Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

TWENTY-FOUR

William Smithback Jr. paced around his sumptuous third-floor room at River Oaks. He had to admit that Pendergast was right: the place was gorgeous. His room was luxuriously furnished, albeit in a style that went out with the Victorians: dark crushed-velvet wallpaper, oversize bed with canopy, hulking mahogany furniture. Paintings in gilt frames hung on all four walls: a still life of fruit in a bowl; sunset over the ocean; a pastoral countryside of cows and hayricks. They were real oils, too, not reproductions. While nothing had been actually screwed to the floors or walls, Smithback had noticed an absence of sharp implements, and he'd had the indignity of having his belt and tie taken away upon entrance. There was also a marked absence of telephones.

He strolled thoughtfully over to the large window and stared out. It was snowing, the fat flakes ticking against the glass. Outside, in the dying light, he could see a vast lawn deep in snow, bordered with hedges and gardens-all lumps and mounds of white-and dotted with icicled statuary. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, beyond which stood forest and a winding road that led down the mountain to the nearest town, six miles away. There were no bars on the window, but the small, thick leaded panes looked like they'd be very difficult to break.

Just for the hell of it, he tried to push the window open. Although there was no visible lock, it refused to budge. Smithback tried a little harder. Nothing. He turned away with a shrug.

River Oaks was a huge and rambling structure, perched atop one of the lower peaks of the Catskills: the country retreat of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt in the days before Newport, now converted to a mental hospital for the ultra-privileged. The orderlies and nurses wore discreet black uniforms instead of the usual white, and were ready to attend to every need of the "guests." Aside from light work duty and the daily hour of therapy, he had no set schedule. And the food was fantastic: Smithback, whose work duty was in the kitchen, had learned the head chef was a Cordon Bleu graduate.

But still, Smithback felt miserable. In the few hours he'd been here, he had tried to convince himself to take it easy, that this was for his own good, that he should wallow in luxury. It was a kind of lifestyle that, under other circumstances, he'd almost welcome. He'd told himself to treat it as drama, one he could maybe turn into a book someday. It seemed incredible someone was out to kill him.

But already this personal pep talk was growing stale. At the time of his admittance, he'd still been dazed from the high-speed chase, struck dumb by the suddenness with which his life had been turned around. But now he'd had time to think. Plenty of time. And the questions-and dark speculations -just kept coming.

He told himself that at least there was no need to worry about Nora. On the drive up the New York Thruway, he'd called her himself using Pendergast's phone, making up a story about how the Timeswas sending him on an undercover assignment to Atlantic City to cover a casino scandal, rendering him incommunicado for a while. He had Pendergast's assurance Nora would be safe, and he had never known Pendergast to be wrong. He felt guilty about lying to her, but, after all, he had done it for her sake, and he could explain it all later.

It was his job that preyed most on his mind. Sure, they'd accept he was sick, and no doubt Pendergast would make it convincing. But in the meantime, Harriman would have free reign. Smithback knew that, when he finally got back after his "convalescence," he'd be lucky to get assigned even the Dangler story.

The worst of it was, he didn't even know how long he'd have to stay here.

He turned, pacing again, half mad with worry.

There came a soft knock at the door.

"What is it?" Smithback said irritably.

An elderly nurse stuck her gaunt head inside the room, raven hair pulled back in a severe bun. "Dinner is served, Mr. Jones."

"I'll be right down, thanks."

Edward Jones, troubled son of a Wall Street investment banker, in need of rest, relaxation, and a bit of isolation from the hectic world.It seemed very strange indeed to be playing Edward Jones, to be living in a place where everybody thought you were somebody else. Especiallysomebody not quite right in the head. Only Pendergast's acquaintance, the director of River Oaks-a Dr. Tisander-knew the truth. And Smithback had seen him only in passing while Pendergast was dealing with the admittance paperwork; they hadn't yet had a chance to speak privately.

Exiting his room and closing the door behind him-there were no locks on any of the guests' doors, it seemed-Smithback walked down the long hallway. His footfalls made no noise on the thick rose-colored carpeting. The corridor was of polished, figured mahogany, dark with carved moldings. More oils lined the walls. The only sound was the faint moan of the wind outside. The huge mansion seemed cloaked in a preternatural silence.

Ahead, the corridor opened onto a large landing, framing a grand staircase. From around the corner, he heard low voices. Immediately, with a reporter's instinctive curiosity, he slowed his walk.

"…don't know how much longer I can take working in this loony bin," came a gruff male voice.

"Ah, quit complaining," came a second, higher voice. "The work's easy, the pay's good. The food's great. The crazies are nice and quiet. What the hell's wrong with that?"

It was two orderlies. Smithback, unable to help himself, stopped short, listening.

"It's being stuck out here in the middle of frigging nowhere. On top of a mountain in the dead of winter, nothing around except miles of woods. It messes with your mind."

"Maybe you should come back as a guest." The second orderly guffawed loudly.

"This is serious," came the aggrieved reply. "You know Miss Havisham?"

"Nutcase Nellie? What about her?"

"How she always claims to be seeing people who aren't there?"

"Everyonein this joint sees people who aren't there."

"Well, she's got meseeing things, too. It was early this afternoon. I was heading back up to the fifth floor when I happened to look out the staircase window. There was someone out there, I could swear it. Out there in the snow."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm telling you, I sawit. A dark form, moving fast in the trees. But when I looked back, it was gone."

"Yeah. And how much J.D. had you had before this?"

"None. It's like I told you, this place is-"

Smithback, who'd been edging closer and closer to the edge of the corridor, overbalanced and stumbled forward into the landing. The two men-orderlies in somber black uniforms-abruptly drew apart, their expressions dissolving into emotionless masks.

"May we help you, Mr.-Mr. Jones?" one of them said.

"No, thanks. Just on my way down to the dining room." Smithback made his way down the broad staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.

The dining room was a grand space on the second floor that reminded Smithback of a Park Avenue men's club. There were at least thirty tables within, but the room was so big it could have held dozens more comfortably. Each was covered with a crisp linen tablecloth and arrayed with gleaming-and extremely dull-silverware. Brilliant chandeliers hung from a Wedgwood-blue ceiling. Despite the elegant room, it seemed barbaric to eat dinner at 5 p.m. Guests were already seated at some of the tables, eating methodically, chatting quietly, or staring moodily at nothing. Others were shuffling slowly to their seats.

Oh, God,Smithback thought. The dinner of the living dead.He looked around.

"Mr. Jones?" An orderly came over, as obsequious as any maître d', with the same smirk of superiority behind the mask of servility. "Where would you care to sit?"

"I'll try that table," he said, pointing to one currently occupied by only one young man, who was buttering a dinner roll. He was flawlessly attired-expensive suit, snowy white shirt, gleaming shoes– and he looked the most normal of the bunch. He nodded to Smithback as the journalist sat down.

"Roger Throckmorton," the man said, rising. "Delighted to meet you."

"Edward Jones," Smithback replied, gratified at the cordial reception. He accepted the menu from the waiter and, despite himself, grew quickly absorbed in the long list of offerings. He finally settled on not one, but two main courses-plaice à la Mornayand rack of spring lamb-along with an arugula salad and plover eggs in aspic. He marked his choices on the card beside his place setting, handed the card and the menu to the waiter, then turned once again toward Mr. Throckmorton. He was about Smithback's age, strikingly good-looking, with blond hair carefully parted, and smelling faintly of expensive aftershave. Something about him reminded Smithback of Bryce Harriman; he had that same air of old money and entitlement.

Bryce Harriman…

With a mighty effort, Smithback drove the image from his mind. He caught the eye of the man across the table. "So," he said, "what brings you here?" He realized only after asking the question how inappropriate it was.

But the man didn't seem to take it amiss. "Probably the same as you. I'm crazy." And then he chuckled to show he was kidding. "Seriously, I got in a bit of a scrape, and my father sent me up here for a short, ah, rest. Nothing serious."

"How long have you been here?"

"Couple of months. And what brings you here?"

"Same. Rest." Smithback cast around for a way to redirect the conversation. Whatdo lunatics talk about, anyway?He reminded himself the extreme nutcases were kept in the quiet ward, located in another wing. Guests here, in the main section of the mansion, were simply "troubled."

Throckmorton placed his dinner roll on a plate, dabbed primly at his mouth with a napkin. "You just arrived today, didn't you?"

"That's right."

The waiter brought their drinks-tea for Throckmorton, a tomato juice for Smithback, who was annoyed he couldn't get his usual single-malt Scotch. His eye stole once again around the room. Everybody in the place moved so sluggishly, spoke so softly: it all seemed like a banquet in slow motion. Jesus, I don't think I can take much more of this.He tried to remind himself of what Pendergast had said-how he was the target of a murderer, how being here not only kept him safe, but Nora as well-yet already, even after a single day, it was getting hard to bear. Why would a dangerous killer be after him? It made no sense. For all he knew, that Mercedes, that bullet, had been meant for Pendergast, not him. Besides, Smithback knew how to handle himself. He'd been in rough situations before-some of them really rough…

Once again, he forced his thoughts back to his dinner companion.

"So what do you… think of the place?" he asked a little lamely.

"Oh, not a bad old pile, actually." There was an amused gleam in the man's eye as he spoke that made Smithback think he might have found an ally.

"You don't get tired of all this? Of not getting out?"

"It was much nicer in the fall, of course. The grounds are spectacular. The snow is a bit confining, I'll admit, but what's there to 'get out' to, anyway?"

Smithback digested this a moment.

"So what do you do, Edward?" Throckmorton asked. "For a living."

Smithback mentally reviewed Pendergast's briefing. "My father's an investment banker. Wall Street. I work for his firm."

"My family's on Wall Street, too."

A lightbulb went on in Smithback's head. "You're not thatThrockmorton, are you?"

The man across the table smiled. "I'm afraid so. At least, one of them. We're a rather large family."

The waiter returned with their entrées-brook trout for Throckmorton, the twin dishes of plaice and lamb for Smithback. Throckmorton looked over at Smithback's heaping portions. "I hate to see a man with no appetite," he said.

Smithback laughed. This fellow wasn't crazy at all. "I never pass up a free meal."

He raised his knife and fork and tucked into the plaice. He began to feel ever so slightly better. The food was superb. And this Roger Throckmorton seemed a decent enough guy. River Oaks might just be bearable for another day or two if he had somebody to talk to. Of course, he'd have to be careful not to blow his cover.

"What do people here do all day?" he mumbled through a mouthful of fish.

"I'm sorry?"

Smithback swallowed. "How do you pass the time?"

Throckmorton chuckled. "I keep a journal and write poetry. I try to keep up with the market, in a desultory kind of way. In good weather, I like to stroll the grounds."

Smithback nodded, speared another piece of fish. "And the evenings?"

"Well, they have billiard tables in the first-floor salon, and games of bridge and whist in the library. And there's chess-that's fun when I can find a partner. But a lot of the time I just read. Recently, I've been reading a lot of poetry. Last night, for example, I began The Canterbury Tales."

Smithback nodded his approval. "My favorite bit is 'The Miller's Tale.' "

"I think mine is the General Prologue. It's full of so much hope for renewal, for rebirth." Throckmorton sat back in his chair and quoted the opening lines. "Whan that April with his showres soote / The droughte of March hath perced to the roote."

Smithback cast his memory back over the prologue, managed to dredge up a few lines. "Or how about this: Bifel that in that seson on a day, / In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay-"

"Fishing, with the arid plain behind me."

It took Smithback, who had turned his attention to the lamb, a moment to register this change. "Wait a minute. That's not Chaucer, that's-"

"Out, out, brief candle!" Throckmorton sat up very stiff, almost as if at attention.

Smithback paused in the midst of forking up a piece of lamb, the smile freezing on his face. "I'm sorry?"

"Did you hear something just now?" Throckmorton had paused as if listening, head cocked to one side.

"Ah… no."

Throckmorton cocked his head again. "Yes, I'll take care of it right away."

"Take care of what?"

Throckmorton fixed him with an annoyed eye. "I wasn't speaking to you."

"Oh. Sorry."

Throckmorton rose from the table, dabbed primly at his lips, carefully folded his napkin. "I hope you'll forgive me, Edward, but I have a business appointment."

"Right," said Smithback, aware that the smile was still frozen on his lips.

"Yes." Throckmorton leaned over and said, in a conspiratorial whisper: "And it's a dreadful responsibility, I don't mind telling you. But when He comes calling, who are we to refuse?"

"He?"

"The Lord our God." Throckmorton straightened up, shook Smithback's hand. "It's been a pleasure. I hope we'll meet again soon."

And he walked with a jaunty step out of the room.

TWENTY-FIVE

D'Agosta walked slowly through the cavernous open space of the Homicide Division, feeling self-conscious. Even though he was a lieutenant in the NYPD, and had more or less carte blanche to wander the halls of One Police Plaza as he chose, he nonetheless felt as if he were a spy within enemy territory.

I must know more,Pendergast had said. Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical.It was crystal clear what he meant: he needed the file on Charles Duchamp. And it was just as clear he expected D'Agosta to get it for him.

Only it hadn't been as easy as D'Agosta initially anticipated. He'd been back on the job just two days, and he'd been forced to spend more time than expected catching up on the Dangler case. The wack-job seemed to be getting more brazen with each crime: already he'd robbed three more ATMs in the two days D'Agosta was away. And now, with the Duchamp murder, there was less manpower available for stakeouts. Coordinating the two-man teams, talking with the branch managers at the affected banks, had eaten up a lot of time. The fact was, he'd been allocating more of the work than he should have, and he was way behind on interviewing potential eyewitnesses. But always, he remembered the urgency in Pendergast's voice. Therewas a message in that urgency: We have to work fast, Vincent. Before he kills again.

And yet, though he'd wasted precious work hours poring through online records of the Duchamp murder, there was little in the wide-access database he didn't already know-or that Pendergast himself didn't have access to with his laptop. There was nothing else for it: he'd have to go get the case file.

In his left hand, he carried a small sheaf of papers: yesterday's interviews with a possible Dangler eyewitness, brought along merely as camouflage, something to hold. He glanced at his watch as he walked. Ten minutes to six. The huge room was still buzzing with activity-police officers talking together in small groups, on the phone, or, more commonly, typing at computers. Divisional offices always had 24/7 coverage, and in any precinct house, you were guaranteed to find-at any hour of the day or night-somebody at their desk, doing paperwork. Most of a cop's life was spent doing paperwork, it seemed, and nowhere was there more paperwork than in Homicide.

But D'Agosta didn't mind all the activity. In fact, he welcomed it. If anything, it helped him blend in. The important thing was that Laura Hayward would be away from heroffice. It was Thursday, and Commissioner Rocker would be holding one of his state-of-the-force meetings. Thanks to the Duchamp case, she was sure to be there.

He glanced a little guiltily toward the far end of the room. Her office was there, door wide open, desk covered with paperwork. At the sight of the desk, an electric current ran briefly through his loins. It wasn't many months ago that Laura's desk had been used for something quite different from paperwork. He sighed. But, of course, her office then had been on the floor above. And a hell of a lot had happened since-most of it bad.

He pulled his gaze away and glanced around. To his right was a series of empty desks, nameplates at their fronts and computer terminals to one side. Ahead and along the left wall were at least a dozen horizontal file cabinets, stacked from floor to ceiling. These held the files of all active homicide cases.

The good news was that Duchamp was an active case. All closed cases were kept in storage, which meant signing in and out and a host of related security problems. The bad news was that, because it wasan active case, he had to examine the evidence right here, in front of the entire Homicide Division.

He glanced around again, still feeling ridiculously exposed. Hesitation is what's going to do you in here, pal,he told himself. Forcing himself to move as slowly and casually as possible, he approached the cabinets. Unlike other divisions, which sorted their cases by case number, Homicide sorted active files by victim's last name. He slowed further, eyeing the labels covertly: DA-DE. DE-DO. DO-EB.

Here we go.D'Agosta stopped at the appropriate cabinet, pulled out the drawer. Dozens of green hanging folders met his eye. My God, how many active homicides are they investigating here?

Now was the time to move quickly. Turning away from the rows of desks, he began flipping the files from left to right, pushing the name tabs with an index finger. Donatelli, Donato, Donazzi… what, was it Mafia Week here in Homicide? Dowson. Dubliawitz.

Duggins.

Oh, shit.

D'Agosta paused, finger on the case file of a Randall Duggins. The one thing he hadn't wanted to consider was the possibility that the Duchamp case file wouldn't be in the cabinet.

Could Laura have it? Would she have left it on her desk when she went to meet with Rocker? Or was it perhaps with one of her detectives?

Whatever the case, he was screwed. He'd have to come back again, some other time-some other shift, so as not to arouse suspicion with the same group. But when else could he come back and still be sure Laura wouldn't be here? She was a workaholic; she could be here at almost any hour. Especially now, when she didn't have a reason to be home.

D'Agosta felt his shoulders sag. He fetched a sigh, then dropped his hand from the file to the cabinet, preparing to close it.

As he did so, he got a glimpse of the file behind Randall Duggins's. It was labeled Charles Duchamp.

Now, there's a break. Somebody in a hurry must have misfiled it.

D'Agosta plucked it from the cabinet and began leafing through it. The case file was much heavier than he expected. Laura had complained about the paucity of evidence. But there had to be a dozen thick documents here: fingerprint analyses and comparisons, reports of investigation, debriefing reports, interview summaries, evidence acquisition reports, toxicology and lab reports. Leave it to Hayward to somehow document even a shitty case well.

He'd been hoping to give everything a quick once-over, return the case file, then find Pendergast and give him an oral report. But there was way too much here for that. No choice: he'd have to photocopy everything, and fast.

Once again moving as casually as possible, he slid the cabinet closed, looking left and right as he did so. A large photocopier stood in the middle of the room, but it was surrounded by desks, and, as he watched, an officer went over to use it. Taking the case file off the floor and copying it elsewhere was out of the question: too risky. But large divisions like Homicide usually had several copiers. There had to be another one close by. Where the hell was it?

There.On the far wall, close to Hayward's office, a copier sat between a bulletin board and a watercooler.

Quickly, D'Agosta approached. It was working, and it didn't require an access code to use: his luck, such as it was, still held. But he'd have to hurry: it was getting close to six, and Rocker's meeting wouldn't last much longer.

He dumped the case file on the edge of the copier, placed the Dangler paperwork on top. Just in case he was interrupted, he decided to start with the most important-the case officer's report– and work his way from there. He pulled the report from the folder and started copying.

The minutes crawled slowly by. Maybe it was the fact he had a tall stack of papers, or maybe it was because this machine was far from the desks of the homicide squad, but nobody else came up to use the machine. He made his way through the lab results, toxicology reports, fingerprint analyses, and interviews, working as fast as he could, stuffing each completed sheet beneath the Dangler paperwork.

He glanced again at his watch. It was past 6:15 now, almost 6:20. He had to get the hell out: Laura could come back at any time…

At that moment, a homicide lieutenant-somebody D'Agosta recognized as one of Hayward's most trusted associates-appeared at the far end of the division. That was it: his cue to leave. Finishing up the last interview report, he rearranged the files, stacked the photocopies into a crisp pile, and returned the hanging folder to the file cabinet. He hadn't copied everything, but he'd gotten the most important documents. This, along with what evidence Pendergast had obtained from New Orleans, should be a huge help. Closing the cabinet, he began making his way to the exit, once again careful to maintain an air of casualness.

The walk seemed to take forever, and at any moment he expected to see Laura appear in the doorway ahead. But at last, he gained the relative safety of the central corridor. Now it was just a question of gaining the elevator that lay directly ahead.

The corridor was relatively empty, and nobody was waiting at the elevator bank. He stepped forward, pressed the down button. Within moments, a descending elevator chimed, and he walked toward it just as the doors opened.

The elevator compartment beyond was empty except for one person: Glen Singleton.

For a moment, D'Agosta stood motionless, rooted in place with surprise. This had to be a nightmare, he decided: this kind of thing just didn't happen in real life.

Singleton gazed back at him, cool and level. "You're holding up the elevator, Vincent," he said.

Quickly, D'Agosta stepped in. Singleton punched a button and the doors whispered closed.

Singleton waited until the elevator was descending again before speaking. "I'm just coming from Rocker's state-of-the-force meeting," he said.

D'Agosta silently cursed himself. He should have known Singleton might have attended the meeting; he wasn't thinking straight.

Singleton glanced toward D'Agosta again. He didn't say anything further; he didn't need to. And just what are you doing here yourself?the gaze clearly said.

D'Agosta thought fast. He'd spent the last two days doing his best to avoid Singleton and this very question. Whatever he said, it had to sound believable.

"I'd heard a homicide detective might have been an inadvertent witness, post-fact, to the most recent Dangler job," he said. "I thought I'd take a minute to check it out." And he raised his sheaf of Dangler paperwork as if to underscore the point.

Singleton nodded slowly. It sounded credible, yet was just amorphous enough to allow D'Agosta some wiggle room.

"What was the detective's name again?" Singleton asked in his mild voice.

D'Agosta held his expression, careful not to betray any surprise or doubt. He thought back to the rows of empty desks he'd just passed, tried to recall the names on the nameplates. "Detective Conte," he said. "Michael Conte."

Singleton nodded again.

"He wasn't around," D'Agosta said. "Next time I'll just call."

There was a moment of silence as the elevator descended.

"You haven't heard of an FBI agent named Decker, have you?" Singleton asked.

Once again, D'Agosta had to work to keep the surprise from showing on his face. "Decker? I don't think so. Why?"

"The man was killed in his house in D.C. the other day. Seems he was good friends with Special Agent Pendergast, who I know you worked with before his disappearance. Did Pendergast ever mention Decker-any enemies he might have had, for example?"

D'Agosta pretended to think. "No, I don't think he ever did."

Another brief silence.

"I'm glad to see you're at work," Singleton went on. "Because I've been getting a few reports of items left unattended these last two days. Tasks half done, or not done at all. Jobs delegated unnecessarily."

"Sir," D'Agosta said. This was all true, but he tried to let a little righteous indignation trickle into his voice. "I'm playing catch-up as quickly as I can. There's a lot to do."

"I've also heard that, instead of working the angles on the Dangler case, you've been asking a lot of questions about the Duchamp murder."

"Duchamp?" D'Agosta repeated. "It's an unusual case, Captain. I guess I'm as curious as the next man."

Singleton nodded again, more slowly. He had a unique way of letting his expression telegraph his thoughts for him, and right now that expression was saying, You mean a lot more curious than the next man.But once again, he changed tack. "Something wrong with your radio, Lieutenant?"

Hell.D'Agosta had intentionally left it off that afternoon, in hopes of avoiding just such a cross-examination. He should have known this would excite even more suspicion.

"As a matter of fact, it seems to be acting kind of wonky today," he said, patting his jacket pocket.

"Better have it checked out. Or get yourself issued a new one."

"Right away."

"Is there something the matter, Lieutenant?"

The question was asked so quickly on the heels of the last one that D'Agosta was momentarily taken aback. "Sir?"

"I mean, with your mother. Is everything all right?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. The prognosis is better than I'd hoped. Thank you for asking."

"And you're okay with being back on the job?"

"Completely okay, Captain."

The elevator slowed, but Singleton still held D'Agosta's gaze. "That's good," he said. "That's good to hear. Because the truth is, Vincent, I'd rather have somebody not here at all than have him only half here. You know what I mean?"

D'Agosta nodded. "Yes, I do."

Singleton smiled faintly as the doors opened. Then he extended one hand. "After you, Lieutenant."