Dance of Death (10 page)

"I take it no weapon was recovered?"

"None. Whatever was used, the perp took it with him."

Singleton nodded slowly. "Go on."

"It appears that the attacker then dragged the stunned victim to the sofa, where-and this is strange-he tended the wound he'd just inflicted."

"Tended?"

"Dabbed at it with gauze pads from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Several empty packages were found next to the sofa, some bloody pads tossed in the trash."

"Any prints?"

"The guys from Latents lifted about fifty from all over the apartment. Even took a few from the blood of the victim, Duchamp, with an amido black methanol solution. All the prints matched Duchamp, his help, or known acquaintances. There were no others: not on the medicine cabinet, not on the doorknob, not on the packets of gauze."

"The murderer wore gloves."

"Surgical rubber, based on trace residues. The lab will be able to confirm by morning." Hayward gestured at the sofa. "Next the victim was bound, arms tied behind his back in a series of elaborate knots. The same heavy cordage was used to fashion the hangman's noose. I had forensics remove the ropes from the body and bag them. The knots are like nothing I've ever seen before." She nodded to a series of oversize plastic bags which lay, tagged and sealed, atop a blue evidence locker.

"Strange-looking ropes, too."

"It's about the only evidence the perp left behind. That, and a few fibers from his clothing." It's
the only bit of good news in the whole case,
Hayward thought to herself. Rope had almost as many characteristics as fingerprints: type of twist, turns per inch, number of plies, filament attributes. That, along with the particular type and style of knot, could speak volumes.

"By the time Duchamp came to again, he was probably already bound. The murderer shoved that long desk into position there beneath the window. Then-somehow-he forced Duchamp to climb onto the desk and, in effect, walk the plank. Or, I should say,
run
the plank. The man basically leaped out through the window, hanging himself."

Singleton frowned. "You sure about that?"

"Take a look at the desk." Hayward showed him a series of bloody footprints across the desktop, each flagged and labeled.

"Duchamp walked through his own blood on the way to the desk. See how, in the first set of prints, he's standing at rest? As the others lead toward the window, the distance between them grows larger. And look how, in this last print before the window, only the ball of the shoe hit the desk. These are
acceleration
marks."

Singleton stared at the desk for at least a minute. Then he glanced over at Hayward. "They couldn't have been faked? The murderer couldn't, say, have taken off Duchamp's shoes, made the marks, then replaced them on his feet?"

"I wondered about that, too. But the forensics boys said that would have been impossible. You can't fake prints like that. Besides, the pattern of breakage of the window frame is consistent with somebody leaping through it, rather than somebody being manhandled, or pushed, out of it."

"Holy crap." Singleton stepped forward. The shattered window was like a jagged eye staring out into the Manhattan night. "Imagine Duchamp standing there, arms tied behind his back, a hangman's noose hanging from his neck. What could somebody say that would induce him to take a running leap out his own window?"

He turned back again. "Unless it was voluntary. Assisted suicide. After all, there was no sign of struggle-was there?"

"None. But then, what are we to make of the perp picking the lock? Wearing gloves? Assaulting Duchamp before tying him up? The footprints on the desk show none of the false starts, the hesitation, you usually see in suicide attempts. Besides, we've done preliminary interviews of Duchamp's neighbors, some friends, a few clients. Everybody said he was the sweetest, gentlest man they'd ever met. Always a kind word for everyone, always smiling. His doctor backed that up as well. No psychological troubles. Unmarried, but no signs of any recent breakup. Financially stable. Made plenty of money from his paintings." Hayward shrugged. "No stressors of any kind that we know about."

"Any of the neighbors see anything?"

"Nobody. We've impounded the videotapes from building security. They're being gone over now."

Singleton pursed his lips, nodding. Then, putting his hands behind his back, he strolled slowly around the room, looking carefully at the traces of fingerprint powder, the labeled pins, and the evidence markers. At last, he stopped beside the locker. Hayward came over and together they stared at the heavy length of rope within the sealed bag. It was a very unusual material, glossy rather than rough, and the color was equally strange: dark purple verging on black, the color of eggplant. The hangman's noose was wrapped in the requisite thirteen loops, but they were the strangest loops Hayward had ever seen: thick and complex, like a mass of knotted intestine. In another, smaller bag lay the cord used to bind Duchamp's wrists. Hayward had instructed the workers to cut the cord, not the knot, which was almost as exotic and serpentine as the hangman's noose.

"Look at those," Singleton said, whistling. "Big, fat idiot knots."

"I'm not sure about that," Hayward replied. "I'll have the ligature specialist run them through the FBI's knot database." She hesitated. "Here's something unusual. The rope he was hung from was cut partway through with a sharp knife, maybe a razor, at the center of its length."

"You mean-" Singleton stopped.

"Right. The rope was
supposed
to break the way it did."

They stared a moment longer at the strange coils of rope, shimmering faintly in the incandescent light.

From behind, the evidence custodian cleared her throat. "Excuse me, Captain," she said. "Can I remove that now?"

"Sure." Hayward stepped back as the woman carefully placed the bags into the evidence locker, sealed it, then began wheeling the locker toward the front door.

Singleton watched her go. "Anything taken? Valuables, money, paintings?"

"Not a thing. Duchamp had close to three hundred dollars in his wallet and some really valuable old jewelry on his dresser. Not to mention a studio full of expensive paintings. Nothing was touched."

Singleton's eyes were on her. "And this feeling of uneasiness you spoke about?"

She turned to face him. "I can't really put a finger on it. On the one hand, the whole scene feels a little too clear and cold-almost like it's a setup. This was certainly a carefully, almost masterfully executed crime. And yet nothing makes any sense. Why knock the guy over the head, then doctor the wound? Why tie him up, put a noose around his neck, force him to jump out a window, but then deliberately weaken the rope so he falls to his death after a brief struggle? What could Duchamp possibly have been told that would make him leap to his own death like that? And above all: why go to all this trouble to kill a harmless watercolor artist who never hurt a fly? I get the sense that there's a deep and subtle motive for this crime, and so far we haven't even begun to guess at it. I've already got Psych working on a profile. I can only hope we'll learn what makes him tick. Because unless we find the motive, how the hell are we supposed to find the killer?"

TWELVE

FOR A moment, D'Agosta went rigid in shock and disbelief. The voice was familiar and yet strange. Instinctively, he tried to speak again, but the gloved hand clamped down still harder over his mouth.

"Shhhh."

The elevator doors rolled open with a faint chime. Still holding D'Agosta in a tight restraint, the man peered cautiously out into the dark basement corridor, looking carefully in both directions. Then he gave D'Agosta a gentle shove out into the dingy hall, steering him through a series of narrow, high-ceilinged passages of yellow cinder block. At last, he brought D'Agosta up short before a scuffed metal door, unlabeled and painted the same color as the walls. They were near the building's power plant: the low rumble of furnaces was clearly audible. The man glanced around once again, then stopped to examine a small cobweb that stretched across one edge of the door frame. Only then did he withdraw a key from his pocket, unlock the door, and usher D'Agosta quickly inside, closing the door and carefully locking it.

"Glad to see you looking so well, Vincent."

D'Agosta could not summon a word.

"My sincerest apologies for the brusque behavior," the man said, crossing the room with swift steps and checking the lone basement window. "We may speak freely here."

D'Agosta remained astounded by the disconnect between the man's voice-those unmistakable, mellifluous southern tones with the lazy consistency of molasses-and the man himself: a total stranger in a spotty doorman's uniform, stocky, dark-complected, with brown hair and eyes and a round face. Even his bearing, his manner of walking, was unfamiliar.

"Pendergast?" D'Agosta asked, finally finding his voice.

The man bowed. "The very same, Vincent."

"Pendergast!" And before he realized what he was doing, D'Agosta had crushed the FBI agent in a bear hug.

Pendergast went rigid for a few seconds. Then, gently but firmly, he disengaged himself from the embrace and took a step back. "Vincent, I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you again. I have missed you."

D'Agosta seized his hand and shook it, embarrassment mingling with the surprise, relief, and joy. "I thought you were dead. How-?"

"I must apologize for the deception. I'd intended to remain 'dead' even longer. But circumstances have forced my hand." He turned his back. "Now, if you don't mind..." He slipped out of the doorman's coat, which D'Agosta could now see was cleverly padded around the shoulders and midriff, and hung it on the back of the door.

"What happened to you?" D'Agosta asked. "How did you escape? I turned Fosco's castle upside down looking for you. Where the hell have you been?" As the initial shock began to recede, he felt himself filling with a thousand questions.

Pendergast smiled faintly under this barrage. "You shall know all, I promise. But first, make yourself comfortable-I'll only be a moment." And with that, he turned and vanished into a back room.

For the first time, D'Agosta examined his surroundings. He was in the living room of a small, dingy apartment. A threadbare sofa was shoved against one wall, flanked by two wing chairs, their arms spotted with stains. A cheap coffee table held a stack of
Popular Mechanics
magazines. A battered rolltop desk sat against one wall, its writing surface bare save for a sleek Apple PowerBook: the only thing out of place in the monochromatic room. Some faded Hummel pictures of big-eyed children hung on the nondescript walls. A bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks, mostly popular novels and cheesy best sellers. D'Agosta was amused to find a personal favorite,
Ice Limit III: Return to Cape Horn,
among the well-thumbed reads. Beyond the living room, an open door led to a kitchen, small but tidy. The place was about as far removed from Pendergast's digs at the Dakota or his Riverside Drive mansion as you could get.

There was a faint rustle and D'Agosta jumped to find Pendergast-the real Pendergast-standing in the doorway: tall, slender, his silver eyes glittering. His hair was still brown, his skin swarthy, but his face had morphed back into the fine, aquiline features D'Agosta knew so well.

Pendergast smiled again, as if reading D'Agosta's mind. "Cheek pads," he said. "Remarkable how effectively they can change one's appearance. I've removed them for the present, however, since I find them rather uncomfortable. Along with the brown contact lenses."

"I'm floored. I knew you were a master of disguises, but this beats all... I mean, even the room..." D'Agosta jerked a thumb in the direction of the bookcase.

Pendergast looked pained. "Even here, alas, nothing can appear out of place. I must keep up the image of doorman."

"And a surly one at that."

"I find that exhibiting unpleasant personality traits helps one evade deeper scrutiny. Once people typecast me as a peevish doorman with a chip on his shoulder, they look no farther. May I offer you a beverage?"

"Bud?"

Pendergast shuddered involuntarily. "My dissembling has its limits. Perhaps a Pernod or Campari?"

"No, thanks." D'Agosta grinned.

"I take it you received my letter."

"That's right. And I've been on the case ever since."

"Progress?"

"Precious little. I paid a visit to your great-aunt. But that can wait a bit. Right now, my friend, you have some serious explaining to do."

"Naturally." Pendergast motioned him to a seat and took a chair opposite. "I recall we parted in haste on a mountainside in Tuscany."

"You could say that. I'll never forget the last time I saw you, surrounded by a pack of boar-hunting dogs, every one eager to take a chunk out of you."

Pendergast nodded slowly, and his eyes seemed to go far away. "I was captured, bound, sedated, and carried back to the castle. Our corpulent friend had me transported deep into the tunnels beneath. There he chained me in a tomb whose former occupant had been unceremoniously swept out. He proceeded-in the most genteel way, of course-to wall me in."

"Good God." D'Agosta shuddered. "I brought the Italian police in to search for you the next morning, but it was no use. Fosco had removed all traces of our stay. The Italians thought I was a lunatic."