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“Yeah, the interview is totally voluntary.” D’Agosta smiled and leaned forward, lowering his voice. “And if you don’tvoluntarily fucking cooperatewith us right here, right now, I’ll call my pal at theNew York Post,and tomorrow morning you’ll be reading a front-page article about a certain limp-dicked museum department head’s inexplicable refusal to cooperate with the FBI and the NYPD in one of the biggest murder cases of the year. The article will pose the question:what is Dr. Britley hiding?Oh, yeah, and we’ll also make sure Cartwright’s name is in there, and maybe those of a couple museum board members most allergic to publicity. AndthenI’ll get that warrant and drag your ass downtown—once I’ve arranged to perp-walk you nice and slow past the entire shouting, screaming, photographing, microphone-waving, videotaping New York press corps.”
“I will not be threatened. I’m going to file that complaint immediately,” said Britley, but his voice was faltering.
“Oh, yeah! Great! File that complaint! Bring the NYPDandthe FBI shit-rain down on the museum! I’d guess from that tight-assed accent of yours you haven’t been in New York City long enough to know we’reanimalshere. Weliveto ream out shitbags like you. We’re gonna chew your ass right down to the bone…and howl for more. As for threats—” He turned. “Did you hear any threats, Agent Coldmoon?”
Coldmoon could hardly believe D’Agosta’s eruption. He gathered his wits enough to shake his head. “All I heard was a polite request for voluntary cooperation.”
“Exactly. So whose word is the judge and jury going to believe: that of Dr. Snidely Suckwad, or FBI Special Agent Armstrong Coldmoon and NYPD Lieutenant Commander Vincent D’Agosta?”
Britley stared at D’Agosta, face pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.
D’Agosta removed his cell phone and suddenly changed his tone to one of quiet respect. “Dr. Britley, thank you so much for your offer of cooperation. Mind if I record?”
Britley, after a moment’s hesitation, eased himself down in his office chair, his shaking hands gripping the armrests. He nodded.
D’Agosta held the phone forward, quickly activating the microphone. “Please speak your answers aloud and clearly, Dr. Britley.”
It was a singularly dull interview, with Britley volunteering no more than minimal information. He described Mancow’s research interests, which focused on Lakota culture. He tediously reviewed the dead curator’s CV and other background—University of Chicago PhD, Harvard postdoc, museum curator, and adjunct at Columbia. Mancow was, Britley went on, as distinguished as any curator in the field. He had no enemies, was highly respected among his associates, had published numerous papers in peer-reviewed journals, had excellent relations with the Lakota people and Sioux tribal government, and maintained a strong rapport with a network of colleagues across the world. Britley was of the opinion that Mancow had been accidentally locked inside the freezer. What he was doing there in the first place, he had no idea.
Coldmoon asked, “What was Mancow like as a person?”
“Warm. Sincere. Helpful to his peers. A man of integrity.”
“Do you know of a colleague of Mancow’s by the name of George Smith, of Central Florida University?”
“I can’t say I do.”
“He visited Dr. Mancow on April 16, and they looked at the Hunkpapa collections in the Secure Area.”
“Dr. Mancow did not introduce Professor Smith to me.”
“So you don’t know the purpose of the visit or what they wanted to see? You didn’t meet a visiting colleague of Mancow’s on that date: April 16?”
“No to both questions.”
“It seems the security footage from that visit is missing. Would you know anything about that?”
“No.”
“And Central Florida University, does it have a reputable anthro department?”
“I doubt it has an anthropology department of any note at all.”
Coldmoon paused. “May I ask, Dr. Britley, why you were reluctant to speak to us? I would think you’d want to see the killer of your colleague caught.”
Britley looked at him for a moment, and Coldmoon sensed a flash of emotion hidden behind that austere face: a deep and enduring detestation of his colleague. “I am of course most anxious to help. It’s just that I’m very busy, nothing more. Now…is there anything else?”
“Just one more thing,” said Coldmoon. “We’d like to visit the vault containing the Hunkpapa material. We’re told you need to authorize it.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
Britley’s face tightened but he didn’t protest. He picked up the phone, pressed a button, spoke into it, then hung up. A moment later, a timid knock came at the door. It opened to reveal a young man. “Yes, Dr. Britley?”
“Block,” the department head said, “escort these two law officers to the Secure Area. Allow them access to whatever they wish to see.”
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