Cemetery Dance (34 page)

Murmurs of agreement.

Esteban frowned, then shook his head. "I still can't support this. I'm a well–known figure with a reputation to uphold. I'm sorry, I just can't be associated with an attack like this."

A shifting of chairs and a faint hiss. "That is of course your right, Alexander," said Plock, his voice cool. "And I must say I'm not entirely surprised, given the way you dashed cold water on our last encounter with the Ville. Anyone else wish to join Mr. Esteban in bailing out?"

Esteban looked around. Nobody else moved. He could read the disrespect, even scorn, in their eyes.

He stood up and walked out.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 54

As the morning sun streamed in the windows, D'Agosta sat behind his desk, fingers on his computer keyboard, staring at the screen before him. He had been in this position, motionless, for perhaps ten minutes. There were a million things to be done and yet he felt something akin to paralysis. It was as if he were in the eye of a hurricane: all around was frantic activity, but here at the very epicenter of the howling storm there was nothing.

Suddenly the door to his office opened. He turned to see Laura Hayward step quickly in. He immediately rose to his feet.

"Laura," he said.

She closed the door behind her, stepped up to the desk. Seeing the icy look on her face, D'Agosta felt his stomach do an uncomfortable flip–flop.

"Vinnie, sometimes you can be a selfish bastard," she said in a low voice.

He swallowed. "What is it?"

"What is it? I've had my promotion snatched away from me at the last moment. And it's your fault."

For a moment he looked at her with incomprehension. Then he remembered the conversation he'd had in the corridor of Digital Veracity; the implied threat of the software developer. "Kline," he said, slumping against the desk.

"You're damn right, Kline."

D'Agosta looked at her for a moment. Then he lowered his eyes. "What did he do?"

"He donated five million to the Dyson Fund. On the condition that I be passed over for the task force."

"He can't do that. It's bribery. It's against the law."

"Oh, please. You know how this town works."

D'Agosta sighed. He knew what he should feel — righteous indignation, even rage — but all he felt, suddenly, was weary.

"Rocker's no fool," Hayward said bitterly. "He knows they'd crucify him if he turned down a donation like that — especially for a political hot potato like the Dyson Fund. And I'm the one who gets the shaft."

"Laura … I'm so sorry. You're the last person I wanted to see get victimized by this. But I was only doing my job. What was I supposed to do — give this joker Kline a pass? He's a person of interest. He threatened Smithback."

"What you were supposed to do was act professional. Ever since Smithback's murder, you've been out of control. I heard about that ham–fisted search warrant of yours, how you rubbed Kline's nose in it. You knew the man had a short fuse and you provoked him anyway. And to get revenge, he lashed out at me."

"It's true — I was trying to provoke him, trigger a false move. He's the kind of guy who can't stand to lose face. If I'd known he'd take it out on you I would never have done it." He hung his head, massaging his temples with his fingers. "What can I say?"

"That job meant more to me than anything."

Her words hung in the air. D'Agosta looked up slowly, met her glance.

There was a low rap on his office window. D'Agosta looked over to see a desk sergeant standing in the doorway.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "I think you should turn on channel two."

Wordlessly, D'Agosta strode to the television mounted high on one wall, pressed the power button. An amateurish video filled the screen, grainy, shaky — but he immediately recognized the woman in the camera frame as Nora Kelly. She was dressed in a flimsy hospital robe, her face ashen, her hair askew. She seemed to be in a dungeon: rough–hewn rock walls, a scattering of straw on a cement floor. He watched as she stepped uncertainly toward the lens.

"Help me," she said.

Abruptly the picture went black.

D'Agosta turned back to the desk sergeant. "What the hell?"

"It came into the network about fifteen minutes ago. They're messengering the original over right now."

"I want our best forensic people on it. Right away — got that? Where was it dropped off?"

"Came in by e–mail."

"Trace it."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant disappeared.

D'Agosta slumped back into his seat, rested his head in his hands, closed his eyes. A minute passed as he collected himself. Then he licked his lips, spoke quietly. "I'm going to find her, Laura — if it's my last act as a law enforcement officer. Whatever it takes — whatever — I'll make it my personal business to see that Nora Kelly doesn't die. And that the people responsible pay dearly for it."

"There you go again," Hayward said. "That's just what I'm talking about. If you want to save Nora Kelly, you're going to have to get your emotions under control. You're going to have to start acting like a professional cop again. Or next time it won't be just me who ends up getting hurt."

And without another word she turned and left the office, closing the door firmly behind her.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 55

As the morning sun gilded the cream–colored walls and soaring terra–cotta spandrels of the Dakota, a curious processional played itself out before the building's 72nd Street entrance. Two valets emerged from between the black wrought–iron gates, each holding three suitcases. They were followed by a woman in a white nurse's uniform, who stepped out from the gloom of the courtyard tunnel and took up a position beside the doorman's pillbox. Next came Proctor, who walked to the Rolls–Royce waiting at the curb, opened the rear door, and stood beside it expectantly. After a long moment, another figure emerged from the gate: a rather small figure, reclining in a wheelchair being pushed by a second nurse. Despite the warmth of the Indian summer day, the figure was so heavily wrapped in blankets, muffs, and scarves that its features and indeed its very sex were hard to discern. The face was obscured by a large and floppy white hat. A mother–of–pearl cigarette holder jutted out from beneath a pair of dark glasses.

The nurse wheeled the invalid up to the waiting Proctor. As she did so, Pendergast emerged from the entranceway and ambled over to the Rolls, hands in pockets.

"I can't persuade you to stay a little longer, maître?" he asked.

The person in the wheelchair sneezed explosively. "I wouldn't stay here a minute longer even if Saint Christopher himself asked me!" came the petulant response.

"Let me help you in, Mr. Bertin," said Proctor.

"One minute." A pale hand, holding a bottle of nasal spray, emerged from beneath the blanket. The bottle was applied to one quivering nostril, squeezed, then tucked away again beneath the blanket. The dark glasses were removed and slipped into the BOAC flight bag that never seemed to leave the little man's side. "You may proceed. Doucement, pour l'amour du ciel — doucement!"

With some effort Proctor and the nurse managed to shift Bertin from the wheelchair and — under a stream of imprecations — slide him into the rear of the vehicle. Pendergast came forward and leaned into the window.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"No, and I won't until I have returned to the back bayou — if then." Bertin peered out from between his wraps, clutching his huge cudgel–cane, his black eyes glistening like beads. "And you need to have a care, Aloysius — the death conjuring of that hungan is strong: old and strong."

"Indeed."

"How do you feel?"

"Not bad."

"You see!" Bertin declared with something like triumph. The hand reappeared again, rummaged in the battered bag, produced a tiny sealed envelope. "Dissolve this in six ounces of sarsaparilla and add a little flaxseed oil. Twice a day."

Pendergast pocketed the envelope. "Thank you, maître. I'm sorry to have caused you such trouble."

For a moment, the glittering black eyes softened. "Pah! It was good to see you after so many years. Next time we meet, however, it will be in New Orleans — I will not return to this place of darkness again!" He shuddered. "I wish you best of luck. This Loa of the Ville — it is truly evil. Evil."

"Is there anything more you should tell me before you leave?"

"No. Yes!" The little man coughed, sneezed again. "I almost forgot amid all my sufferings. That tiny coffin you showed me — the one in the evidence room — it is strange."

"The one from Colin Fearing's crypt? The one you, ah, damaged?"

Bertin nodded. "It took me some time to realize it. But the arrangement of skulls and bones on the lid …" He shook his head. "The ratio is unusual, self–conflicting. It should follow the True Pattern: two to five. A subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless. It doesn't match the rest." He gave a disdainful flick of his fingers. "It is crude, strange."

"I analyzed the grayish powder that was inside of it. It appears to be simple wood ash."

Another disdainful flick. "You see? It does not match the other Obeah of Charrière and the Ville. Those are infinitely worse. Why this one item doesn't match the pattern is a mystery."

"Thank you, maître." And Pendergast straightened up, a thoughtful look settling onto his face.

"Not at all. And now adieu, my dear Aloysius — adieu! Remember: dissolve in six ounces of sarsaparilla, twice a day." Bertin tapped the roof of the car with the head of his cane. "You may drive on, my good sir! And don't spare the horses, I beg you!"

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 56

The Multimedia Services Unit at One Police Plaza reminded D'Agosta of a submarine's control room: hot, overstuffed with electronics, ripe with the smell of humanity. At least twenty people were packed into the low–ceilinged space, hunched over terminals and workstations. Somebody was eating an early lunch, and the pungent smell of curry hung in the air.

He paused and looked around. The biggest group was concentrated in the rear, where John Loader, chief forensic tech, had his cubicle. D'Agosta began making his way toward it, his feeling of frustration mounting when he saw that Chislett was already here. The deputy chief turned, saw D'Agosta, turned back.

Loader was sitting at his digital workstation, a hulking CPU beneath the desk and dual thirty–inch flat–screen monitors atop it. Despite D'Agosta's pressuring, the forensic technician had insisted he'd need at least two hours to process and prep the video. So far he'd had ninety minutes.

"Give me an update," D'Agosta said as he drew near.

Loader pushed away from the workstation. "It's an MPEG–four file that was e–mailed to the network's news department."

"And the trace?"

Loader shook his head. "Whoever did it used a remailing service out of Kazakhstan."

"Okay, what about the video, then?"

The technician pointed at the matching screens. "It's in the forensic video analyzer."

"This is what took ninety minutes?"

Loader frowned. "I've striped in a time code, field–aligned and frame–averaged the entire clip, removed noise and brightened each frame, and applied digital image stabilization."

"Did you remember to put a cherry on top?"

"Lieutenant, cleaning up the file not only smooths and sharpens the image, but it also reduces distractions and can highlight evidence that would otherwise go unnoticed."

D'Agosta felt like pointing out that there was a human life at stake here and every minute counted, but decided against it. "Fair enough. Let's see it."

Loader pulled the jog shuttle closer — a round black device the size of a hockey puck — and the video flickered into life on the left–hand monitor. It was less grainy and muddy than when he'd seen it on the news. There was a rattle, then a feeble light stabbed into the darkness: and there was Nora. She stared at the camera; her face, illuminated by the light source, looked like a white ghost floating in darkness. Behind her, D'Agosta could just barely make out patches of straw on a cement floor, rough mortared stones forming the walls.

"Help me," Nora said.

The camera shook; lost focus; gained focus again.

"What do you want?" Nora asked.

No answer, no sound. And then something like a muffled scratch or creak. The light swiveled away, the darkness returned, and the clip ended.

"So you can't trace it," D'Agosta said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Is there anything else about the file that you can tell me? Anything at all?"

"It wasn't multiplexed."

"Which means?"

"It wasn't from a CCTV. The source was most likely a standard consumer digital camcorder, probably an older handheld model given the degree of image shake."

"And there was no communication in the e–mail? No ransom demand, no message of any kind?"

Loader shook his head.

"Play it again, please."

As it played, D'Agosta looked around at what little was visible of the room, searching for something, anything, that might help identify it.

"Can you zoom in on that wall?" he asked.

With the jog shuttle, Loader scrubbed back a second or two into the clip; highlighted a section of the wall close to Nora; then magnified it.

"It's too grainy," D'Agosta said.

"Let me apply the unsharp mask tool. That should clear it up." A few clicks of a mouse and the wall sharpened significantly — flat stones stacked and cemented into place.

"Basement," said D'Agosta. "An old one."

"Unfortunately," said Chislett, speaking for the first time, "there's nothing identifiable about it."

"What about the geology of the rocks?"

"Impossible to identify their specific mineral composition," said Loader. "Could be shale, could be basalt …"

"Run it again."

Silently, they watched the playback. D'Agosta could feel his anger filling the room. He wondered why he was even bothering to control it anymore: the bastards had kidnapped Nora.

"That sound in the background," he said. "What is it?"

Loader pushed the jog shuttle to one side. "We've been working on that. I'll bring up the audio enhancement software."