Текст книги "Two Graves"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

13

D’AGOSTA CHECKED HIS CELL PHONE, SAW THAT IT WAS sixty seconds before one o’clock. If what he’d heard about Special Agent Conrad Gibbs was true, the man would be arriving on the dot.

D’Agosta felt uneasy. Most of his previous experience with the FBI had been through Pendergast, and he realized this was probably worse than no preparation at all. Pendergast’s methods, operation, and mentality were alien if not hostile to standard FBI culture.

He gave a once-over to the coffee from Starbucks and the dozen doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, laid out on the little sitting area in his office, and then a final glance at his watch.

“Lieutenant D’Agosta?”

And there he was, standing in the door. D’Agosta rose with a smile. His first impression was good. True, Special Agent Gibbs was a product of the mold: buttoned down and by the book, handsome, chiseled, an off-the-rack suit covering his trim physique, his brown hair cut close, his thin lips and narrow face tanned from his past assignment in the Florida Panhandle—D’Agosta had gone out of his way to check up. At the same time, he had an open, pleasant look about him, and the humorless demeanor was far better than a wiseass or better-than-thou attitude.

They shook hands and D’Agosta found Gibbs’s grasp firm, not crushing, brief and to the point. He walked around his desk and led the agent to the sitting area, where they both sat down.

They opened with some pleasant chitchat about the weather and the differences between New York and Florida. D’Agosta asked about the agent’s last case, which he had concluded with great success—a run-of-the-mill serial killer who scattered the pieces of his victims in the dunes. Gibbs was soft-spoken and clearly intelligent. D’Agosta appreciated the former quality a great deal. Aside from making him easier to work with, it would go a long way with his squad—although, to be sure, most of his squad members were loudmouthed in the typical New York sort of way.

The only problem was, as Gibbs went on about his case, he was starting to sound suspiciously long-winded. And he wasn’t eating anything… while D’Agosta was just about dying for a Caramel Kreme Crunch.

“As you probably know, Lieutenant,” Gibbs was saying, “down in Quantico we maintain a comprehensive database of serial killers as part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. We define a serial killer as follows: a perpetrator who targets strangers, who has killed three or more people, for motives of psychological gratification, usually with a consistent or evolving signature in each killing.”

D’Agosta nodded sagely.

“In this case we only have two killings, so it doesn’t meet the definition—yet. But I think we all agree there’s a high probability of more to come.”

“Absolutely.”

Gibbs removed a slender folder from his briefcase. “When we first heard from Captain Singleton yesterday morning, we did a quick-and-dirty run-through on our database.”

D’Agosta leaned forward. Now things were getting interesting.

“We wanted to find out if there were any other serial killers who left pieces of their own body at the scene, who had the right M.O., et cetera.” He laid the folder on the coffee table. “Granted, these are preliminary findings, but we can keep this between ourselves. I’ll summarize, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.”

“We have an organized killer here. Very organized. He is educated, has money, and is comfortable in luxury surroundings. The dismemberment M.O. is not as uncommon as you might think—dozens of serials fit that profile—but usually such killers take away body parts. This one doesn’t. In fact, he leaveshis own body parts at the scene—something completely unique.”

“Interesting,” said D’Agosta. “Any thoughts on that?”

“The head of our forensic psychology unit is working that angle. He believes the killer identifies with the victim. He’s essentially killing himself serially. He is someone full of self-loathing who was almost certainly abused sexually and psychologically as a child, told he was no good, better off dead or not born, that sort of thing.”

“That makes sense.”

“The aggressor appears normal on the surface. Since he has no inhibitions and will say anything to get what he wants, and very convincingly, he can be charming and even charismatic. Underneath, however, he is a deeply pathological individual, utterly lacking in empathy.”

“Why does he kill?”

“That’s the crux of the matter: he almost certainly has libidinous gratification.”

“Libidinous? But no semen was found and there doesn’t seem to be a sexual component. And his second victim was an older man.”

“Correct. Let me explain something. Our database is built on what we call aggregates and correlations. What I’m telling you about this killer is based on a high degree of correlation with dozens of others with a similar profile and M.O. It’s also based on interviews with over two thousand serial killers who answered questions about why and how they did what they did. It’s not infallible, but it’s pretty damn close. Everything points to this killer getting a sexual charge out of what he’s doing.”

Still doubtful, D’Agosta nodded anyway.

“To continue: The crimes had a sexual gratification component. That gratification comes from sexual excitement generated by two things: a feeling of control and power over the victim, and the presence of blood. The sex of the victim is less important. The lack of the presence of semen may only mean the killer did not climax or did so clothed. The latter is common.”

D’Agosta shifted in his chair. That doughnut wasn’t looking quite so appetizing now.

“Another commonality is that this type of serial homicide involves a large ritual component. The killer receives gratification from killing in the same way, in the same sequence, using the same knife, and inflicting the same mutilation to the corpse.”

D’Agosta nodded again.

“He has a job. Probably a good one. This type of killer only operates in an environment he knows well, and so we may find that he is either an ex-employee or, more likely, a former guest of both hotels.”

“We’re already running the guest lists and employee lists against each other, and against a description of the perp.”

“Excellent.” Gibbs took a deep breath. He certainly was a talker, but D’Agosta wasn’t about to stop him. “His expertise with a knife is high, which means he may use one in his profession or simply be a knife aficionado. He has a lot of self-confidence. He’s arrogant. This is another prime characteristic of this type of killer. He thinks nothing of being caught on security videos; he taunts the police and believes he can control the investigation. Hence the messages left behind.”

“I was wondering about those messages—if you had any specific theories, I mean.”

“As I said, they are taunting.”

“Any idea who they’re directed at?”

A smile spread over Gibbs’s face. “They aren’t directed at anyone in particular.”

“ Happy Birthday? You don’t think that was directed at anyone?”

“No. This type of serial killer mocks the police, but doesn’t as a rule single out individual investigators, particularly in the beginning. We’re all the same to him—the faceless enemy. The birthday is probably generic or might refer to any anniversary—perhaps even that of the perp himself. Something you also might look into.”

“Good idea. But isn’t it possible these messages might be directed at someone who isn’t a cop?”

“Highly unlikely.” Gibbs patted the folder. “There are a few other things in here: the aggressor was probably abandoned by his mother; he lives alone; he has poor relationships with the opposite sex or, if he is homosexual, with his own sex. Finally, something happened very recently that set him off: rejection by a lover, loss of a job, or—this is most likely of all—the death of his mother.”

Gibbs sat back with a satisfied expression on his face.

“That’s your prelim?” D’Agosta asked.

“We’ll refine it considerably as we feed in more information. The database is extremely powerful.” Gibbs looked D’Agosta in the eye. “I have to say, Lieutenant, you certainly have done well bringing us this problem. The BSU is the best in the world at this. I promise, we’ll work closely with you, tread lightly, respect your people, and share everything on a real-time basis.”

D’Agosta nodded. You couldn’t ask for more than that.

After Gibbs had left, D’Agosta sat in the armchair for a long time. As he chewed thoughtfully on the Caramel Kreme Crunch, he thought about what Gibbs had said concerning the killer and his motive. It made sense. Maybe too much sense.

God, he could really use Pendergast right now.

He shook his head, polished off the doughnut, licked his fingers, and with a supreme act of will shut the box.

14

D’AGOSTA BLEW OFF THE DOOR MAN BY FLASHING HIS BADGE and walking right on past the pillbox, not even making eye contact, the man hurrying behind with a “Sir? Sir? Whom are you visiting?” D’Agosta called out Pendergast’s name and apartment number loudly and headed for the interior courtyard.

The elevator operator proved to be a little more stubborn, requiring an overt threat about obstruction of justice before he reluctantly closed the old-fashioned grillwork doors and ascended to Pendergast’s suite of apartments.

D’Agosta had been in the Dakota many times before, and he was usually struck by the scent, a mixture of beeswax polish, old wood, and a faint overlay of leather. Everything about the place was genteel and old-fashioned, from the polished brass of the elevator knobs and trim, to the hushed carpeting, to the lovely travertine walls with their nineteenth-century sconces. He noticed very little of this now. He was sick with worry about Pendergast. For days he’d been waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for the pressure cooker to explode. Nothing. And that was probably worse than any explosion.

The doorman had called up, of course, so when D’Agosta pressed the buzzer the intercom came quickly to life.

“Vincent?”

“I need to talk to you. Please.”

A long, long silence.

“On what subject?”

There was a strange quality to Pendergast’s voice that gave D’Agosta the creeps. Maybe it was the electronic rasp of the intercom.

“Could you let me in?”

Another odd pause.

“No, thank you.”

D’Agosta took this in. No, thank you? He sounded bad. He recalled Hayward’s advice and decided to give it a try.

“Look, Pendergast, there’s been a couple of murders. A serial killer. I really need your advice.”

“I’m not interested.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “I won’t take up more than a minute or two. I’d like to see you. It’s been a while. We need to talk, catch up, I need to find out what’s been going on, how you’re doing. You’ve had a terrible shock—”

“Pray leave the premises and do not bother me again.”

His voice sounded even more cold, stilted, and formal than usual. D’Agosta waited a moment, and then said gently, “That’s what I’m not going to do. I’m going to stand here, annoying you, until you let me in. I’ll stay here all night, if necessary.”

That finally got through. After a long moment, the locks began turning, one after the other. The door opened slowly, and D’Agosta entered the foyer. Pendergast, dressed in a black dressing gown, had already turned his back and uttered no greeting. D’Agosta followed him into the reception room, the one with the bonsai trees and the wall of water.

Moving listlessly, Pendergast turned and seated himself, folding his hands in front, and raised his head to look at D’Agosta.

D’Agosta froze. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The man’s face was collapsed, gray, his normally silver eyes as dull and heavy as old lead. His clasped hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

He launched in gamely. “Pendergast, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about Helen’s death. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m one hundred percent behind you—however you want to go about nailing the bastards.”

There seemed to be no reaction whatsoever to this.

“We need to get a… ah, death certificate, determination of homicide. We’ll need to exhume the body, go through the legal crap with Mexico. I’m not sure what’s involved, but you can bet we’ll expedite the hell out of it. We will get her a decent burial in the States. And then we’ll launch an investigation hammer and tongs—FBI, of course, they’ll back up one of their own. There’s NYPD involvement, too, and I’ll make damn sure our resources are deployed, big-time. We will get those scumbags, I guarantee it.”

He stopped, breathing heavily. Pendergast’s eyes were lidded; he seemed to have gone to sleep. D’Agosta stared. This was even worse than he thought. As he looked at his old friend and partner, a terrible realization dawned on him, hitting him like a shock of high voltage.

“Jesus Christ. You’re using.”

“Using?” Pendergast murmured.

“On drugs.”

A drawn-out silence.

D’Agosta felt a sudden welling of anger. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. You’re on drugs.”

Pendergast made a small gesture with his hand. “And?”

“And? And?” D’Agosta rose from his chair. He flushed. He had seen so much bullshit, so much death and murder and ridiculously pointless suffering caused by drugs. He hated drugs.

He faced Pendergast. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were smarter than this. Where are they?”

No answer. Just a grimace.

D’Agosta couldn’t stand it. “Where are the drugs?” he asked, his voice louder. When Pendergast didn’t respond, he felt rage take over. He was standing by the bookshelves and pulled a book off a shelf, another. “Where are the drugs?” He knocked one of the bonsais with the back of his hand, sweeping it off its table. “ Where are the drugs?I’m not leaving here until I have them. You fucking idiot!”

“Your working-class expletives have lost their charm.”

At least this was a flash of the old Pendergast. D’Agosta stood there, shaking, and realized he had better get a handle on his anger.

“This apartment is very large, and most of the doors are securely locked.”

D’Agosta felt crazy. He struggled to maintain control. “Listen, about Helen. I know what a horrible tragedy—”

At this Pendergast interrupted him, his voice cold. “Do not mention Helen’s name or what happened. Ever again.”

“Right. Okay. I won’t, but you can’t just… I mean…” He shook his head, truly at a loss for words.

“You mentioned you needed help with a murder case. I have told you I’m not interested. Now, if there’s nothing else, may I ask you to leave?”

Instead, D’Agosta sat down heavily, put his head in his hands. Maybe the murder investigation would be the thing Pendergast needed to snap him out of this, although he doubted it. He rubbed his face, raised his head. “Let me just tell you about the case—okay?”

“If you must.”

D’Agosta smoothed his hands down over his legs, took a couple of breaths. “Have you been following the papers?”

“No.”

“I have a summary of the case here.” D’Agosta removed the three-page brief he had printed out earlier and handed it to Pendergast. The agent took it and scanned it perfunctorily, his eyes dull, unresponsive. But he didn’t hand it back right away; he continued looking at it, flipping the pages. Then, after a moment, he started from the beginning and began reading again, this time more closely.

When he looked up, D’Agosta thought he caught a gleam of something in the agent’s eyes. But, no—it was his imagination.

“Um, I thought the case was sort of up your alley. We’ve got this special agent from the BSU assigned. A fellow named Gibbs. Conrad Gibbs. You know him?”

Pendergast slowly shook his head.

“He’s got a lot of theories. All very pat. But this case… well, it seemed custom-made for you. I’ve got a binder here with the preliminary crime-scene analysis, lab reports, autopsy, forensics, DNA—the works.” He slipped it out of his briefcase and held it up, questioningly. When there was no response, he laid it down on a table.

“Can I count on your help? Even if it’s just an informal opinion?”

“I regret I won’t have time to look through this material before I leave.”

“Leave? Where are you going?”

Pendergast rose, ponderously, his black dressing gown cloaking him like a figure of the grim reaper himself. That gleam D’Agosta imagined he saw had certainly been a figment of his hopes: the eyes were duller than ever.

Pendergast offered D’Agosta his hand. It was as cold as a dead mackerel. But then it unexpectedly tightened and, in a much warmer voice, if strained, Pendergast said: “Good-bye, my dear Vincent.”

Pendergast closed the door to his apartment. He walked toward the door leading out of the reception room, but paused, then turned, hesitating. His face betrayed an extreme inner turmoil. Finally, he seemed to make a decision. He walked over to the table, picked up the thick binder, and flipped it open, beginning to read.

For two hours he stood there, stock-still. And then he laid it down. His lips moved and he spoke a single word.

“Diogenes.”

15

THE 1959 ROLLS-ROYCE SILVER WRAITH PURRED UP THE northern reaches of Riverside Drive, the glow of the streetlamps and traffic lights reflecting off its polished surfaces. Passing 137th Street, it slowed, then turned in to a driveway bordered by a tall wrought-iron fence, its gate standing open. Moving past barren ailanthus and sumac bushes, the vehicle came to a stop beneath the porte cochere of a large Beaux-Arts mansion, its marble-and-brick façade rising four stories into the gloom, mansard roof topped by a crenellated widow’s walk. There was a flicker of lightning overhead, followed by a growl of thunder. A cold wind swept off the Hudson. It was only six PM, but early December in New York City was already under cover of night.

Agent Pendergast got out of the car. In the dim light, his face was pale, and even in the chill air it was beaded with sweat. As he stepped toward an oaken door set into the pillared entrance, there was a rustle in the shrubbery at the rear of the carriage drive. He turned toward the noise to see Corrie Swanson emerge from the gloom. She looked inexpressibly dirty, her clothes creased and muddy, her hair matted, her face smudged. A torn, frayed knapsack hung from one shoulder. She glanced both ways, like a skittish colt, then darted up to him.

“Agent Pendergast!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Where have you been? I’ve been freezing my ass here for days waiting for you! I’m in trouble.”

Without waiting to hear more, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

He closed the heavy door, then snapped on a light, revealing an entryway with a polished marble floor and walls of dark velvet. He led the way into a long, refectory-like space of carved gothic fixtures, and then beyond to a large reception hall, lined by glass-fronted cabinets. Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur, stood stiffly in a bathrobe, leaning on a crutch, apparently roused by the sound of their entrance.

“Proctor, please have Mrs. Trask run a bath for Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said. “And have her clothes washed and pressed, please.”

Corrie turned toward him. “But—”

“I’ll await you in the library.”

Ninety minutes later, feeling renewed, Corrie walked into the library. The room was dark, and no fire had been laid on. Pendergast was seated in a wing chair in a far corner, motionless and almost invisible. There was something about his presence—a restless stillness, if such a thing were possible—that gave her an odd feeling.

She took a seat opposite him. Pendergast sat, his fingers tented, his eyes half closed. Feeling unaccountably nervous, she hurried into her story. She told him about Betterton, his accusations and theories about Pendergast, the yacht, and her crazy decision to break into the house on East End he had mentioned to her.

While she spoke, Pendergast had seemed distant, almost as if he wasn’t listening. But the mention of the house seemed to catch his attention.

“You engaged in breaking and entering,” he said.

“I know, I know.” Corrie colored. “I’m stupid, but you already know that…” She tried to laugh and found no corresponding amusement—or even reaction—in him. Pendergast was weirder than usual. She took a deep breath and went on. “The place looked like it’d been deserted for years. So I broke in. And you won’t believe what I found. It’s some kind of Nazi safe house. Stacks of Mein Kampfin the basement, old radio equipment, and even a torture room. Upstairs it looked like they were packing up to leave. I found a room full of documents in the process of being shredded.”

She paused, waited. Still no reaction.

“I rifled through the documents, thinking they might be important. A lot of them were covered with swastikas and dated back to the war. Some were stamped STRENG GEHEIM, which I later found out means ‘top secret’ in German. And then I saw the name Esterhazy.”

At this, Pendergast woke up. “Esterhazy?”

“Your late wife’s maiden name, right? I learned that researching the website.”

An incline of the head. God, he looked awful.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I stuffed as many documents as I could into my knapsack. But then—” She paused. The memory was still so fresh. “A Nazi caught me. He tried to kill me. I sprayed the mother with capsicum and managed to get away. I’ve been scared shitless and on the run ever since, living in shelters and hanging out in Bryant Park. I haven’t been in my apartment, I haven’t been at school. All this time I’ve been just trying to reachyou!” Quite suddenly, she felt herself on the verge of tears. She forced them back roughly. “You wouldn’t answer the phone. I couldn’t stake out the Dakota, those doormen are like the KGB.”

When he did not respond, she reached into her knapsack, pulled out the sheaf of papers, and put them on an end table. “Here they are.”

Pendergast did not look at the papers. He seemed to have gone far away again. Now, with her spike of anxiety ebbing, Corrie looked at him more closely. He was shockingly thin, even gaunt, and in the dim light she could see the bags under his eyes, the paleness of his skin. But most surprising of all was his demeanor. While his movements were usually languid, you nevertheless had a sense that it was the languor of a cat: a coiled spring, ready to strike out at any moment. But Corrie did not have that sense now. Pendergast seemed unfocused, detached, barely interested in her story. He seemed little concerned by what had happened to her, the danger she had put herself in for his sake.

“Pendergast,” she said. “Are you all right? You look… sort of funny. I’m sorry, but you do.”

He waved this away as he might a fly. “These so-called Nazis. Did they get your name?”

“No.”

“Did you leave anything behind that might lead them to your identity?”

“I don’t think so. Everything I had was in this.” And she nudged the knapsack with her foot.

“Any indication that they’ve been tracking you?”

“I don’t think so. But I stayed underground. Those guys were freaking scary.”

“And the address of this safe house?”

“Four Twenty-Eight East End Avenue.”

He fell silent for a minute before rousing himself to speech once again. “They don’t know who you are. They have no way of finding you, short of happening upon you by accident. That is of course unlikely, but we shall reduce the likelihood even further.” He glanced at her. “Is there someplace you can stay? With friends, perhaps? Somewhere out of town?”

Corrie was shocked. She’d just assumed that Pendergast would take her in, protect her, help her deal with the situation. “What’s wrong with here?”

There was a protracted silence. Then Pendergast let out a deep, shuddering breath. “Without going into detail, the fact is that, at present, I am simply incapable of looking after your well-being. In fact, I am so preoccupied that I could actually pose a threat to your safety. If you rely on me, you place yourself in grave danger. Besides, New York City is the one place you stand a chance, however small, of coming in contact with these people. Now: is there anyplace else you can go? I can guarantee that you’ll get there safely, and have sufficient funds—beyond that, you will be on your own.”

This was so unexpected that Corrie felt herself in a kind of daze. Where the hell could she go? Her mother was still in Medicine Creek, Kansas, of course—but she swore she’d die before she ever set foot in that shit hole again.

“My father lives near Allentown,” she said, dubiously.

Pendergast—whose expression had once again turned distant—returned to her. “Yes. I do recall your mentioning that. Do you know where he lives?”

Already Corrie was regretting bringing up her father. “I have his address. I haven’t seen him since he skipped out on my mom, what, fifteen years ago?”

Pendergast reached over, pressed a small button beneath the end table. A minute later, Proctor was standing in the doorway to the library. Even with the crutch, he looked immensely powerful.

Pendergast turned to him. “Proctor, please call our private livery service. I would like them to take Miss Swanson to an address she will give them outside Allentown, Pennsylvania. Provide her with three thousand dollars and a new cell phone.”

Proctor nodded. “Very well, sir.”

Corrie looked from Pendergast to Proctor and back again. “I still don’t believe it. You’re just telling me to turn tail and run?”

“I’ve explained that necessity already. You’ll be safer with your father, especially given that you’ve had no recent contact with him. You need to stay away for at least a month, perhaps two. Use only cash—no credit or debit cards. Destroy the SIM card, throw away your old cell phone, and don’t transfer the contacts except by hand. Contact me—that is, Proctor—when you plan to return.”

“What if I don’t want to go stay with my loser dad?” Corrie fumed.

“These people whose safe house you invaded, who you robbed of highly incriminating documents, are not to be underestimated. You do not want them to find you.”

“But…” This was unreal. She started to get mad. “What about school?”

“Of what use will school be to a dead person?” Pendergast said evenly.

She stood up. “Goddamn it, what’s going on with you?” She paused, looked at him more closely. “Are you sick?”

“Yes.”

Even as he spoke, she realized the sweat was streaming down his brow. Jesus, he really wassick. It explained a lot. She struggled to overcome her irritation. She had been so terrified these past few weeks, and maybe Pendergast was right to want her to hide.

“I’m sorry.” She sat down abruptly. “I just don’t like the idea of running away. Who are these people and what the hell is going on?”

“I’m afraid that information would put you in greater danger.”

“Let me stay and help with whatever’s troubling you.” She managed a smile. “We made a good team once.”

For the first time, he seemed affected. “I appreciate the gesture,” he said in a low, even voice. “Truly, I do. But I require no help. At this moment, in fact, all that I require is solitude.”

She remained in her seat. She’d forgotten what a pain in the ass Pendergast could be.

“Proctor is waiting.”

For a moment, she just stared. Then, without another word, she got up, picked up her knapsack, and strode out of the library.

After Corrie had left, Pendergast sat, motionless, in the darkened room. Ten minutes later, he heard the distant sound of a door closing. At this, he rose and walked over to one of the bookshelves. He pulled out a particularly large and hoary old volume from it, which produced a muffled clicking sound. The entire bookshelf swung away from the wall. Behind it stood a folding brass gate that opened onto a solid maple door: the hidden service elevator to the mansion’s basement. Pendergast stepped in, pressed a button, and rode the elevator down to the basement. Getting out, he progressed through long and secret corridors to an ancient stairway, hewn from the living rock, that corkscrewed down into darkness. Descending this staircase to the mansion’s vast and rambling sub-basement, he made his way through a series of dimly lit chambers and galleries, perfumed with the scent of ages, until he came to a room full of long tables covered with modern laboratory equipment. Turning up the light, he strode over to a device that looked like a cross between a fax machine and a modern cash register. He sat down before the machine, turned it on, and pressed a button on its side. A wide tray in its front panel popped free. Inside were a number of small, squat test tubes. Taking one out, Pendergast held it between thumb and forefinger. Then—plucking a lancet from his jacket pocket—he pricked his other thumb, took a blood sample, placed it into the test tube, inserted it in the machine, pressed a series of buttons, and settled down to wait.