Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

"Hold on," he said. Then he put the van in gear and shot forward, accelerating directly toward the pipe fence.

"Wait," Smithback said. "You'll never bash through that fence. We'll be-oh, shit!"He turned away, shielding his face from the inevitable catastrophic impact.

There was a loud clang; a brief jolt; but the van was still accelerating forward. Smithback raised his head and lowered his arms, heart pounding, and looked back. He saw that a section of the fence had been knocked away, leaving a clean rectangular hole in its place.

"The metal pipes had already been cut, then spot-welded back into place," Pendergast said by way of explanation, driving more slowly now, making a number of turns through a warren of side streets while removing his wig and wiping the stage makeup from his face with a silk handkerchief. The black Mercedes and the police cars were gone. "Help me with this."

Smithback climbed into the front seat and helped Pendergast pull off the cheap, stained brown polyester top, revealing a dress shirt and tie underneath.

"Hand me my jacket back there, if you'd be so kind."

Smithback pulled a beautifully pressed suit coat off a rack hanging behind the front seat. Pendergast slid into it quickly.

"You planned this whole thing, didn't you?" Smithback said.

Pendergast turned onto East 138th Street. "This is a case where advance preparation meant the difference between life and death."

All at once, Smithback understood the plan. "That guy who was after us-you lured him into the one place he couldn't follow. There's no way around that impound facility."

"There is a way around, yes, involving three miles of driving through congested side streets." Pendergast turned north, heading for the Sheridan Expressway.

"So who the hell was that? The man you say is trying to kill me?"

"As I said, the less you know, the better. Although I must say that the high-speed chase and the use of firearms were uncharacteristically crude of him. Perhaps he saw his opportunity evaporating and became desperate." He looked over at Smithback with a laconic expression. "Well, Mr. Smithback? Convinced?"

Smithback nodded slowly. "But why me? What'd I do?"

"That is, unfortunately, the very question I can't answer."

Smithback's heart was only now slowing down, and he felt as wrung out and limp as a dishrag. He'd been in tight spots with Pendergast before. Deep down, he knew the man wouldn't do something like this unless it was absolutely necessary. All of a sudden, his career at the Timesseemed a lot less important.

"Hand me your cell phone and wallet, please."

Smithback did as requested. Pendergast shoved them in the glove compartment and handed him an expensive leather billfold.

"What's this?"

"Your new identity."

Smithback opened it. There was no money, only a Social Security card and a New York driver's license.

"Edward Murdhouse Jones?" he read off.

"Correct."

"Yes, but Jones? Come on, what a cliché."

"That's precisely why you'll have no trouble remembering it… Edward."

Smithback shoved the wallet in his back pocket. "How long is this going to last?"

"Not long, I hope."

"What do you mean not long? A day or two?"

No answer.

"Where the hell are you taking me, anyway?"

"River Oaks."

"River Oaks? The millionaire funny farm?"

"You are now the troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, a bit of undemanding therapy, and isolation from the hectic world."

"Hold on, I'm not checking into any mental hospital-"

"You'll find River Oaks to be quite luxurious. You'll have a private room, gourmet food, and elegant surroundings. The grounds are beautiful-pity they are buried in two feet of snow at the moment. There's a spa, library, game room, and every imaginable comfort. It's housed in a former Vanderbilt mansion in Ulster County. The director is a very sympathetic man. He'll be most solicitous, I assure you. Most important, it is utterly securefrom the killer who is determined to end your life. I am sorry I can't tell you more, I really am."

Smithback sighed. "This director, he'll know all about me, right?"

"He's got all the information he could possibly need. You will be well treated. Indeed, you are guaranteed special treatment."

"No force-fed meds? Straitjackets? Shock therapy?"

Pendergast smiled faintly. "Nothing like that, trust me. You'll be waited on hand and foot. An hour of counseling a day, that's all. The director is fully informed, he has all the necessary documents. I've purchased some clothes that I think will fit you."

Smithback was silent a moment. "Gourmet food, you say?"

"As much as you could wish."

Smithback sat forward. "But Nora. She'll worry about me."

"As I mentioned, she'll be led to understand you are on a special assignment for the Times.Given the work she's doing for the opening, she'll hardly have time to think about you at all."

"If they're after me, she'll be in danger. I need to be there to protect her."

"I can tell you that Nora is in absolutely no danger at present. However, she willbe in danger if you remain near her. Because youare the target. It is for hersake as much as yours that you must go into hiding. The farther away you are, the safer she'll be."

Smithback groaned. "This is going to be a disaster for my career."

"Your career will suffer more from your untimely death."

Smithback could feel the lump of the wallet in his back pocket. Edward Murdhouse Jones."I'm sorry, but I don't like this at all."

"Like it or not, I'm saving your life."

Smithback did not reply.

"Are we clear on that, Mr. Smithback?"

"Yes," Smithback said, with a dreadful sinking feeling.

TWENTY-TWO

Nora Kelly tried to shut out the din of the exhibition hall and focus her attention on the box of sand in front of her. On one side, she had laid out the objects to be arranged: a skeleton in plasticine, along with a suite of grave goods-priceless objects in gold, jade, polychrome ceramics, bone, and carved shell. On the other side of the large box, she had set up a photograph of a real tomb, a photo taken only moments after its astonishing discovery. It was the grave of a ninth-century Mayan princess named Chac Xel, and Nora's job was to re-create it-in painstaking detail-for the Sacred Images exhibition.

As she contemplated the work, she could hear, over her shoulder, the heavy breathing from one very annoyed guard, upset at being pulled from his usual duty manning the sleepy Hall of Pelagic Birds and thrust into a manic hive of activity at the very center of the Sacred Images show. She heard the guard shift his enormous bulk and sigh theatrically as if to hurry her along.

But Nora wouldn't allow herself to be rushed. This was one of the most important exhibits in the entire exhibition. The artifacts to be arranged were extraordinarily delicate and demanded the utmost attention and care. Once again, she tried to shut out the uproar of construction, the growl of drills and the whine of Skilsaws, the shoutings back and forth, the furious comings and goings of curators, designers, and assistants. And on top of that, with the museum's security system being beefed up for the umpteenth time in preparation for the new opening, they had to drop everything and leave the exhibition now and then as sensors were installed and software tested. It was pure bedlam.

Nora refocused her attention on the sandbox in front of her. She began by arranging the bones, laying them in the sand after their original placement in the photograph. The princess had not been laid out flat, Western style; rather, her body had been bound into a mummy bundle, knees drawn up to the face, arms folded in front, the whole wrapped up like a package in beautiful woven blankets. The rotting of the bundle had caused the skeleton to fall open, spilling the bones in a crazy pattern on the floor of the tomb, which Nora carefully replicated.

Next came the placement of the objects found in the tomb. Unlike the bones, these were the real thing-and virtually priceless. She slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and lifted the largest object, a heavy pectoral in beaten electrum depicting a jaguar surrounded by glyphs. She held it up, momentarily spellbound by the dazzleof light off its golden curves. She laid it with care on the skeleton's chest. Next came a gold necklace, which she placed around the cervical vertebrae. Half a dozen gold rings were slipped onto the bony fingers. A solid-gold tiara set with jades and turquoises went atop the skull. She carefully arranged pots in a semicircle, filled with offerings of polished jade, turquoises, and glossy pieces of black obsidian. Next came a ceremonial obsidian knife, almost a foot long with many barbs, still sharp enough to make a nasty cut if not handled just so.

She paused. The last thing was the jade mask, worth millions, carved from a single flawless block of deep green nephrite jade, with rubies and white quartz set in the eyes, and turquoise teeth.

"Lady," said the guard, interrupting her reverie, "I've got a break in fifteen."

"I'm aware of that," said Nora dryly.

She was about to reach for the mask when she heard the voice of Hugo Menzies at some distance, not loud but somehow riding above the din. "Wonderful work!" he was saying. "Marvelous!"

Nora looked up to see the bushy-haired figure picking his way down the hall, stepping fastidiously across a floor strewn with electrical cables, sawdust, pieces of Bubble Wrap, and other construction detritus. The omnipresent canvas fishing bag he used instead of a briefcase was slung over one shoulder. He was shaking hands, nodding in approval, encouraging as he went along, knowing everyone's name, from the carpenters to the curators. Everyone got a nod, a smile, a word of encouragement. How different from Ashton, chief curator of this exhibition, who felt it beneath him to talk to anybody lacking a doctoral degree.

After the meeting, Nora had been furious with Menzies for coming down on Margo Green's side. But it was impossible to stay angry with a man like Menzies: he so clearly believed in what he was doing, and she'd personally witnessed so many other ways, large and small, in which he'd supported the department. No, you couldn't stay mad at Hugo Menzies.

It was a different story, though, with Margo Green.

Menzies approached. "Hello, Frank," he said to the guard, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Nice to see you here."

"You, too, sir," the guard said, straightening up and wiping the scowl off his face.

"Ahh," said Menzies, turning to Nora. "That High Classic jade mask is one of my favorite objects in the entire museum. You know how they made it so thin? Polished it down by hand with blades of grass. But I expect you already knew that."

"As a matter of fact, I did."

Menzies laughed. "Of course. What am I thinking? Excellent work, Nora. This is going to be a highlight of the show. May I watch while you place the mask?"

"Of course."

She reached down and picked it up with her white-gloved hands, not without trepidation. Carefully, she placed it in the sand above the head of the body, where it had been found, adjusting it and making sure it was secure.

"A trifle to the left, Nora."

She moved it slightly.

"Perfect. I'm glad I was in time to see that." He smiled, winked, and moved on through the chaos, leaving in his wake people who were working all the harder, if such a thing were possible. Nora had to admire his people skills.

The case was complete, but she wanted to check it one more time. She ran through the list of items, matching them to the photograph. She had only one shot to get this right: once the case was sealed under bulletproof, shatterproof glass, it wouldn't be opened until the end of the show, four months later.

As she ran the final check, for some reason her mind wandered to Bill. He'd run off to Atlantic City covering some casino story and wouldn't be back for-she realized she wasn't sure whenhe'd be back. He'd been so vague. And it had all happened so suddenly. Was this what it was like to be married to a reporter? What had happened to the murder he was covering? And wasn't he on the city desk? She supposed that a casino story in New Jersey might qualify for the city desk, but still… He'd sounded so strange on the telephone, so breathless, so tense.

She sighed, shook her head. It was probably for the better, given that she'd hardly been able to see him with all the craziness surrounding the opening. Everything was, as usual, behind schedule, and Ash-ton was on the warpath. She could hear the chief curator's voice, pitched high in querulous complaint in some far corner of the hall.

The guard issued another ostentatious sigh behind her, breaking her reverie.

"Just a minute," she said over her shoulder. "As soon as we get this sealed." She glanced at her watch. Three-thirty already. And she'd been going since six. She was going to be working at least until midnight, and every minute she wasted now was a minute of sleep lost at the end of the day.

Nora turned to the foreman, who had been nearby, waiting for this moment. "Ready to seal the case."

Soon a group of exhibition assistants, under the foreman's direction, began fitting the monstrously heavy sheet of glass over the tomb, accompanied by grunts and curses.

"Nora?"

She turned. It was Margo Green. Bad timing, as usual.

"Hello, Margo," she said.

"Wow. Beautiful exhibit."

Nora saw out of the corner of her eye the scowling face of the guard, the gaggle of laborers sealing up the tomb.

"Thanks. We're really under the gun here, as you can see."

"I can." She hesitated. "I don't want to take up any more of your time than I have to."

Then don't,thought Nora, trying to maintain her fake smile. She had four other cases to mount and seal. She couldn't help but watch as the workers struggled to seat the glass. If they dropped it…

Margo stepped closer, lowered her voice. "I wanted to apologize for my snarky comment in the meeting."

Nora straightened. This was unexpected.

"It was uncalled-for. Your points were all well taken and totally within professional bounds. I was the one who acted unprofessionally. It's just…" Margo hesitated.

"Just what?"

"You're so damned… competent.And articulate. I was intimidated."

Nora didn't quite know how to answer this. She looked closely at Margo, who was reddening from the effort to apologize. "You're not exactly a pushover yourself," she finally said.

"I know. We're both kind of stubborn. But stubborn is good-especially if you're a woman."

Nora couldn't help but smile, this time for real. "Let's not call it stubbornness. Let's call it the courage of our convictions."

Margo smiled in turn. "That sounds better. Although a lot of people might call it plain old bitchiness."

"Hey," said Nora. "Bitchy is good, too."

Margo laughed. "Anyway, Nora, I just wanted to say I was sorry."

"I appreciate the apology. I really do. Thank you, Margo."

"See you around."

Nora paused, the case temporarily forgotten in her surprise, as she watched Margo's slender form make its way back through the barely controlled chaos of the exhibition.

TWENTY-THREE

Captain Laura Hayward sat in a plastic chair in the trace evidence lab on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, making a conscious effort not to glance at her watch. Archibald Quince, chief scientist of the fiber analysis unit, was holding forth: walking back and forth before a crowded evidence table, hands clasped behind the white lab coat one minute, then gesticulating the next. It was a rambling, repetitious tale, full of sound and fury, and yet it all came down to one easily grasped point: the man didn't have shit.

Quince paused in midstep, then turned toward her, his tall, bony frame all angles and elbows. "Allow me to summarize."

Thank God,Hayward thought. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel.

"Only a handful of fibers were recovered that were foreign to the site. A few were stuck to the ropes used to bind the victim; another was found on the couch where the victim was placed, peri-mortem. We can thus reasonably assume a fiber exchange between the murderer and the murder scene. Correct?"

"Correct."

"Since all fibers were the same-length, composition, spinning method, and so forth-we can also assume they are primary rather than secondary fiber transfers. In other words, they're fibers from the killer's clothes rather than fibers that happened to be onthe killer's clothes."

Hayward nodded, forcing herself to pay attention. All day, as she'd gone about her work, she'd felt the strangest sensation: as if she were floating, detached, just outside her own body. She didn't know if it was due to weariness or to the shock of Vincent D'Agosta's abrupt, unexpected departure. She wished she could get mad about it, but somehow anger wouldn't come-just grief. She wondered where he was, what he was doing now. And, more urgently, she wondered how in his mind such a good thing could have suddenly gone so wrong.

"Captain?"

Hayward realized there was a question hanging in the air, unanswered. She looked up quickly. "Excuse me?"

"I said would you like to see a sample?"

Hayward rose. "Sure."

"It's an extremely fine animal fiber, one I've never seen before. We've identified it as an exceptionally rare kind of cashmere, blended with a small percentage of merino. Very, very expensive. As you'll notice, both fiber types were dyed black prior to being spun together. But take a look for yourself." Stepping back, Quince gestured toward the stereoscopic microscope that stood beside the lab table.

Hayward came forward and glanced through the oculars. Half a dozen slender black threads were displayed against a light background, sleek and glossy and very even.

Very, very expensive.Though she was still waiting for Psych to deliver the profile, a few things about the perp were already obvious. He-or perhaps she-was very sophisticated, highly intelligent, and had access to funds.

"The dye has also proven elusive to identification. It's made from a natural vegetative pigmentation, not synthetic chemicals, but we haven't yet been able to track down the coloring agent. It's not in any database we've checked. The closest we've come is a certain rare berry grown on the mountain slopes of Tibet, used by local tribesmen and Sherpas."

Hayward stepped back from the scope. As she listened, she felt afaint frisson of recognition. She had excellent instincts, and normally that little tingle meant two pieces of a puzzle coming together. But at the moment, she couldn't imagine what those pieces might be. She was probably even more tired than she thought. She would go home, have an early dinner, then try to get some sleep.

"Despite their fineness, the fibers are very tightly woven," Quince said. "Do you know what that means?"

"An extremely soft and comfy garment?"

"Yes. But that's not the point. Such a garment doesn't shed easily. It isn't usually a donor garment. Hence the small number of fibers."

"And, perhaps, evidence of a struggle."

"My thought as well." Quince frowned. "Normally, the fact that the fabric is uncommon is important to a fiber examiner. It's helpful in identifying the suspect. But here the fabric is so uncommon it's actually proving to be the opposite. There's nothing exactly like it in any of the textile fiber databases. Then there's another odd thing: the age of the fiber."

"Which is?"

"Our tests have indicated the fabric was spun at least twenty years ago. Yet there is no evidence the clothing itselfis old. The fibers aren't worn. There isn't the kind of fading or damage you'd expect from years of usage and dry cleaning. It's as if the fabric came off the store rack yesterday."

At last, Quince shut up. He stretched out his arms, palms up, as if in supplication.

"And?" Hayward asked.

"That's it. As I said, all our searches have come up empty. We've checked with textile mills, clothing manufacturers, everything. Foreign anddomestic. It's the same as with the rope. This fabric seems to have been made on the moon, for all we can learn."

For all we can learn?"I'm sorry, but that's just not good enough." Fatigue and impatience gave her tone a sudden edge. "We have only a handful of evidence in this case, Dr. Quince, and these fibers are some of the most important of that evidence. You said yourself the fabric is extremely rare. If you've already checked with the mills and the manufacturers, then you should be checking with individual tailors."

Quince shrank back at this scolding. His large, moist, houndlike eyes blinked back at her, full of hurt. "But, Captain Hayward, with all the tailors in the world, that would be like looking for a needle in-"

"If the fabric's as fine as you say it is, then you'd need to contact only the most exclusive and expensive tailors. And in only three cities: New York, London, and Hong Kong."

Hayward realized she was breathing heavily and that her voice had risen. Calm down,she told herself.

In the uncomfortable silence that settled over the lab, Hayward heard a throat being tactfully cleared. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Captain Singleton standing in the doorway.

"Glen," she said, wondering how long he'd been standing there.

"Laura." Singleton nodded. "Mind if we have a word?"

"Of course." Hayward turned back to Quince. "Give me a follow-up report tomorrow, please." Then she followed Singleton out into the corridor.

"What's up?" she asked as they paused in the bustling hallway. "It's almost time for Rocker's state-of-the-force meeting."

Singleton waited a moment before answering. He was dressed in a dapper chalk-stripe suit, and despite its being late afternoon, his white shirt was still as crisp as if he'd just put it on.

"I got a call from Special Agent in Charge Carlton of the New York field office," he said, motioning her to step to one side, out of the traffic. "He was following up on a request from Quantico."

"What request is that?"

"Have you heard the name Michael Decker?"

Hayward thought a moment, shook her head.

"He was a top FBI honcho, lived in a classy D.C. neighborhood. The man was murdered yesterday. Speared through the mouth with a bayonet. Nasty piece of business, and, as you can imagine, the FBI are on the case hammer and tongs. They're following up with Decker's colleagues, trying to find out if there might be any bad guys in the man's past who had a score to settle." Singleton shrugged. "It seems one of Decker's colleagues, and closest friends, was a man named Pendergast."

Hayward glanced at him abruptly. "AgentPendergast?"

"That's right. You worked with him on the Cutforth murder, right?"

"He's been involved in a few priors of mine."

Singleton nodded. "Since Agent Pendergast is missing and presumed dead, Carlton asked me to check with any associates of his in the NYPD. See if he ever talked about Decker, maybe mentioned enemies the man might have had. I figured you might know something."

Hayward thought a moment. "No, Pendergast never spoke of Decker to me." She hesitated. "You might talk to Lieutenant D'Agosta, who worked with him on at least three cases going back seven years."

"That so?"

Hayward nodded, hoping that her expression remained professionally neutral.

Singleton shook his head. "The thing is, I can't find D'Agosta. He hasn't reported in since lunch, and nobody else working his case has seen him. And for some reason, we can't raise him on his radio. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?" As Singleton spoke, he kept his voice studiously neutral, his eyes fixed on the people walking past them.

In that moment, Hayward realized he knew about her and D'Agosta. She felt a sudden, consuming embarrassment. So it's not the big secret we thought it was.She wondered how soon Singleton would learn D'Agosta had moved out.

She licked her lips. "Sorry. I've no idea where Lieutenant D'Agosta might be."

He hesitated. "Pendergast never mentioned Decker to you?"

"Never. He was the kind of guy who really kept his cards close, never talked about anyone, least of all himself. Sorry I can't be of more help."

"Like I said, it was a long shot. Let the FBI take care of their own."

Now, at last, he looked directly at her. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee? We've got a few minutes before that meeting."

"No, thanks. I need to make a couple of quick phone calls first."

Singleton nodded, shook her hand, then turned away.

Hayward watched his receding form, thinking. Then, slowly, she turned the other way, preparing to head back to her office. As she did so, everything else suddenly fell away: the murmur of conversations, the people walking past; even the fresh and painful ache in her heart.

She had made the connection.