“Cool in here,” Mike said.

The thick walls, constructed of enormous pieces of stone, lowered the temperature at least ten degrees as we stepped inside. I’m sure Mike was wondering, as I was, whether this nouveau monastery’s chill would have been conducive to preserving a dead body. The machine-made wrought-iron hand railings were the only reminder that we had not entered a time warp.

At the top of the staircase a lone guard pointed the way to the curator’s office. Beyond the splendid marble capitals of the Cuxa Cloister, one of the five French monasteries re-created here, we crossed through a serene garden and over to the tower that housed the museum’s administrative wing.

I knocked on the door that bore the signHIRAM BELLINGER, CURATOR-MEDIEVAL ART, expecting it to be opened by a churlish old recluse who had spent decades with his nose in his antique manuscripts. Hiram Bellinger didn’t fit the description. He couldn’t have been any older than Mercer, perhaps forty-two at most. His khaki slacks, tasseled loafers, and cotton turtleneck under an open-collared button-down shirt gave him the look of a country squire.

Books were stacked everywhere around the large room, and from its setting high above the museum, I could see for miles up the Hudson.

“Hard to work on a day like this, so I’m happy to have the interruption. The medieval monks liked isolation, Ms. Cooper. Almost as much as I do. The Benedictines preferred mountaintops while the Cisterians chose remote river valleys. I’ve been fortunate enough to find the closest imitation of a monastic setting that any big city offers.”

Bellinger invited us to sit around a circular table in the middle of the room. He moved several open volumes of books to the windowsill and pushed other mounds of them to one side of the tabletop.

“How can I help you?”

“We’d like to talk to you about Katrina. Katrina Grooten.”

“I still can’t believe what I’ve heard,” he said, rearranging his papers and sitting next to me.

“Exactly what is it that you’ve heard?”

“That she’s dead. That she never actually left New York to go back home, which is what she told us she was doing.” He shook his head. “That someone killed her.”

“We intend to find out who. And why. We need to start with some information about Katrina. What she did, whom she knew, how she lived-”

“And who she pissed off.” Mike’s manner jarred with the refined calm of Bellinger’s aerie.

“That last would be a very short list. But I’ll give it some thought. Katrina could get under your skin if she found an issue, a passion that engaged her. But most of the time she was quiet, almost to the point of being withdrawn.”

“How long had you known her?”

“I hired her, in fact. Almost three years ago.”

“Where did you meet?”

“She showed up at the Met, résumé in hand, like most other graduate students with a degree in art history. They teach, they get more degrees, they work in museums.”

“There is a medieval art collection in the main building, too, isn’t there?”

“Of course. A very good one. That’s the reason Katrina applied there. But when her application was circulated, it wound up on my desk. Her interests suited my needs perfectly.”

“Why is that?”

“She had just completed an apprenticeship at the Musée des Augustins. Do you know it?”

None of us did.

“Toulouse, in France. It’s very much like the Cloisters, except it survived in its original site. The museum is an old convent building, quite sumptuous. In addition to the church buildings, it houses a remarkable art collection. Rubens, Van Dyck, Ingres, Corot. Most people are attracted to the art. Katrina immersed herself in the Gothic and Romanesque sculpture. She had a wonderful eye for medieval treasures. I invited her to join our operation.”

“How many of you are there working up here?”

“With support staff, just over a hundred. Librarians, bookshop personnel, security, janitorial. I’ve got an assistant curator, a good number of restorers, and then half a dozen interns, like Katrina.”

“And those others, was she close to them?”

“Professionally. I’d tell you to talk to them, but the interns come and go. The salary is low, this facility is a throwback to another age-so kids just out of school find it a bit inconvenient for socializing-and it’s hard to get to. I’ll have to check to see who overlapped with Katrina.”

“Are you single?” Mike was looking for a wedding ring as Bellinger gestured with his left hand, but there was none.

“No, I’m married.”

“Your wife?”

Bellinger smiled. “Works for a music production company.”

“Classical?”

“No. Pop, rock and roll, rap, whatever’s hot.”

“Kind of a Jack Sprat thing, huh?” Chapman said. “You eat no fat, she eats no lean.”

“Just gives me even more appreciation for the quiet within these walls.”

“Ever hang out with Katrina?”

“Museum functions. Command performances when Thibodaux wanted to trot us out for the trustees. Nothing personal.”

“Guess you won’t have to answer to Pierre any longer.”

“You’ve probably heard that I wasn’t part of his fan club. Too much P. T. Barnum and not enough emphasis on scholarship and education. I’m grateful to him for some terrific acquisitions he made for the Cloisters, but we didn’t have very much in common.”

“Is that why you assigned Ms. Grooten as the Cloisters’ liaison for the show that was being planned for next year with the Museum of Natural History? Wasn’t that a lot of responsibility for an intern?”

“Katrina was extremely knowledgeable, Detective. Far more scholarly than many of her peers, and I worked with her quite closely on the project. I realize the exhibition is going to be a meaningful source of revenue for both museums. To me, anything that takes me away from my research is a waste of time. I thought it would be a good opportunity for Katrina to mix with other people at both institutions, get to make some acquaintances that would give her more of a life in the city. Get her noticed by some of the higher-ups.”

“Did she enjoy it?”

“Seemed to. I think she had quite a good time exploring all our treasures to look for the animals that could be featured. Bestiaries were creations of medieval art originally, so they’re everywhere in our work. And I also got a sense that she looked forward to the meetings. Making friends, spending time downtown, coming out of her shell a bit.”

“Has another intern taken over where she left off?”

“That was my plan,” Bellinger said. “But time was getting short so I’ve taken on much of it myself, as you can see. Seemed like more trouble than it was worth to start training someone all over again.”

In the far corner of the room, assembled on a table, were a variety of objects that depicted an array of fantastic animals. “That fresco of the lion is from Spain. According to the old bestiaries, lions slept with their eyes open, as paragons of watchfulness. And this,” he said, walking over and picking up a whimsical brass figure, “this was one of Katrina’s favorites.”

“What is it?”

“An aquamanile. The priests used them to wash their hands during the celebration of Mass. This one’s a wyvern.”

“A what?”

“A two-legged dragon, swallowing a man. His tail curves over his wings, forming the handle with which to pour.” He surveyed the menagerie. “Double-headed eagles, devil’s helpers with cloven hooves, lions restrained by apes, Harpies-with their angelic faces and false music-luring sailors to their death. Katrina adored these creatures.”

“So when did you take over the exhibition project coordination?”

“After Katrina resigned at the end of the year.”

“If she was so happy with this kind of work, weren’t you surprised that she was quitting?”

“I’ve learned not to invest a great deal of emotional energy in bonding with the graduate students. It’s usually a short stay. They’re parking here briefly before they go back to school for their doctorates, or this place is just too damn unexciting for them. At least Katrina had a valid excuse. I mean, what can you say when someone tells you she’s been raped?”