Two Graves (14 page)

D’Agosta shook his head. “Good questions.”

“I think he’s in total despair,” said Hayward. “I’m sure of it.”

They settled into silence. D’Agosta sipped his beer moodily.

Finally, Hayward stirred again. “Vinnie, I’m saying this against my better judgment. But what Pendergast might need to draw him out of this is a really good case. And you know what? There’s one right in front of us.” She tapped the pathology report.

D’Agosta sighed. “I appreciate what you’re saying. I really do. But this time… I’m not going there. It’s just not my place, butting in.” And he glanced over the table at her, smiled a little wistfully, then let his gaze settle on the façades across First Avenue, burnished pink and gold by the setting sun.

A
LBAN LORIMER WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED BY THE
lobby of the Vanderbilt Hotel. It was quite different from the Marlborough: a smaller, quieter, more intimate space. A huge urn of fresh flowers dominated the hushed confines of the lobby, which was arranged more like an elegant living room. There were plush carpets, deep comfortable sofas and chairs arranged around ebony tables topped with glass. The walls were of dark oak paneling and the fixtures of handblown glass, Victorian perhaps.

He took a seat at a small table in the lobby. A waiter came by and asked him if he would care for tea. Alban thought a moment, looked over the evening tea menu, and said yes, he would very much care for a pot of tea, preferably an Assam or some such mild blend, prepared English-style in the pot, with whole milk and sugar. He was very particular with his order and made sure the waiter paid attention to it, and to him, while he gave it.

The waiter went off while Alban made himself comfortable, absorbing the feel of the place. The first thing that struck him was that the clientele here seemed different. Whereas the Marlborough Grand had been just that—grand—this hotel felt more like a quiet, upper-class club of wealth and privilege, catering to locals and their guests.

The differences intrigued him. Did each hotel have its own personality? The Marlborough Grand was like a young blonde with flash and style, a bit loud, maybe even vulgar, but pretty, sexy, and fun. The Vanderbilt appeared in his mind’s eye like a distinguished, gray-haired gentleman of taste and breeding: handsome, charming, but a
trifle dull. He wondered which one he preferred. It was hard to say. He didn’t have enough experience.

He was looking forward to visiting other hotels in New York City and making a study. He would create a complete character, a person, for each hotel. It would be fun.

As he waited for his tea, he smoothed one hand over his suit front. The bandage on his right index finger bothered him. It itched. But there was nothing he could do about that now. At least he felt secure, knowing he looked different enough from the person whose crisp, clear picture had been in all the papers. The clearer the picture, of course, the less he had to change his appearance. Funny that no one seemed to realize this irony. But of course, it might be that the police
did
realize that. One had to be careful.

Now he was Mr. Brown. His hair was brown. His eyes were brown. His skin, while not exactly brown, was olive. Only his clothing was not brown—he didn’t care for brown suits—but rather gray, and it was Brooks Brothers from shoes to tie. He had never heard of Brooks Brothers until today: it was a New York clothier whose suits were banal enough to help him fit in even better. Although it had turned somewhat colder overnight, the cashmere cap he wore, pulled down over his ears, might still look a little strange. Perhaps some people thought he was a cancer victim, covering up his loss of hair.

Two large, shaped pieces of beeswax, stuck between his upper molars and cheek, rounded out his sharp cheekbones and gave him a broader, friendlier, and perhaps somewhat dumber-looking face. And, of course, he had altered his walk by paring down the heels of his new shoes to make the outside of the heel lower than the inside by three-eighths of an inch—which had the effect of changing the rhythm of his stride. He had been instructed that the way a person walked was one of the key characteristics used by identity specialists.

The tea was excellent, as he knew it would be. He left a couple of fresh, crisp bills on the table, and as he rose he pressed his left hand on the glass tabletop, letting his fingers grip the side, where the waiter was less likely to clean.

He strolled to the elevator, got on, and pressed the sixth-floor
button. Exiting, he strolled to the end of the hall—again finding a blind spot beneath an unobtrusive security camera—and settled in to wait. The hall was not as long as that in the Marlborough, and he feared the wait might be a long one. But no: just five minutes later he started back down the hall again, walking fast this time, and then as the maid rounded the corner, carrying a pillow, he slowed his pace, arranging his face into a warm smile. He intercepted her halfway down the hall and held out his hands, eyes twinkling.

“Say, that pillow is for me, isn’t it? Room Six Fourteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” He took the pillow, gave the woman a five-dollar bill, and turned, heading toward Room 614. As he walked, he gave the pillow an inquisitorial squeeze. Firm, shape-retaining foam. It seemed the individual in Room 614 didn’t like the drowning sensation caused by soft, overstuffed goose-down pillows. Something they had in common.

He went to the door of Room 614 and gave a polite double rap. In response to the standard query—delivered in a gruff male voice—he said: “Your pillow, sir.”

The door opened. Alban held out the pillow and, as the man within reached for it, started forward abruptly, giving the surprised man a little push inside and instantly silencing him with a hammerlock around his throat, shutting the door gently with his free hand. This one hardly struggled, not at all like the woman, and when he did it was a sorry, feeble sort of effort. He was older, fatter, softer, yielding. Alban pushed him into the center of the room. The man made a few halfhearted attempts to punch around and behind, but a sharp tightening around his throat soon caused him to stop. Alban could feel the man’s knees starting to tremble, from fear or perhaps lack of oxygen. The man’s thin greasy hairs—combed over a dimpled bald patch, reeking of lime tonic—were right under Alban’s nose, and it angered him. This was not nearly as much fun as the woman. It lacked a certain challenge, perhaps even flair. He would have to remember that.

He loosened his grip, and the man drew in a ragged, gasping, desperate breath. “What do you—?”

Alban tightened his grasp again. He did not want any discussion.

As the man began to struggle once more, Alban said, in a friendly tone, “Shhhh, everything’s going to be all right if you cooperate.” The man stopped. Amazing how they believed you. Nevertheless, he kept his arm around the man’s neck—just in case.

He positioned the man, braced himself, then removed the penknife, keeping it well out of the man’s field of view. He extended his arm far to the right—then swung it in fast, sticking it deep into the throat with a sharp twist, just as he had done a hundred times before, practicing for the most part on pigs; then he heaved the man forward while simultaneously jumping back.

A huge razzing spray of blood and exhaled air erupted forward, but not a drop touched Alban. The fall was louder and heavier this time and gave Alban a certain unease, reminding him that his technique might still need refining. He checked his watch, waited out the man’s death spasms, then took out his tools and quickly went to work.

Yes, he thought, puffing a bit at the effort, he was looking forward to his little personal study of New York City hotels and the individual characters he would mentally fashion of each one.

T
HE WING OF THE HOTEL HAD BEEN CORDONED OFF, ALL
the guests moved. The hotel manager, a high-strung young man, had actually been carted away, having had some kind of a nervous breakdown. That was something new in Lieutenant D’Agosta’s experience. The press was barricaded on Fiftieth Street outside and, even up on the sixth floor, D’Agosta could hear the faint commotion below and see the lights of the squad cars shining up into the window through gauzy curtains. Or maybe that was just dawn finally breaking after a long, long night.

D’Agosta stood in the bedroom area, booties over his shoes, watching the last of the forensic unit as they wrapped up the crime scene. More than eight hours had passed since the murder. The body had been removed from the hotel room, along with the extra finger they found with it: the first joint of the right index finger. The carpet held a bloodstain three feet in diameter, and the opposite wall was sprayed crimson, as if from a hose. The room carried the characteristic iron smell of violent death, along with an undercurrent of the various chemicals employed by the forensic unit.

Captain Singleton had arrived half an hour before for the wrap-up. On the one hand, D’Agosta was grateful for the support: when the chief of detectives showed an interest, things really got done. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but feel that the man’s sudden presence might be a vote of no-confidence. This second killing had catapulted the case to the top of every late-night news broadcast in the city, pushing the five-victim gun battle in Central Park completely out of the public consciousness. And, let’s face it, he and Singleton hadn’t always
been best of chums: some years ago, in a disastrous case D’Agosta had been involved in with Pendergast, Singleton had been a stickler for the rules when D’Agosta came up before a disciplinary hearing. But in Singleton’s defense, the captain had always tried to give him a fair shake. So why—considering how much he respected the man—did D’Agosta feel a prickling of resentment at Singleton’s appearance now? Maybe it was because the captain had refused a police backup when a worried D’Agosta had approached him, off the record, about the boathouse meeting between Pendergast and Helen. “Nazis here, in New York?” he’d told D’Agosta. “That’s ridiculous—even for Agent Pendergast. I can’t deploy an entire squad on a whim.” D’Agosta—whom Pendergast had sworn to silence anyway—hadn’t pushed it. And now Helen Pendergast was dead.

“
Happy Birthday
,” Singleton murmured, repeating the message they’d found written in blood on the victim’s corpse. “What do you make of that, Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got a real psycho on our hands.” The messages—and the extra body parts—had been kept back from the press.

“We certainly do,” said Singleton. He was tall and slender and well groomed, in his late forties but still with a swimmer’s physique. His carefully clipped salt-and-pepper hair was rapidly turning to white, but he seemed to retain a certain restless, springy manner that made him seem younger. One of the most decorated cops on the force, he was famous for his hard work and apparent lack of need for sleep. Unlike most detectives, he dressed well, favoring expensive, tailored suits. There was something about him that always made one want to go the extra mile. He was the sort of man who did not discipline through fear or a raised voice; rather, he would just seem “disappointed.” D’Agosta would rather be screamed at for half an hour by another captain than suffer a minute of Singleton’s grave and disappointed countenance.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Singleton, with the tone D’Agosta knew meant a difficult or controversial piece of advice was coming up. “The psychological aspects of this case are extraordinary.
We’re outside the bell curve of the usual deviant pathology here. Don’t you think, Lieutenant?”

“I agree.” D’Agosta remained noncommittal. He wanted to see where Singleton was going with this.

“We know the earlobe was removed several hours before the first killing. Now the M.E. tells us the fingertip was also removed several hours before
this
killing. We’ve got the first security tapes showing a bandage on his earlobe, and now the new tapes show he’s wearing that peculiar cap and a bandage on his finger. What kind of a killer would cut himself up like that? And what do these messages mean? Whose birthday is it, and who’s supposed to be proud of him? And finally: Why is a so obviously organized and intelligent killer so sloppy about his identity?”