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forest. “Weren’t those the guys that got in trouble for ripping down that SRO without a permit—when there were still people living there?”
    “The single-room occupancy on East First? I think so.”
    “Nasty bunch.”
    “Fairhaven was arriving in a stretch limo just as we left.”
    “Yeah. And in a Rolls, you said?” Smithback had to laugh. When he’d been investigating the Museum murders, Pendergast went around in a Buick. The conspicuousness of a Rolls had to mean something—everything Pendergast did served a purpose. “Well, you rode in style, anyway. But this really doesn’t sound like something Pendergast would be interested in.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s an incredible site, but it
is
over a hundred years old. Why would the FBI, or any law enforcement agency, be interested in a crime scene that’s ancient history?”
    “It isn’t an ordinary crime scene. Three dozen young people, murdered, dismembered, and walled up in a subterranean crawlspace. That’s one of the biggest serial killings in U.S. history.”
    Their waiter returned, sliding a dish in front of Smithback: steak
au poivre,
cooked rare. “Nora, come on,” he said, lifting his knife eagerly. “The murderer is long dead. It’s a historical curiosity. It’ll make a great story in the paper—come to think of it—but I still can’t see why the FBI would take an interest.”
    He felt Nora glowering at him. “Bill, this is off the record. Remember?”
    “It’s almost prehistoric, Nora, and it would make a sensational story. How could it possibly hurt—?”
    “
Off
the
record.
”
    Smithback sighed. “Just give me first shot, Nora, when the time comes.”
    Nora smirked. “You always get first shot, Bill. You know that.”
    Smithback chuckled and sliced a tender corner off his steak. “So what did you find down there?”
    “Not much. A bunch of stuff in the pockets—some old coins, a comb, pins, string, buttons. These people were
poor.
I took a vertebra, a hair sample, and…” She hesitated. “There was something else.”
    “Out with it.”
    “There was a piece of paper sewed into the lining of one girl’s dress. It felt like a letter. I can’t stop thinking about it.”
    Smithback leaned forward. “What’d it say?”
    “I had to put the dress back before I could take a closer look.”
    “You mean it’s still there?”
    Nora nodded.
    “What are they going to do with the stuff?”
    “The ME took away the bones, but they said they were going to bag the rest. I got the sense they were eager to lose track of the stuff in some warehouse. The quicker they can get rid of it, the less chance it’ll be declared an archaeological site. I’ve seen developers tear up a site just to make sure that when the archaeologists arrive there’s nothing left to examine.”
    “That’s illegal, isn’t it? Aren’t they supposed to stop if it’s important?”
    “If the site’s gone, how can you prove it was important? Developers destroy dozens of archaeological sites in America in just this way, every single day.”
    Smithback mumbled his righteous indignation as he made headway into the steak. He was famished. Nobody did steak like Café des Artistes. And the helpings were decent, man-sized, none of this nouvelle cuisine crap, the tippy little structure of food in the middle of a giant white plate splashed with Jackson Pollock–like dribbles of sauce…
    “Why would the girl sew the letter into her dress?”
    Smithback looked up, took a swig of red wine, another bite of steak. “Love letter, perhaps?”
    “The more I think about it, the more I think it could be important. It would at least be a clue to who these people were. Otherwise, we may never find out, with their clothes gone and the tunnel destroyed.” She was looking at him earnestly, her entrée untouched. “Damn it, Bill, that
was
an archaeological site.”
    “Probably torn up by now, like you said.”
    “It was late in the day. I stowed the dress back in the