Dance of Death (9 page)

He turned and-with heavy heart-took his place in the crowd to wait for the official briefing.

TEN

Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta pushed open the door of McFeeley's Ale House, feeling bone-tired. McFeeley's was about as cozy an Irish bar as you could still find in New York, and D'Agosta needed a little comfort right about now. The place was dark, long, and narrow, with a thickly varnished wooden bar on one side, booths along the other. Ancient sporting prints hung from the walls, indistinguishable underneath a heavy mantle of dust. Behind the bar, bottles stood six rows deep in front of the mirrored wall. An old jukebox sat near the door, the kind where the Irish selections were printed in green ink. On tap were Guinness, Harp, and Bass. The place smelled of greasy cooking and spilled beer. Just about the only nostalgic touch missing, in fact, was tobacco smoke, and D'Agosta didn't miss that at all: he'd given up cigars years before, when he quit the force and moved to Canada to write.

McFeeley's was half empty, the way D'Agosta liked it. He chose a stool, pulled it up to the bar.

Patrick, the bartender, caught sight of him and came over. "Hey, Lieutenant," he said, sliding a coaster in front of him. "How's it going?"

"It's going."

"The usual?"

"No, Paddy, a black and tan, please. And a cheeseburger, rare.'

A pint appeared a moment later and D'Agosta sank his upper lip meditatively into the mocha-colored foam. He almost never allowed himself this kind of indulgence anymore-he had lost twenty pounds in the last few months and didn't intend to gain them back- but tonight he'd make an exception. Laura Hayward wouldn't be home until late: she was working the bizarre hanging that had taken place on the Upper West Side at lunchtime.

He'd spent a fruitless morning chasing leads. There was nothing in the public records office on Ravenscry, Great-Aunt Cornelia's estate in Dutchess County. He'd made inquiries with the NOPD about the long-burned Pendergast residence in New Orleans, with similar results. In both cases, there was nothing about Diogenes Pendergast.

From headquarters, he'd journeyed back to 891 Riverside to reexamine Pendergast's scanty collection of evidence. He'd called the London bank to which, according to Pendergast's records, Diogenes had requested money be deposited years before. The account had been closed for twenty years, no forwarding information available. Inquiries at the banks in Heidelberg and Zurich brought the same answer. He spoke with the family in England whose son had briefly been Diogenes's roommate at Sandringham, only to learn the youth had killed himself one day after being removed from protective restraints.

Next, he called the firm of lawyers that had acted as intermediaries in the correspondence between Diogenes and his family. This time the red tape was almost interminable: he was transferred from one legal secretary to another, each requiring a repetition of his request. At long last, an attorney who would not identify himself came on the line and informed D'Agosta that Diogenes Pendergast was no longer a client; that attorney-client privilege forbade giving out further information; and that, besides, all relevant files had long been destroyed at said person's request.

Five hours and at least thirty phone calls later, D'Agosta had learned precisely zip.

Next, he turned to the newspaper clippings Pendergast had collected of various odd crimes. He'd considered calling the case officers involved but decided against it. Pendergast had no doubt done this already; if there had been any information worth sharing, he would have put it in the files. Anyway, D'Agosta still had no clue what Pendergast thought important about these clippings, scattered as they were across the globe, the crimes they reported bizarre yet seemingly unconnected.

It was now past two o'clock. D'Agosta knew his boss, Captain Singleton, would be out: he invariably spent his afternoons in the field, following up personally on the important cases. So D'Agosta left 891 Riverside and made his way down to the precinct house, where he slunk to his desk, turned on his computer terminal, and punched in his password. For the rest of the afternoon, he had moused his way through every law enforcement and governmental database he could access: NYPD, state, federal, WICAPS, Interpol, even the Social Security Administration. Nothing. Despite all the crushing, endless documentation generated by the interlocking tangle of government bureaucracies, Diogenes walked through it all like a wraith, leaving no impression behind him. It was almost as if the guy were really dead, after all.

That was when he gave up and went to McFeeley's.

His cheeseburger arrived and he began to eat, barely tasting it. His investigation wasn't even forty-eight hours old, and already he'd just about run out of leads. Pendergast's vast resources seemed of little use against a ghost.

He took a few more halfhearted bites from his burger, finished his drink, dropped some bills on the bar, nodded to Patrick, and left.
Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement.
D'Agosta had, in fact, told her little of his investigations since their visit to Great-Aunt Cornelia. In a perverse way, it seemed best.

Why?

He thrust his hands into his pockets, bent into the chill January wind. Was it because of the levelheaded things he was certain she'd say?
Vinnie, this is crazy. A letter containing nothing but a date. Some half-baked threats made
twenty,
thirty years ago. I can't believe you're
wasting your time.

And maybe-just maybe-he was afraid she'd convince him it was crazy, too.

Strolling along, he approached the intersection of 77th and First Avenue. The ugly white brick apartment building he shared with Laura Hayward rose at the corner. Shivering, he glanced at his watch. Eight o'clock. Laura wouldn't be home yet. He'd set the table for her, put what was left of the lasagna
napoletana
in the microwave. He was curious to hear more about this new murder case she was working. Anything to keep his mind from running in circles.

The doorman made a belated, insolent attempt to open the door for him. D'Agosta walked past into the narrow lobby, sounding his pocket for the key. Ahead, one of the elevators stood open invitingly. D'Agosta stepped in, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor.

Just as the elevator doors were closing, a gloved hand shot in, forcing them open. It was the obnoxious doorman. He stepped in, then turned to face forward, crossing his arms before him and ignoring D'Agosta. The unpleasant smell of body odor filled the small space.

D'Agosta glanced at him with irritation. He was a swarthy-looking fellow with a fleshy face, brown eyes, overweight. Strange: he hadn't pressed a floor button of his own. D'Agosta looked away, losing interest, directing his gaze to the floor indicator as the elevator rose. Five, six, seven...

The doorman leaned forward, pressed the stop button. The elevator came to an abrupt halt.

D'Agosta glanced over. "What's your problem?"

The doorman didn't bother looking at him. Instead, he pulled an override key from his pocket, inserted it into the control panel, turned it, and withdrew it. With a jerk, the elevator began descending again.

Laura's right,
D'Agosta thought.
This jerk's got a serious attitude problem.
"Look, I don't know where the hell you think you're going, but you can wait until I've reached my floor." D'Agosta pressed the button marked 15 again.

The elevator didn't respond. It was still descending, past the lobby now and heading for the basement.

In a heartbeat, D'Agosta's irritation turned to alarm. His cop radar went off full blast. The cautionary words of Pendergast's note suddenly flashed through his mind:
Diogenes is consummately dangerous. Do not gain his attention any earlier than you have to.
Almost without thinking, he reached into his coat and yanked out his service piece.

But even as he did so, the doorman spun toward him and, with an amazing, lightninglike move, thrust him up against the elevator wall, pinning his arms behind his back in a viselike grip. D'Agosta struggled, only to find he had been expertly restrained. He drew breath to yell for help, but-almost as if by telepathy-a gloved hand clamped down hard over his mouth.

D'Agosta struggled briefly again, hardly believing how swiftly and totally he had been disarmed and immobilized.

And then the doorman did a strange thing. He leaned forward, brought his lips directly to D'Agosta's ear. When he spoke, it was in the faintest of whispers.

"My sincerest apologies, Vincent..."

ELEVEN

Detective Captain Laura Hayward walked across the living room and glanced out the window, careful not to brush against the table that had been placed beneath it. Through the shattered hole, she could see that, far below, Broadway was finally quiet. She'd given her men strict orders to seal off the scene, and they'd done a good job: the injured had been quickly removed by ambulance, the gawkers and rubberneckers had eventually grown tired and cold and had drifted away. The press had been more tenacious, but they, too, had eventually settled for the terse statement she'd given late in the afternoon. It had proved a complicated, messy crime scene, involving the apartment and the restaurant below, but she'd coordinated all the investigative teams personally and now-at last-the on-site forensic work was wrapping up. The fingerprint examiners, photo technicians, and crime scene analysts had already left. Only the evidence custodian remained, and she would be gone within the hour.

Laura Hayward derived immense satisfaction from a well-worked homicide. Violent death was a disorderly affair. But as a scene was analyzed-as wave after wave of forensic investigators, medical examiners, technicians, and criminalists went about their jobs in the scripted fashion-the chaos and horror were compartmentalized, ordered, and labeled. It was as if the investigation itself restored some of the natural order that the act of murder had overturned.

And yet, as she looked over this scene, Hayward felt no satisfaction. She felt instead an inexplicable sense of unease.

She shivered, blew on her hands, buttoned the top button of her coat. What with the broken window, and her instructions to touch nothing (not even the heat), the room was only a few degrees warmer than outside. For a moment, she found herself wishing D'Agosta were there. No matter: she'd tell him about the case when she got home. He'd be interested, she knew, and he often surprised her with practical, creative suggestions. Maybe it would get his mind off his unhealthy obsession with Pendergast's brother. Just when he'd gotten over Pendergast's death, just when his sense of guilt had seemed to ease, he'd been summoned by that damned chauffeur...

"Ma'am?" a sergeant said, popping his head into the living room. "Captain Singleton is here."

"Show him in, please." Singleton was the local precinct captain, and Hayward expected he would show up personally. He was one of those old-fashioned captains who felt their place was with their men, working cases, on the street or at the scene of a crime. Hayward had worked with Singleton before and found him one of the best captains in the city when it came to working with Homicide-cooperative, deferring when it came to forensics, but involving himself usefully in every step of the investigation.

And now in the doorway the man himself appeared, natty in a long camel's-hair coat, his carefully trimmed hair impeccable as always. He paused, eyes moving about restlessly, taking in the scene. Then he smiled, stepped forward, and offered his hand. "Laura."

"Glen. Nice to see you." The handshake was brief and businesslike. She wondered if Singleton knew about her and D'Agosta, decided immediately that he didn't: they had both been careful to keep their relationship out of the NYPD rumor mill.

Singleton waved his hand around the room. "Beautiful work, as usual. Hope you don't mind my sticking my nose in."

"Not at all. We're just about squared away."

"How's it going?"