Margo. Those masks have been in the museum's collections for one hundred and thirty-five years. And they're to be the centerpiece of the Sacred Images show, the biggest exhibition in the museum since Superstition, six years ago."

Another heavy silence.

"Naturally," Collopy went on, "I'm not going to ask you to alter your editorial stand. I will merely point out that there may be a few facts you are unaware of." He pressed an almost invisible button on his desk and said into an equally invisible speaker: "The file, Mrs. Surd?"

A moment later, the secretary appeared with an ancient file in her hand. He thanked her, glanced at it, then handed it to Margo.

Margo took the file. It was very old and brittle and gave off a fearful smell of dust and dry rot. She opened it carefully. Inside were some handwritten papers in spidery mid-nineteenth-century script, a contract, some drawings.

"That is the original accession file of the Great Kiva masks you seem so anxious to return to the Tano Indians. Have you seen it?"

"No, but-"

"Perhaps you should have before you drafted your editorial. That first document is a bill of sale, itemizing two hundred dollars for the masks: a lot of money back in 1870. The museum didn't pay for those Great Kiva masks in trinkets and beads. The second document is the contract. That
X
is the signature of the chief of the Great Kiva Society-the man who sold the masks to Kendall Swope, the museum's anthropologist. The third document, there, is the letter of thanks the museum wrote to the chief, in care of the Indian agent, which was read to him by the agent, promising the chief that the masks would be well taken care of."

Margo stared at the ancient papers. It continually amazed her how tenacious the museum was with everything, especially documents.

"The point is, Margo, the museum bought those masks in good faith. We paid an excellent price for them. We've now owned them for almost one and a half centuries. We've taken beautiful care of them. On top of that, they're among the most important objects in our entire Native American collection. Many thousands of people view them-are
educated
by them, make career choices in anthropology or archaeology because of them-every week. Not once in a hundred and thirty-five years did any member of the Tano tribe complain or accuse the museum of acquiring them illegally. Now, doesn't it seem just a tad unfair for them to suddenly be demanding them back? And right before a blockbuster exhibition in which they are the featured attraction?"

Silence fell in the grand tower office, with its tall windows overlooking Museum Drive, its dark-paneled walls graced with Audubon paintings.

"It does seem a bit unfair," Margo said evenly.

A broad smile creased Collopy's face. "I knew you would understand."

"But it won't change my editorial position."

A gradual freezing of the air. "Excuse me?"

It was time for her speech. "Nothing in that accession file changes the facts. It's quite simple. The chief of the Great Kiva Society didn't own the masks to begin with. They weren't his. They belonged to the entire tribe. It would be like a priest selling off church relics. By law, you can't sell something you don't own. That bill of sale and contract in that folder are not legally valid. What's more, when he bought the masks, Kendall Swope knew that, and that is clear from the book he wrote,
Tano Ceremonials.
He knew the chief didn't have the right to sell them. He knew the masks were a sacred part of the Great Kiva ceremony and must never leave the kiva. He even admits the chief was a crook. It's all right there in
Tano Ceremonials."

"Margo-"

"Please let me finish, Dr. Collopy. There's an even more important principle at stake here. Those masks are
sacred
to the Tano Indians. Everyone recognizes that. They can't be replaced or remade. The Tanos believe each mask has a spirit and is alive. These aren't conveniently made-up beliefs; they're sincere and deeply held religious convictions."

"But after one hundred and thirty-five years? Come, now. Why hadn't we heard a peep from those people all this time?"

"The Tano had no idea where the masks had gone until they read about the upcoming exhibition."

"I simply cannot believe they were mourning the loss of those masks for all this time. They were long forgotten. This is all too convenient, Margo. Those masks are worth five, maybe ten million dollars. It's about money, not about religion."

"No, it isn't. I've spoken to them."

"You've
spoken
to them?"

"Of course. I called and spoke to the governor of Tano Pueblo."

For a moment, Collopy's mask of implacability fell away. "The legal implications of this are staggering."

"I was simply fulfilling my responsibility as editor of
Museology
to learn the facts. The Tanos
do
remember, they remembered all along-those masks, as your own carbon dating proved, were almost seven hundred years old when they were collected. Believe me, the Tanos remember their loss."

"They won't be properly curated-the Tanos don't have the proper facilities to take care of them!"

"They should never have left the kiva to begin with. They aren't 'museum specimens'-they're a living part of Tano religion. Do you think the bones of St. Peter under the Vatican are being 'properly curated'? The masks belong in that kiva, whether it's climate-controlled or not."

"If we give these masks back, it would set a terrible precedent. We'll be inundated with demands from every tribe in America."

"Perhaps. But that's not a valid argument. Giving back those masks is the
right
thing to do. You know it, and I'm going to publish an editorial saying so!"

She stopped, swallowed, realizing she had violated all her resolutions by raising her voice.

"And that is my final, and
independent,
editorial judgment," she added more quietly.

FIVE

 There were no secretaries, receptionists, or low-echelon flunkies seated outside the entrance to Glen Singleton's office. The room itself was no larger than any of the other few dozen offices scattered around the cramped and dusty confines of the precinct house. There was no sign on the door announcing the exalted status of its tenant. Unless you were a cop yourself, there would be no way of knowing this was the office of the head honcho.

But that, D'Agosta reflected as he approached, was the captain's style. Captain Singleton was that rarest of police brass, a guy who'd worked his way up honorably through the ranks, built a reputation not from kissing ass, but by solving tough cases with solid police work. He lived and breathed for one reason: to get criminals off the streets. He was perhaps the hardest-working cop D'Agosta had ever known, save Laura Hayward. D'Agosta had worked for more than his fair share of incompetent desk jockeys, and that made him respect Singleton's professionalism all the more. He sensed that Singleton respected him, too, and to D'Agosta that meant a great deal.

All this made what he was about to do even harder.

Singleton's door was wide open, as usual. It wasn't his style to limit access-any cop who wanted to see him could do so at any time. D'Agosta knocked, half leaning into the doorway. Singleton was there, standing behind the desk, talking into the phone. Even at his desk, the man never seemed to sit down. He was in his late forties, tall and lean, with a swimmer's physique-he swam laps every morning at six, without fail. He had a long face and an aquiline profile. Every other week he had his salt-and-pepper hair cut by the ridiculously expensive barber in the basement of the Carlyle, and he always looked as well groomed as a presidential candidate.

Singleton flashed a smile at D'Agosta and gestured for him to come in.

D'Agosta stepped inside. Singleton pointed to a seat, but D'Agosta shook his head: something about the captain's restless energy made him feel more comfortable on his feet.

Singleton was clearly talking to somebody in NYPD public relations. His voice was polite, but D'Agosta knew that, inside, Singleton was doing a slow boil: his interest lay in police work, not P.R. He hated the very concept, telling D'Agosta, "Either you catch the perp or you don't. So what's there to spin?"

D'Agosta glanced around. The office was decorated so minimally it was almost anonymous. No photos of family; no obligatory picture of the captain shaking hands with the mayor or commissioner. Singleton was one of the most decorated cops on active duty, but there were no commendations for bravery, no plaques or citations framed on the walls. Instead, there was just some paperwork sitting on a corner of his desk, fifteen or twenty manila folders on a nearby shelf. On a second shelf, D'Agosta could see handbooks on forensic technique and crime scene investigation, half a dozen well-thumbed books on jurisprudence.

Singleton hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. "Hell," he said. "I feel like I spend more time juggling community action groups than I do catching bad guys. It's enough to make me wish I was on foot patrol again." He turned toward D'Agosta with another short smile. "Vinnie, how's it going?"

"Okay," D'Agosta replied, not feeling okay at all. Singleton's friendliness and approachability made this little visit all the more difficult.

The captain hadn't requested D'Agosta: he'd been assigned to the division by the commissioner's office. This would have guaranteed D'Agosta a suspicious, hostile reception from other brass he'd known-Jack Waxie, for instance. Waxie would have felt threatened, kept D'Agosta at arm's length, made sure he got the low-profile cases. But Singleton was just the opposite. He'd welcomed D'Agosta, personally brought him up to speed on the details and procedures unique to his office, even put him in charge of the Dangler investigation-and, at the moment, cases didn't get any higher-profile than that.

The Dangler hadn't killed anybody. He hadn't even used a gun. But he'd done something almost as bad: he'd subjected the NYPD to public ridicule. A thief who emptied ATMs of cash, then whipped out his dong for the benefit of their security cameras, was perfect fodder for the daily tabloids. So far, the Dangler had paid visits to eleven ATMs. Each new robbery meant more front-page headlines, smirking, full of innuendo. Each time, the NYPD had its face rubbed in it afresh.
Dangler's streak grows longer,
the
Post
had trumpeted after the last robbery, three days before.
Police find themselves short.

"How's our witness?" Singleton asked. "She panning out?" He stood behind his desk, looking at D'Agosta. The captain had piercing blue eyes, and when they looked at you, it was like you were the center of the universe: for that brief moment, at least, you had his complete and undivided attention. It was unnerving.

"Her story checks out against the security cam."

"Good, good. Hell, you'd think in this digital age the banks would be able to manage better coverage with their security cams. The guy seems to know their sweep, their range-you think he worked in security once?"

"We're looking into that."

"Eleven hits and all we still know for sure is he's Caucasian."

And circumcised,
D'Agosta thought mirthlessly. "I had our detectives call all the branch managers on the hot list. They're installing additional hidden cameras."