Cemetery Dance (26 page)

The crowd pressed in.

D'Agosta swallowed. Confrontation was out of the question. They just might, with luck, be able to shoot their way out, assuming none of the mob had guns; but then they'd spend the rest of their lives in court. "We're leaving," he managed to say. He turned to the others. "Let's go."

Charrière stepped in front of him, blocking his way. The crowd tightened around them like a vise.

"We're not looking for a fight," said D'Agosta. He let his hand rest lightly on his service piece.

"It is too late for that now," said the high priest, his voice suddenly increasing in volume. "You are defilers, filth. Only a complete cleansing will remove the stain."

"Cleanse the church!" cried a voice, echoed by others. "Cleanse the church!"

D'Agosta's finger undid the keeper on his holster, and he did a quick mental calculation. The Glock 19 had a fifteen–round magazine; that would be enough to clear a path to the door through any normal crowd. But this crowd was far from normal. He tightened his grip on the pistol butt, took a deep breath.

Suddenly, Pendergast stepped toward Charrière. "What's this?" Like lightning, his hand darted forward, ripping something from the high priest's sleeve. He held it up, shining his flashlight beam on it. "Look at this! An arrêt, with a false twine twist, done in a reverse spiral. The false–friend amulet! Mr. Charrière, why are you wearing this if you're the minister of these people? What do you fear from them?"

He turned to the crowd, shaking the little tufted fetish. "He's suspicious of you! Do you see?"

He swung back toward Charrière. "Why don't you trust these folk?" he asked.

With a roar, Charrière leapt forward to strike with his staff, cloak billowing; but the FBI agent twisted so adroitly that the man swung through air, whirling, and a short kick sent him sprawling to the dirt. An angry roar rippled through the crowd. Bossong stepped in quickly, putting a restraining hand on the high priest as he rose, a look of anger and hatred contorting his face.

"You! Bastard!" he said to Pendergast.

"Without a doubt, time to leave," murmured Pendergast.

D'Agosta grasped the forward handle of the coffin–size evidence box, Perez took the rear, and they dashed forward, wielding it like a battering ram, the surprised crowd scattering. With his free hand, D'Agosta plucked the Glock from his holster and fired into the air, the sound echoing and re–echoing in the vaulted space. "Let's go! Go!" Holstering his gun, he literally grabbed Bertin by the collar and hauled him along as they rushed the entrance, knocking people down as they went. A knife flashed but with a sudden movement Pendergast sent the would–be attacker sprawling.

They burst through the doors, the crowd boiling out after them. D'Agosta fired into the air a second time. "Get back!"

Dozens of knives were now out, flashing dully in the fading light.

"Into the vehicles!" D'Agosta shouted. "Now!"

They piled in, throwing the evidence into the back of the van and hoisting the lamb in after it, the van screeching off almost before they'd had a chance to shut the doors, followed by the cruiser, peppering gravel over the screaming mob just behind them. As they sped off, D'Agosta heard a groan from the backseat. He turned to find the Frenchman, Bertin, white and shaking, clutching Pendergast's lapel. Pendergast took something out of his own suit pocket: one of the strange, hooked implements that had lain on the altar. He must have purloined it during the melee.

"You hurt?" D'Agosta gasped to Bertin. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"That hungan, Charrière …"

"What?"

"He collected samples …"

"He what?"

"Samples from me, from all of us … hair, clothing — you didn't see? You heard him, heard his threats. Maleficia, death conjuring. We're going to know it, feel it. Soon." The man looked like he was dying.

D'Agosta turned around brusquely. The shit he had to put up with, working with Pendergast.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 41

"What'll it be, hon?" the harassed–looking waitress asked, elbow balanced on hip, pad open, pen at the ready.

D'Agosta pushed his menu aside. "Coffee, black, and oatmeal."

The waitress glanced across the table. "And you?"

"Blueberry pancakes," said Hayward. "Warm the syrup, please."

"Will do," the waitress replied, flipping her pad closed and turning away.

"Just a second," said D'Agosta.

This bore consideration. In his experience during the time they lived together, Laura Hayward ordered — or cooked — blueberry pancakes for one of two reasons. She felt guilty about overworking and ignoring him. Or she was feeling amorous. Either option sounded good. Was she sending a signal? Breakfast had, after all, been her idea.

"Make that two orders of pancakes," he said.

"You got it." And the waitress moved off.

"Did you see the West Sider this morning?" Hayward asked.

"I did. Unfortunately." The scandal sheet seemed hell–bent on whipping the entire city into a state of hysteria. And it wasn't just the West Sider — all the tabloids had now picked up the hue and cry. The Ville was being depicted in ever more ghoulish terms, with plenty of not–so–subtle hints that it was behind the killing of the West Sider's "star reporter," Caitlyn Kidd.

But it was on Bill Smithback himself that the papers lingered with the greatest morbidity. The high–profile murder of Kidd by Smithback, after being pronounced dead and undergoing an autopsy; his corpse missing from the M.E.'s office — everything had been sifted and speculated on with the greatest relish. And, of course, with more dark hints that the Ville was ultimately responsible.

As far as D'Agosta was concerned, the Ville was responsible. Still, despite his own mounting anger, he knew the last thing the city needed was vigilante justice.

The waitress returned with his coffee. He sipped it gratefully, stealing a glance at Hayward. Their eyes met. Her expression didn't seem particularly guilty, or particularly amorous. It seemed troubled.

"When did you visit Nora Kelly?"

"Last evening, as soon as I heard. Right after we finished searching the Ville."

"What happened to the protection you arranged for her?"

D'Agosta frowned. "The handoff was botched. Each of the two teams assigned thought the other had things covered. Fucking idiots."

"How is Nora?"

"Banged up here and there, some cuts and abrasions. Of greater concern is the second concussion she suffered. She'll be in the hospital at least a couple more days for observation."

"The neighbors broke it up?"

D'Agosta took another sip of coffee, nodded. "Her screams brought them running. They kicked down the door."

"And Nora insists it was Smithback?"

"Sure enough to testify to it in court. Same with the neighbors."

Hayward's eyes were on the faux marble of the tabletop. "This is too weird. I mean, what's going on?"

"The goddamn Ville is what's going on." Just thinking of Nora brought the anger back with a vengeance. It seemed he was always mad these days: mad at the Ville; mad at Kline and his oily threats; mad at the commissioner; mad at all the bureaucratic red tape that tied his hands; mad even at Pendergast with his irritating coyness and his insufferable little French Creole adviser.

Hayward was looking at him again. The troubled look was more pronounced. "What about the Ville, exactly?"

"Don't you see? They're behind everything. They have to be. Smithback was right."

"May I point out that you haven't yet made good the connection. Smithback wrote about their alleged animal killings — that's it."

"They weren't alleged. I heard the animals in the back of the van. I saw the knives, the bloodied straw. If you could have seen the place, Laura. My God, the robes, the hoods, the chanting … Those people are fanatics."

"That doesn't make them murderers. Vinnie, you need a direct connection."

"And they've got the motive. That head priest of theirs, Charrière …" He shook his head. "A real piece of work, that one. Capable of murder? You bet."

"And what about this Bertin I read about in the report. Who's he?"

"Pendergast brought him in. Expert in voodoo or something. A quack, if you ask me."

"Voodoo?"

"Pendergast's pretty damn interested in it. He pretends not to be, but he is. Hell, he can start sticking pins into dolls for all I care — as long as it will bring down the Ville."

Their plates arrived, smelling delightfully of fresh blueberries. Hayward drizzled maple syrup over her plate, picked up her fork, set it down again. She leaned forward. "Vinnie, listen to me. You're too angry to be in charge of this case."

"What are you talking about?"

"You can't be objective. You loved Smithback. You're a great cop, but you need to consider passing this on to someone else."

"You've got to be kidding. I'm all over this case, twenty–four/seven."

"That's what I mean. You're on a witch hunt, you're convinced it's the Ville."

D'Agosta took a deep breath, consciously held off on replying until he'd taken a bite of his pancake. "Aren't we supposed to follow up on our convictions, our gut feelings? Whatever happened to investigating the most likely suspect?"

"What I'm talking about is being so blinded by anger, by emotion, that you fail to investigate other possibilities."

D'Agosta opened his mouth, shut it again. He didn't know what to say. Deep down, he sensed she was right. No, he knew she was right. The hell of it was, part of him just didn't care. Smithback's death had shocked him, left a hole he never could have predicted. And he wanted those responsible to burn.

"And what are you doing with Pendergast? Every time he comes into the picture, he causes trouble. He's no good for you, Vinnie — stay away from him. Work on your own."

"That's bullshit," D'Agosta snapped. "He's brilliant. He gets results."

"Yes, he does. And you know why? Because he's too impatient to go through the process. So he goes outside the system. And he drags you along on his extralegal escapades. And who ends up taking the fall? You do."

"I've worked with him on half a dozen cases. He's gotten to the bottom of every one, brought the killers to justice."

"To Pendergast's justice, you mean. The way he goes about gathering evidence, I doubt Pendergast could ever convict his perps in a court of law. Maybe it's no coincidence they end up dead before trial."

D'Agosta didn't reply. He just pushed his full plate aside. This breakfast hadn't gone as he'd hoped. He felt weary — weary and confused.

Then Hayward did something he didn't expect. She reached across the table, took his hand. "Look, Vinnie. I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I'm trying to help you."

"I know that. And I appreciate it, I really do."

"It's just that you came so close to losing everything on that last case of Pendergast's you were involved with. The commissioner's got his microscope on you now. I know how important your career is to you, I don't want to see it jeopardized again. Will you at least promise me you won't let him draw you into any more illegal expeditions? You're in charge of this case. In the end, you're the guy who's going to be testifying up there on the witness stand about what you did — and didn't do."

D'Agosta nodded. "Okay."

She squeezed his hand, smiled.

"Remember when we first met?" he asked. "I was the seasoned veteran, the big bad NYPD lieutenant."

"And I was the rookie sergeant, fresh from the transit police."

"That's right. Seven years ago, if you can believe it. Back then, I kind of looked after you. Watched your back. Funny how the roles have reversed."

Her eyes dropped back to the tabletop. A faint color rose in her cheeks.

"But you know what, Laura? I kind of like it this way."

An urgent, breathless voice intruded from over Hayward's shoulder. "Is that him?"

He looked past Hayward to the next booth. A skinny woman in a white blouse and black dress had turned around and was staring directly at him, a cell phone pressed against her cheek. For a moment, he couldn't tell who she was talking to — him, a breakfast companion, or the person on the other end of the cell.

"It is him! I recognize him from last night's news!" Dropping the phone into her purse, the woman slipped out of her own booth and came over. "You're the lieutenant investigating the zombii murders, right?"

The waitress, overhearing this, came over. "He is?"

The skinny woman leaned toward him, manicured nails gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles went white. "Please tell me you're going to solve this soon, put those horrible people behind bars!"

Now an elderly woman, catching wind of the conversation, stepped forward. "Please, Officer," she implored, as a rat–sized Yorkshire terrier peeped out from a basket cradled in her arms. "I haven't slept in days. Neither have my friends. The city's doing nothing. You've got to put a stop to this!"

D'Agosta looked from one to the next in amazement, temporarily speechless. Nothing like this had happened before, even in high–profile cases. New Yorkers were usually jaded, worldly, dismissive. But these people — the fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voices, was unmistakable.

He gave the skinny woman what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "We're doing our level best, ma'am. It won't be long now, I promise you that."

"I hope you keep that promise!" The women retreated, talking animatedly, joined in common cause.

D'Agosta glanced back at Hayward. She returned the gaze, as nonplussed as he was. "That was interesting," she finally said. "This issue is getting really big, really fast, Vinnie. Take care."

"Shall we?" he asked her, indicating the door.

"You go ahead. I think I'll stay and finish my coffee."

He slipped a twenty onto the table. "See you at the evidence annex this afternoon?"

When she nodded, he turned and — as gently as he could — pressed his way through the small huddle of anxious faces.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 42