Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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THIRTY-FOUR

Laura Hayward walked quickly through the museum's Great Hall, the early morning light casting parallel banners through its tall bronze windows. She strode through the bands of light with purpose, as if the physical act of walking would somehow prepare her for what was to come. Beside her, almost skipping to keep up, was Jack Manetti, head of museum security. Behind them followed a silent but swift phalanx of NYPD homicide detectives and museum personnel.

"Mr. Manetti, I'm assuming the exhibition has a security system. Correct?"

"State-of-the-art. We're just completing a full overhaul."

"Overhaul? Wasn't the exhibit alarmed?"

"It was. We've got redundancies built into each zone. Strange thing is, no alarm went off."

"Then how'd the perp get in?"

"At this point, we have no idea. We've compiled a list of everyone who had access to the exhibition space."

"I'll want to talk to them all."

"Here's the list." Manetti pulled a printout from his jacket pocket.

"Good man." Hayward took it, scanned it, handed it to one of the detectives behind her. "Tell me about the system."

"It's based on magnetic keys. The system keeps track of everyone coming and going after hours. I have a register of that, as well." He handed her another document.

They rounded the corner of the Hall of Ocean Life. Hayward walked past the great blue whale, hanging ominously from the ceiling, without even a glance.

"Any key cards reported missing?"

"No."

"Can they be duplicated?"

"I'm told it's impossible."

"Someone could have borrowed a card, perhaps?"

"That's possible, although as of now all cards except the victim's are accounted for. I'll be looking into that specific question."

"So will we. Of course, the perp might be a museum employee with prior access."

"I doubt it."

Hayward grunted. She doubted it herself, but you never knew– she'd seen more than her share of certifiable lunatics wandering around this old pile. As soon as she'd heard about this case, she'd asked to be assigned, despite still being busy with the Duchamp murder. She had a theory-no, call it more of a premonition-that the two were connected. And if she was right, it was going to be big. Very big.

They passed through the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, then stopped before the oversize portal leading to the Sacred Images exhibition. The door itself was open but taped off, and beyond, Hayward could hear the murmurings of the SOC team working the scene. "You, you, and you"-she jabbed her finger at detectives in turn– "pass the tape with me. The rest wait here and keep back the curious. Mr. Manetti? You come, too."

"When Dr. Collopy arrives-?"

"This is a crime scene. Keep him out. I'm sorry."

Manetti didn't even argue. His face was the color of putty and it was pretty clear he hadn't even had time for his morning cup of coffee.

She ducked under the police tape, nodded to the waiting sergeant, signed his clipboard. Then she entered the foyer of the exhibition, moving slower now, far more deliberate. SOC and forensics would have already gone over ingress and egress, but it was always good to keep an eye open.

The truncated group wound its way through the first room, past almost completed exhibits, stepping over the odd piece of lumber, and then into the exhibition's second room: the scene of the crime itself. Here a chalk outline delineated where the victim had fallen. There was quite a lot of blood. The SOC photographer had already documented the scene and was awaiting any special requests Hayward, as the investigating officer, might have. Two members of the SOC team were still on their hands and knees with tweezers.

She eyed the scene almost fiercely, her eye roving over the central pool of blood, across various splatters, bloody footprints, smears. She gestured to Hank Barris, the senior SOC officer. He rose, put away his tweezers, came over.

"What a damn mess," she said.

"The paramedics worked on the victim for a while."

"The murder weapon?"

"A knife. It went with the victim to the hospital. You know, you can't pull it out-"

"I'm aware of that," snapped Hayward. "Did you see the original scene?"

"No. The EMTs had already messed it up by the time I arrived."

"ID on the victim?"

"Not that I know of, at least not yet. I could call the hospital."

"Any witnesses to the original scene?"

Barris nodded. "One. A technician named Enderby. Larry Enderby."

Hayward turned. "Bring him in."

"In here?"

"That's what I said."

A silence ensued while Hayward looked around, body completely still, her dark eyes the only thing moving. She scrutinized the blood splatters, making rough estimates of trajectories, speed, and origin.

Slowly, a general picture of the crime began to come together in her mind.

"Captain? Mr. Enderby is ready."

Hayward turned to see a surprisingly young, pimply man with black hair and a ninety-eight-pound-weakling physique. A T-shirt, a Mets cap worn backward, and a pair of ratty jeans completed the picture.

At first, she thought his high-tops were dyed red, until she saw them closer.

A policeman ushered him forward.

"You were the first to find the victim?"

"Yes, ma'am… I mean… Officer." He was already flustered.

"You may call me Captain," she said gently. "What's your position at the museum, Mr. Enderby?"

"I'm a systems technician, grade one."

"What were you doing in the hall at three a.m.?"

The voice was high and quavery, ready to break. Always the timidest who find the deadest,Hayward remembered her former professor of forensic psychology at NYU joking. Hayward swallowed, tried to make her voice sympathetic. It wouldn't do to have Enderby crack up.

"Checking the install of the new security system."

"I see. Was security up and running in the hall?"

"Mostly. We're running some updated software routines, and there was a glitch. My boss-"

"His name?"

"Walt Smith."

"Proceed."

"My boss sent me down to see if the power had been cut."

"Was it?"

"Yeah. It was. Someone had cut a power cable."

Hayward glanced at Barris.

"We know about it, Captain. It appears the perp cut the cable to kill the emergency lights, the better to ambush the victim."

"So what is this new security system?" she asked, turning back to Enderby.

"Well, it's multilayered and redundant. There are motion sensors, live video feeds, crisscrossing infrared laser beams, vibration sensors, and air pressure sensors."

"Sounds impressive."

"It is. For the past six months, the museum's been upgrading the security in each hall, one after another, to the latest version of the system."

"What does that involve?"

Enderby took a deep breath. "Interfacing with the security contractors, reconfiguring the monitoring software, running a test bed, that sort of thing. All on a rigid schedule calibrated to an atomic satellite clock. And it has to happen at night, when the museum's closed,"

"I see. So you came down here to check the power failure and found the body."

"That's right."

"If you can manage it, Mr. Enderby, could you look at the scene here and describe for me exactly how the victim was lying?"

"Well… the body… the body was lying just as it's outlined, one arm thrown out like you see. There was an ivory-handled knife sticking out of the small of the back, buried to the hilt."

"Did you touch or try to remove the knife?"

"No."

Hayward nodded. "The victim's right hand, was it open or closed?"

"Ah, it seems to me it was open." Enderby swallowed painfully.

"Bear with me, Mr. Enderby. The victim was moved before the photographer arrived, so all we have is your memory."

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"The left foot: turned in or out?"

"Out."

"And the right?"

"In."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think I'll ever forget. The body was kind of twisted a little."

"How so?"

"Kind of lying facedown, but with the legs almost crossed."

The act of talking seemed to be helping Enderby get a grip on himself. He was turning out to be a good witness.

"And the blood on your shoes? How'd that happen?"

Enderby stared at his shoes, eyes widening. "Oh. I… I rushed over and tried to help."

Hayward's respect for the young man went up a notch. "Describe your movements."

"Let's see… I was standing there when I saw the body. I stopped, ran over. I knelt, felt for a pulse, and I guess that's when I… stepped in the blood. I got blood on my hands, too, but I washed that off."

Hayward nodded, adding those facts to her mental reconstruction.

"Any pulse?"

"I don't think so. I was hyperventilating, it was hard to tell. I don't really know how to read a pulse too well. First I rang security-"

"On a house phone?"

"Yes, around the corner. Then I tried mouth-to-mouth, but within a minute, a guard arrived."

"The guard's name?"

"Roscoe Wall."

Hayward nodded to one of the detectives to note this.

"Then the paramedics came. They basically pushed me away."

Hayward nodded. "Mr. Enderby, if you could just step aside with Detective Hardcastle for a few minutes, I might have more questions."

She returned to the first room of the exhibition, looked around, then walked slowly back. A thin scattering of sawdust on the floor, despite having been stirred up, retained traces of the struggle. She bent to examine the small sprays of blood. A mental splatter analysis helped finalize her general understanding of what had happened. The victim had been ambushed in the first exhibit room of the hall. Perhaps he'd even been followed from the opposite end of the exhibition-there was a rear door, she'd been told, although it had been found secured and locked. It looked like they had circled each other for a moment. Then the killer grabbed the victim, twisted him sideways; struck him with the knife while moving fast in a lateral motion…

She closed her eyes a moment, visualizing the choreography of murder.

Then she reopened them, zeroing in at a tiny spot, off to one side, that she'd noticed in passing on her initial circuit of the room. She walked over and stood looking down at it: a drop of blood about the size of a dime, a quiet little drop that appeared to have fallen vertically, from a stationary subject, from a height of about five feet.

She pointed at it. "Hank, I want this entire drop taken out, floorboard and all. Photograph it in situ first. I want DNA on it, yesterday.Run it against all the databases."

"Sure thing, Captain."

She looked around, her eyes traveling on a tangent from the chalk outline, through the lone drop of blood, to the far wall. There she saw a large dent in the new wooden floor molding. Her eyes sharply narrowed. "And Hank?"

He looked up.

"I think you might find the victim's own weapon behind that exhibit case."

The man rose, walked over, peered behind.

"I'll be damned."

"What is it?" Hayward asked.

"A box cutter."

"Blood?"

"Not that I can see."

"Bag it and run every test in the book. And run it against that spot you just took out. You'll find a match, I'll bet my last dollar."

As she stood there, somehow unwilling to take her eyes off the scene, another thought occurred to her. "Bring Enderby back."

A moment later, Detective Hardcastle returned, Enderby in tow.

"You said you gave the victim mouth-to-mouth?"

"Yes, Captain."

"You recognized him, I assume."

"Her, not him. Yes, I did."

"Who was it?"

"Margo Green."

Hayward stiffened, as if coming to attention. "Margo Green?"

"Yes. I understand she used to be a graduate student here. Anyway, she'd returned to be editor of…"

His voice faded into the background. Hayward was no longer listening. She was thinking back half a dozen years to the subway murders and the famous Central Park riot, when she was a lowly T.A. cop, and to the Margo Green she had met back then-the young, feisty, and deeply courageous woman who'd risked her life and helped crack open the case.

What a shitty world it was.

THIRTY-FIVE

Smithback SAT glumly in the same chair he had occupied the day before, feeling an unpleasant sense of déjà vu. The same fire seemed to be flickering in the ornate marble fireplace, lending a faint perfume of burning birchwood to the air; the same sporting prints decorated the walls; and the same snowy landscape presented itself through the bow windows.

Worse, the same director sat behind his gigantic desk with the same pitying, condescending smile on his well-shaven face. He was giving Smithback the reproachful-stare treatment. Smithback's head still throbbed painfully from running full tilt into a cement wall in the dark, and he felt deeply humiliated for panicking at the footsteps of a mere orderly. And he also felt like a real jerk for thinking he could beat the security system in such a ham-handed way. All he had accomplished was to confirm the director's opinion that he was a nutcase.

"Well, well, Edward," said Dr. Tisander, clasping his veined hands together. "That was quite an escapade you had last night. I do apologize if orderly Montaney gave you a start. I trust you found the medical care at our infirmary satisfactory?"

Smithback ignored the patronizing question. "What I want to know is, why was he sneaking around after me like that in the first place? I could've been killed!"

"Running into a wall? I hardlythink so." Another genial smile. "Although you were lucky to avoid a concussion."

Smithback didn't respond. The dressing on the side of his head" tightened uncomfortably whenever he moved his jaw.

"I amsurprised at you, Edward. I thought I'd already explained it to you: just because we don't appearto have security doesn't mean we don't havesecurity. That's the whole purpose of our facility. The security is unobtrusive, so that our guests don't feel uncomfortable."

Smithback felt irritated by the word guest.They were inmates, pure and simple.

"We followed your nocturnal perambulations via the infrared beams you interrupted and the motion sensors you moved past. It wasn't until you actually penetrated the basement that orderly Montaney was dispatched to tail you unobtrusively. He followed protocol to the letter. I imagine you thought you'd escape on one of the food service trucks; that's usually what they try first."

Smithback felt like leaping up and wrapping his hands around the good doctor's neck. They? I'm not crazy, you idiot!But he didn't. He realized now what an exquisite catch-22 he was in: the more he insisted he was sane, the more excited he became, the more he validated the doctor's opinion to the contrary.

"I just want to know how much longer I'm going to be here," he said.

"That remains to be seen. I must say, this escape attempt does not lead me to think your departure will be any time soon. It shows resistance on your part to being helped. We can't help you until we have your cooperation, Mr. Jones. And we can't release you until we've helped you. As I am fond of saying, youare the most important person in your cure."

Smithback balled his fists, making a supreme effort not to respond.

"I have to tell you, Edward, that another escape attempt will result in certain changes to your domestic arrangements that might not be to your liking. My advice is, accept your situation and work with us.

Right from the beginning, I have sensed an unusual amount of passive-aggressive resistance on your part."

That's because I'm as sane as you are.Smithback swallowed, tried to muster an obsequious smile. He needed to be a lot more clever if he was going to escape, that much was clear.

"Yes, Dr. Tisander. I understand."

"Good, good! Now we're making progress."

There hadto be a way out. If the Count of Monte Cristo could escape the Château d'If, William Smithback could escape from River Oaks.

"Dr. Tisander, what do I have to do to get out of here?"

"Cooperate. Let us help you. Go to your sessions, devote all your energies to getting better, make a personal commitment to cooperate with the staff and orderlies. The only way anyone leaves here is carrying a document with my signature release on it."

"The only way?"

"That's correct. I make the final decision-based, of course, on expert medical and, if necessary, legal advice."

Smithback looked at him. "Legal?"

"Psychiatry has two masters: medicine and law."

"I don't understand."

Tisander was clearly getting into his favorite subject. His voice took on a pontifical ring. "Yes, Edward, we must deal with legal as well as medical issues. Take yourself, for instance. Your family, who love you and are concerned for your welfare, have committed you here. That's a legal as well as a medical process. It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with utter scrupulousness."

"I'm sorry… did you say my family?"

"That's right. Who else would commit you, Edward?"

"You know my family?"

"I've met your father, Jack Jones. A fine man indeed. We all want to do what's right for you, Edward."

"What'd he look like?"

A puzzled expression crossed Tisander's face, and Smithback cursed himself for asking such an obviously crazy question. "I mean, when did you see him?"

"When you were brought here. He signed all the requisite papers."

Pendergast,Smithback thought. Damn him.

Tisander rose, held out his hand. "And now, Edward, is there anything else?"

Smithback took it. The germ of an idea had seeded itself in his mind. "Yes, one thing."

Tisander raised his eyebrows, the same condescending smile on his face.

"There's a library here, isn't there?"

"Of course. Beyond the billiard room."

"Thank you."

As he exited, Smithback caught a glimpse of Tisander settling back down at his enormous claw-footed desk, smoothing his tie, his face still wearing a self-satisfied smile.

THIRTY-SIX

A watery winter light was fading over the river as D'Agosta reached the old door on Hudson Street. He paused for a moment, taking a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. He'd followed Pendergast's complicated instructions to the letter. The agent had moved yet again-he seemed determined to keep one step ahead of Diogenes-and D'Agosta wondered, with a dull curiosity, what disguise he had assumed now.

Finally, having composed himself and taken one last look around to make sure there was no one near, he tapped on the door seven times and waited. A moment later, it was opened by a man who, from all appearances, was a derelict in the last stages of addiction. Even though D'Agosta knew this was Pendergast, he was startled– once again-by the effectiveness of his appearance.

Without a word, Pendergast ushered him in, padlocked the door behind him, and led him down a dank stairwell to a noisome basement room filled by a large boiler and heating pipes. An oversize cardboard carton piled with soiled blankets, a plastic milk crate with a candle and some dishware, and a neat stack of tinned food completed the picture.

Pendergast swiped a rag from the floor, exposing an iMac G5 with a Bluetooth wireless Internet connection. Beside it lay a well-thumbed stack of papers: the photocopied case file that D'Agosta had purloined from headquarters, along with other reports that, D'Agosta assumed, were from the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. Clearly, Pendergast had been studying everything with great care.

"I…" D'Agosta didn't quite know how to begin. He felt rage take hold once again. "That bastard. That son of a bitch.My God, to murder Margo-"

He fell silent. Words just couldn't convey the shaking fury, turmoil, and disbelief he felt inside. He hadn't known Margo was back in New York, let alone working at the museum, but he'd known her well in years past. They'd worked together on the museum and subway murders. She'd been a brave, resourceful, intelligent woman. She hadn't deserved to go out like this: stalked and killed in a darkened exhibition hall.

Pendergast was silent as he rapped at the computer keyboard. But his face was bathed in sweat, and D'Agosta could see that was not part of the act. He was feeling it, too.

"Diogenes lied when he said Smithback would be the next victim," D'Agosta said.

Without looking up, Pendergast reached into the crate and pulled out a ziplock bag with a tarot card and a note inside, handing it to D'Agosta.

He glanced at the tarot card. It depicted a tall, orange brick tower, being struck by multiple bolts of lightning. It was afire, and tiny figures were falling from its turrets toward the grass far beneath. He turned his attention to the note.

Ave, frater!

Since when did I ever tell you the truth? One would think after all these years you'd have learned by now I am a skillful liar. While you were busy hiding the braggart Smithback-and I commend you for your cleverness there, for I haven't yet found him-I was free to plot the death of Margo Green. Who, by the way, put up a most spirited struggle.

Wasn't it all so very clever of me?

I'll tell you a secret, brother: I'm in a confessional mood. And so I will name my next victim: Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta.

Amusing, what? Am I telling the truth? Am I lying again? What a delicious conundrum for you, dear brother.

I bid you, not adieu,but au revoir.

Diogenes

D'Agosta handed the note back to Pendergast. He felt a strange sensation in his gut. It wasn't fear-no, not fear at all-but a fresh groundswell of hatred. He was shaking with it.

"Bring the motherfucker on," he said.

"Have a seat, Vincent. We have very little time."

It was the first thing Pendergast had said, and D'Agosta was silenced by the deep seriousness in his voice. He eased himself down onto a crate.

"What's with the tarot card?" he asked.

"It's the Tower, from El Gran Tarot Esotéricovariant of the deck. The card is said to indicate destruction, a time of sudden change."

"No kidding."

"I've spent all day compiling a list of potential victims and making arrangements for their protection. I've had to call in virtually every favor I'm owed, which will have the unfortunate collateral effect of blowing my cover. Those I have dealt with have promised to keep things to themselves, but it's only a matter of time before the news will come out that I'm alive. Vincent, take a look at this list."

D'Agosta leaned over and looked at the document on the screen. On it were a lot of names he recognized, along with many others he didn't know.

"Is there anyone else you feel should be on here?"

D'Agosta stared at the list. "Hayward." The thought of her sent a twinge through his gut.

"Hayward is the one person I know whom Diogenes will certainly nottarget. There are reasons for this that I cannot yet explain to you."

"And what about…" D'Agosta hesitated. Pendergast was an extremely private person and he wondered how he would react to him mentioning hername. "Viola Maskelene?"

"I have thought a great deal about her," he said in a low tone. He looked down at his white hands. "She's still on the island of Capraia, which in many ways is a perfect fortress for her. It's almost impossible to get to, involving several days' travel. There's only one small harbor, and a stranger-no matter how disguised-would be instantly noted. Diogenes is here in New York. He can't reach her quickly, nor would he ever operate with a proxy. And finally"-his voice dropped-"Diogenes can know nothing of my-my interestin her. No one else in the world but you are aware of that. As far as Diogenes is concerned, she's simply a person I interviewed once with regard to a violin. On the other hand, if I were to take steps to protect her, it might actually alert Diogenes to her existence."

"I can see that."

"So in her case I have opted to leave things as is."

He unclasped his hands. "I have taken steps to protect the others, whether they like it or not. Which brings us to the most difficult question: what about you, Vincent?"

"I'm not going into hiding. As I said, bring him on. I'll be the bait. I'd rather die than run like a dog from Margo's killer."

"I'm not going to argue with you. The risk you're taking is enormous-you know that."

"I certainly do. And I'm prepared for it."

"I believe you are. Margo's attack was patterned after the murder of a spinster aunt of mine, who was stabbed in the back with a pearl-handled letter opener by a disgruntled servant. It's still possible that there's evidence from the scene of the attack that can help lead us to Diogenes-I'll need your help there. When word of my continuing existence reaches the police, there is going to be a serious problem."

"How so?"

Pendergast shook his head. "When the time comes, you'll understand. How long you choose to stay with me is, of course, up to you. At a certain point, I intend to take the law into my own hands. I would never entrust Diogenes to the criminal justice system."

D'Agosta nodded brusquely. "I'm with you all the way."

"The worst is yet to come. For me, and especially for you."

"That bastard killed Margo. End of discussion."

Pendergast placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Vincent. One of the best."

D'Agosta did not respond. He was wondering at Pendergast's enigmatic words.

"I've arranged for all who might be likely targets of Diogenes to go to ground. That is phase one. And this brings us to phase two: stopping Diogenes. My initial plan failed utterly. It has been said: 'When you lose, don't lose the lesson.' The lesson here is that I cannot defeat my brother alone. I assumed that I knew him best, that I could predict his next move, that with enough evidence I could stop him myself. I've been proven wrong-devastatingly so. I need help."

"You've got me."

"Yes, and I'm grateful. But I was referring to another kind of help. Professionalhelp."

"Like what?"

"I'm too close to Diogenes. I'm not objective, and I'm not calm-especially now. I have learned the hard way that I don't understand my brother and never have. What I need is an expert psychological profiler to create a forensic model of my brother. It will be an extraordinarily difficult task, as he is a psychologically unique individual."

"I know of several excellent forensic profilers."

"Not just any will do. I need one who is truly exceptional."He turned and began scribbling a note. "Go to the Riverside Drive house and give this to my man Proctor, who will pass it on to Constance. If this individual exists, Constance will find him."

D'Agosta took the note, folded it into his pocket.

"We're almost out of time: two days until January 28."

"Any idea yet what the date could mean?"

"None, except that it will be the climax of my brother's crime."

"How do you know he isn't lying about the date, too?"

Pendergast paused. "I don't. But instinct tells me it's real. And at the moment, that's all I have left: instinct."