Hayward hesitated, wondering briefly what ordeal Lipper was going through now—or perhaps had already gone through. Then she turned toward Manetti.
“I want this museum sealed,” she said.
The security director was sweating. “It’s ten minutes to opening. We’re talking two million square feet of exhibition space, two thousand staff—you can’t be serious.”
Hayward spoke softly. “If that’s a problem, I can call Commissioner Rocker. He’ll call the mayor, and the decision can come down through official channels—along with the usual shitstorm.”
“That won’t be necessary, Captain. I’ll order the museum sealed. Temporarily.”
She looked around. “Let’s order up a forensic psychological profile.”
“Already done,” said the sergeant.
Hayward gave him an appraising glance. “We haven’t worked together before, have we?”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“Thank you.”
She turned and walked briskly out of the room and the tomb, the others following. She crossed the length of the Egyptian gallery and approached the knot of people on the far side of the crime scene tape, gestured to Sergeant Visconti. “Are those bloodhounds still on the premises?”
“Yes.”
“I want everyone here who’s available, police and guards alike, to participate in searching this museum from attic to basement. Priority one: find Lipper. Assume he’s alive and a hostage. Priority two: I want the killer. I want them both before the end of the day. Clear?”
“Yes, Captain.”
She paused, as if remembering something. “Who’s in charge of the tomb exhibit?”
“A curator named Nora Kelly,” Manetti replied.
“Get her on the horn, please.”
Hayward’s attention was drawn to a sudden disturbance in the knot of guards and police, a voice raised in anguished pleading. A thin, slope-shouldered man in a bus driver’s uniform wrenched free of two policemen and made a beeline for Hayward, his face distorted by grief.
“You!” he cried. “Help me! Find my son!”
“And you are?”
“Larry Lipper. I’m Larry Lipper. My son is Jay Lipper. He’s missing, and a killer’s on the loose, and I want you to find him!” The man burst into sobs. “Find him!”
The very intensity of his grief halted the two policemen pursuing him.
Hayward took his hand. “That’s just what we’re going to do, Mr. Lipper.”
“Find him! Find him!”
Hayward looked around, spotted an officer she recognized. “Sergeant Casimirovic?”
The woman stepped forward.
Hayward gestured with her chin at Lipper’s father and mouthed, “Help me out here.”
The officer stepped over and, putting her arm around Larry Lipper, eased him away from Hayward. “You come with me, sir, and we’ll find someplace quiet to sit down and wait.” And Sergeant Casimirovic led him, crying loudly but unresisting, back through the crowd.
Manetti was at her side again, radio in hand. “I’ve got Kelly.”
She took the radio, nodding her thanks. “Dr. Kelly? Captain Hayward, NYPD.”
“How can I help?” came the voice.
“The Canopic Room in the Tomb of Senef. What’s that for?”
“That’s where the pharaoh’s mummified organs were stored.”
“Elaborate, please.”
“Part of the mummification process is the removal of the pharaoh’s internal organs for separate mummification and storage in canopic jars.”
“The internal organs, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you.” Hayward slowly passed the radio back to Manetti, a thoughtful look on her face.
23
Wilson Bulke peered down the corridor that ran beneath the roofline of building 12. Dirty brown light struggled to penetrate the wire-mesh glass skylights, which were coated with at least a century of New York City soot. Air ducts and pipes ran in thick bundles on either side, where the rooflines almost touched the floor. Both sides of the long, low space were crammed with old collections—jars of animals floating in preservative, untidy stacks of yellowing journals, plaster models of animals—leaving a narrow passage down the center. It was a crazy, crooked space, with rooflines, pitches, and floor levels that changed half a dozen times just within eyesight. It was like a fun house at the fair, only there was nothing fun about it.
“My legs are killing me,” Bulke said. “Let’s take five.” He eased himself down on an old wooden crate, the excess adipose tissue in his thighs stretching the material with an audible creak.