“Not exactly. There’s overflow, especially because so many of the pieces are oversize, and that goes into some of our underpopulated areas.”

“What would they be?”

“Islamic art, for example. It’s one of our smaller departments. Artifacts, miniatures, ceramic tiles. The pieces aren’t as bulky, don’t take up as much room. Same for musical instruments. It’s not uncommon for some larger pieces-whether Egyptian relics or American period furniture-to be moved for the purpose of storage.”

“Do the other curators get annoyed at Gaylord for using their space?”

“Of course not. And he’s not the only one who trespasses. I’ve got thousands of paintings in my division. And I need room to do restoration. Many of the pieces are quite sizable and the canvases must be spread out for weeks while workers tend to them. You call on a friendly neighbor, examine his quarters, and find some way to beg for the area you need.”

Mike walked back to us. “These things aren’t even in numerical order. They’re all out of whack.”

“That’s why we have students and scholars, Detective. Eager young interns. They like nothing better than poring over these treasures and having that ‘eureka!’ moment when they’ve put their hands on a missing masterpiece. I can assure you that all of these things are carefully cataloged in each department and in the overall collection. They can all be tracked and traced. At least, we’ve always assumed that.”

“The sarcophagus in which Ms. Grooten was found, do you know about that?”

Friedrichs answered: “Mr. Gaylord told us about it shortly before you arrived here.”

“Why is it that no one can tell us where it had been stored?”

“There are several possibilities, Miss Cooper. We expect to narrow it down within the week.” Erik Poste played with his key chain. “Mr. Lissen and Miss Drexler are going over all the records. This storeroom is one of them.”

“Makes it look like trying to find a dollar bill you’ve dropped on the floor at Grand Central Station,” Chapman said, trying to sketch the layout in his notepad.

“I’ll show you some of the other areas as well, where the Egyptian overflow usually goes. I guess you’ll have us all looking for the missing mummy now, won’t you, Detective?” Poste said as he walked back to the doorway.

“Have you had a good look at the sarcophagus?” Friedrichs asked. “If it was ever considered for the bestiary exhibit, it might even have been carted over to Natural History at some point in the last few months, to be vetted and photographed for the show.”

“Why vetted?”

“To be certain it was authentic. We’ve suffered that embarrassment before. Put on the big show only to learn that the featured artwork was a forgery or a fake.”

“Why would the coffin be in the show?”

“Some of those ancient Egyptian pieces are richly decorated with animal paintings. Not just the ones that belonged to royal families, but also just the well-to-do. You’ll see baboons with their arms raised in worship of some god, the hippopotamus that was the patroness of women during pregnancy, or a cobra whose tail encircled the sun for some reason I can’t remember. There were falcons and scarabs and sacred cats, many of them portrayed on funeral objects of the wealthy.”

“I doubt anyone would have gone to the trouble of moving a sarcophagus over to Natural History,” Erik Poste said.

“Objects-even large, heavy ones like that-were being carted back and forth every week,” Anna said, correcting him. “Somebody must have put it on the list to be shipped overseas. I’ve asked Maury to check out those intermuseum transfers, too.”

We continued back along the long, gray corridor and around another corner, more than a city block away. Again, Erik Poste inserted a key in a lock and stepped away to let us enter. Here, hundreds of paintings were displayed, one on top of another until they reached the high ceiling, all encased in glass for the entire length of the room. The lighting was dim and none of it shone directly on the canvases. It was obvious we had come to the European painting area, Poste’s professional home.

“It’s a bit easier to store paintings. Although the size varies, and our walls can make the accommodation to hold them, they’re all quite flat. I have a much easier time keeping records of what’s in here.”

Again, Mike walked up and down the long rows, examining tags and sketching the setup. “What’s this door?” He was out of sight, at the far corner of the room.

“It’s open, Detective. Go right in.” We made our way back to find Chapman, who was standing inside a room the size of my office. It was like a carpentry workshop, with pieces of wood and parts of gilded frames against the walls and on the tabletops. “In each department’s storage area, there are shops like these. Some are for the conservators who restore works of art, others make frames or do repairs.”

“This isn’t the only shop?” Mike’s question conjured up the image of endless small cubbyholes within the massive storage areas. Pierre Thibodaux’s point about several million objects of art below the museum’s surface was becoming very real to both of us.

“Oh, no. Must be at least a dozen more like this scattered about within the building, as well as space we rent outside.”

“Anybody else getting hot flashes?” Mike pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Anna laughed. “All of these fragile works of art have different needs. Those sculptures that survived in the deserts for centuries like it hot and dry inside. My department-things from the South Pacific islands and the ocean people-thrive in a damp environment. There are climate controls all over the museum-thousands of sensors. You can go to all extremes of temperature, hot or cold, damp or dry, just by moving from gallery to gallery.”

“And you can tell me what the weather is in every section, more reliable than those schmucks I listen to every night on TV?”

“We certainly can,” Anna said, “because we manufacture our own weather conditions.”

I knew Mike was trying to figure out where within a museum Katrina Grooten’s body could have been best kept without decomposing. Would her killer have known how these temperatures and conditions would affect a human body? Or would it have proved to be a circumstance that accidentally worked against his interest, preserving the remains so that they were recognized and identified before leaving the country?

“You’re welcome to come back here any time to go through all of these storerooms, Detective,” Poste said, locking up behind us. “I think you’ll need an army to help you do it.”

“You got a list of all your employees, Maury?” Chapman asked Lissen as we reentered the hallway. “Names, dates of birth, social security numbers?”

“Yeah, Eve was going to print it out for you. They’re all bonded. Won’t find any criminals in my department. The thieves all work upstairs in archaeology and anthropology, if you ask me, robbing the graves and stealing these pots and pans from other countries.” Lissen wasn’t the first one to complain about the ethics involved in museum acquisitions.

“Other workmen?”

“You got a sea of ‘em down here. They got offices in the subbasement for locksmiths, plumbers, electricians. They roam around this place like it was the wide open spaces.”

We turned another corner and reached a divide between sections of the corridor. The lights dimmed even more and the ceiling dipped to a mere eight feet. Poste and Friedrichs led us across a low barrel vault, which ran north to south through the center of the building, deep below the museum, and brought us out on its other side.

Mike had stopped in the middle and called out to us, “What’s in here?”

“One of the original structural features of the museum,” Poste said. “It’s long been obsolete.”

“Let’s have a look.”

We all turned back to join Mike.

“This was constructed in the middle of the nineteenth century,” Anna said. “An enormous storm drain-off for the Central Park reservoir.”