Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

FIFTY-SIX

The cab pulled up in front of the Times Building. Smithback impatiently signed the credit card receipt-the fare was $425-paying with the card he'd picked up at his apartment. He handed the slip back to the cabbie, who took it with a frown.

"Where's the tip?" the driver said.

"Are you kidding? I could've flown to Aruba for what I just paid you."

"Look, pal, I got gas, insurance, expenses up the wazoo-"

Smithback slammed the door and ran into the building, sprinting for the elevator. He would just touch base with Davies, let his boss know he was back in town, make sure his job wasn't on the line– and then head straight to the museum and Nora. It was quarter after nine: she hadn't been at the apartment, and he assumed she'd already left for work.

He punched the button for the thirty-third floor and waited while the elevator rose with maddening slowness. At last, it arrived, and he exited the car and jogged down the hall, pausing outside Davies's door just long enough to catch his breath and smooth down the unruly cowlick that always seemed to pop up at the worst possible time.

He took a deep breath, gave the door a polite rap.

"It's open," came the voice.

Smithback stepped forward into the doorway. Thank God: Harriman wasn't anywhere in sight.

Davies glanced up from his desk. "Bill! They told me you were at St. Luke's, practically at death's door."

"I made a quick recovery."

Davies looked him over, his eyes veiled. "Glad to see you looking so fat and happy." He paused. "I take it you'll be providing us with a note from your doctor?"

"Of course, of course," Smithback stammered. He assumed Pendergast could fix that, as he seemed able to fix everything else.

"You picked a convenient time to disappear." Davies's voice was laced with irony.

"I didn't pick it. It picked me."

"Have a seat."

"Well, I was just on my way-"

"Oh, I beg your pardon-I didn't realize you had a pressing engagement."

On hearing the icy tone in the voice, Smithback decided to sit down. He was dying to see Nora, but it wouldn't pay to piss off Davies any more than he already had.

"Bryce Harriman was able to take up the slack during your recent indisposition, both on the Duchamp killing and that other one up at the museum, since the police are now saying they're linked-"

Smithback sat forward in the chair. "Excuse me. Did you say a murder up at the museum? What museum?"

"You really have been out of it. The New York Museum of Natural History. A curator was murdered there three days ago-"

"Who?"

"Nobody I'd heard of. Don't worry about it, you're long off that story-Harriman's taken it over." He snapped up a manila envelope. "Here's what I've got for you, instead. It's a big story, and I'll be frank with you, Bill: I feel a certain trepidation entrusting it to someone in shaky health. I'd have considered passing it on to Harriman, too, only he's got a lot on his plate as it is and he was already in the field when the news broke twenty minutes ago. There was a big robbery at the museum last night. Seems it's a busy place these days. You're the one with contacts there, you wrote that book on the place-so it's your story, despite my feelings of concern."

"But who-?"

He shoved the envelope at Smithback. "Somebody cleaned out the diamond hall last night while a big function was under way. There's going to be a press conference at ten. Your credentials are in there." He glanced at his watch. "That's half an hour, you better get moving."

"About the killing at the museum," Smithback said again. "Who was it?"

"Like I said, nobody important. A new hire named Green. Margo Green."

"What?"Smithback found himself gripping the seat, reeling. It was impossible. Impossible.

Davies gazed at Smithback with alarm. "Are you all right?"

Smithback rose on shaking legs. "Margo Green… murdered?"

"Do you know her?"

"Yes." Smithback barely got the word out.

"Well, better that you're not handling the story, then," said Davies briskly. "Reporting on a subject too close to you, my old editor used to say, is like trying to be your own lawyer: you've got a fool for a lawyer and a fool for a-hey! Where're you going?"

FIFTY-SEVEN

AS Nora turned the corner from Columbus Avenue onto West 77th Street, she immediately realized something big had happened at the museum. Museum Drive was packed with police vehicles, unmarked cars, and scene-of-crime vans, these in turn surrounded by television vans and a seething crowd of reporters.

She checked her watch-it was quarter to ten, usually a time when the museum was still waking up. Her heart quickened: had there been another killing?

She walked briskly down the service drive to the employee entrance. The police had already cleared a path for arriving museum employees and were pushing back an increasingly unruly crowd of rubberneckers. Apparently, whatever happened had already been reported on the morning news, as the crowds were swelling even as she watched. But because of the opening the night before, she'd overslept and hadn't had time to listen to the radio.

"Museum employee?" one cop asked.

She nodded, pulling out her badge. "What's going on?"

"Museum's closed. Go over there."

"But what-?"

The cop was already shouting at someone else, and she found herself propelled toward the security entrance, which seemed to be mobbed with museum security. Manetti, the security director, was there, gesturing frantically at a pair of hapless guards.

"All arriving staff to the roped area on the right!" one of the guards shouted. "Have your badges ready!"

Nora saw George Ashton in the milling crowd of arriving employees and grabbed his arm. "What's happened?"

He stared at her. "You must be the only one in the city who doesn't know."

"I overslept," she said testily.

"This way!" a policeman bawled. "Museum employees this way!"

The velvet ropes that had blocked off the gawkers and press from the gala the night before were now being put to a second use, this time to funnel museum staff to a holding area near the security entrance, where guards were checking IDs and calming irate employees.

"Someone hit the Astor Hall last night," said Ashton breathlessly. "Cleaned it out. Right in the middle of the party."

"Cleaned it out?Even Lucifer's Heart?"

"Especially Lucifer's Heart."

"How?"

"Nobody knows."

"I thought the Astor Hall was impregnable."

"So they said."

"Move back and stay to the right!" a cop yelled. "We'll have you inside in a moment!"

Ashton grimaced. "Just what I need the morning after five glasses of champagne."

More like ten,Nora thought wryly as she recalled Ashton's slurred ramblings of the previous evening.

Police and museum guards were checking IDs, questioning each employee, then moving them to a second penned area just before the security entrance.

"Any suspects?" Nora asked.

"None. Except that they're convinced the burglars had inside help."

"IDs!" a cop bawled in her ear.

She fished in her purse again and showed her ID. Ashton did the same.

"Dr. Kelly?" The cop had a clipboard. Another pulled Ashton aside.

"May I ask a few quick questions?"

"Fire away," Nora said.

"Were you at the museum last night?"

"Yes."

He marked something down.

"What time did you leave?"

"About midnight."

"That's all. Step over there and, as soon as we can, we'll open the museum and you can go to work. We'll be in touch with you later to schedule an interview."

Nora was shunted to the second holding area. She could hear Ash-ton's raised voice behind her, demanding to know why he hadn't been read his rights. The curators and staff waiting around her beat their hands in the cold, their breath filling the air. It was a gray day and the temperature hovered just below freezing. Voices were raised in complaint all around.

Nora heard a commotion from the street and looked. The press had suddenly surged forward, cameras juggling on shoulders, boom mikes swinging. Then she saw the reason: the museum doors had swung open. The museum's director, Frederick Watson Collopy, appeared, flanked by Rocker, the police commissioner. A phalanx of uniformed policemen stood behind them.

Immediately, the press erupted in a clamor of shouted questions and waved hands. It was the start, it seemed, of a press conference.

At that same moment, she saw a frantic movement off to one side. She turned toward it. It was her husband, fighting through the crowd, shouting frantically and trying to reach her.

"Bill!" She rushed forward.

"Nora!" Smithback plowed through a milling crowd of hangers-on, sent a beefy museum security guard sprawling, hopped the velvet ropes, and muscled his way through the museum employees. "Nora!"

"Hey, where's that guy going?" A policeman struggled to intercept him.

Smithback cut through the last of the crowd and almost ran into Nora, enveloping her in a bear hug and lifting her bodily off the ground.

"Nora! God, did I miss you!"

They hugged, kissed, hugged again.

"Bill, what happened to you? What's that bruise on the side of your head?"

"Never mind about that," Smithback replied. "I just heard about Margo. Was she really killed?"

Nora nodded. "I went to her funeral yesterday."

"Oh my God. I can't believe it's true." He wiped savagely at his face, and Nora saw that his eyes were leaking tears. "I can't believe it."

"Where were you, Bill? I was so worried!"

"It's a long story. I was locked in an insane asylum."

"What?"

"I'll tell you about it later. I've been worried about you, too. Pendergast thinks there's a maniac killer wandering around, knocking off all his friends."

"I know. He warned me. But it was right before the opening– there was nothing I could-"

"This man's not supposed to be here," a museum guard interrupted, stepping between them. "This is for museum employees only-"

Smithback swung around to respond, but they were interrupted by the shriek of feedback on an improvised P.A. system. A moment later, Commissioner Rocker stepped up to the mike and asked for silence-and, miraculously, got it.

"I'm with the Times,"said Smithback, scrounging some paper out of his pocket and fumbling for a pen.

"Here, use mine," Nora said, her arm still around his waist.

The crowd was silent as the police commissioner began to speak.

"Last night," Rocker began, "the Astor Hall of Diamonds was burglarized. At this point, the scene-of-crime teams are still on the site, along with some of the best forensic experts in the world. Everything that can be done is being done. It's too early for leads or suspects, but I promise you, as new developments arise, we will keep the press informed. I'm sorry I can't give you more, but it's still very early in the investigation. I will say this: it was an extremely professional job, obviously planned long in advance, by technologically sophisticated thieves who appear to have been intimately familiar with the museum's security system, and who used the distraction of last night's opening gala to their advantage. It will take a while to analyze and understand how they penetrated the museum's security. That's about all I have to say for the present. Dr. Collopy?"

The museum's director stepped forward, standing straight, trying to put the best face on things-and failing. When he spoke, a tremor underlay his words.

"I want to reiterate what Commissioner Rocker just said: all that can possibly be done is being done. The truth is, most of the diamonds stolen are unique and would be instantly recognizable to any gem dealer in the world. They cannot be fenced in their present form."

A murmur of unease went up at the implication they might be recut.

"My fellow New Yorkers, I know what a great loss this is to the museum and to the city. Unfortunately, we just don't know enough yet to be able to say who might have done it, or why, or what their intentions are."

"What about Lucifer's Heart?" someone shouted from among the press.

Collopy seemed to stagger. "We're doing all we can, I promise you."

"Was Lucifer's Heart stolen?" another shouted.

"I'd like to turn the floor over to the museum's public affairs director, Carla Rocco-"

A barrage of shouted questions followed and a woman stepped forward, holding up her hands. "I'll take the questions when there's silence," she said.

The clamor subsided and she pointed. "Ms. Lilienthal of ABC, your question?"

"What about Lucifer's Heart? Is it gone?"

"Yes, it was among the diamonds taken."

A turbulent murmur followed this unsurprising revelation. Rocco held up her hands again. "Please!"

"The museum claimed their security was the best in the world!" a reporter shouted. "How did the thieves get through?"

"We're analyzing it as we speak. Security is multilayered and redundant. The hall was under constant video surveillance. The thieves left behind a mass of technical equipment."

"What kind of technical equipment?"

"It'll take days, maybe weeks, to analyze."

More shouted questions. Rocco pointed to another reporter. "Roger?"

"How much is the collection insured for?"

"One hundred million dollars."

A murmur of awe.

"What's it actuallyworth?" the reporter named Roger persisted.

"The museum never put a value on it. Next question to Mr. Werth from NBC."

"What's Lucifer's Heart worth?"

"Again, you can't put a value on it. But let me pleaseemphasize that we expect to recover the gems, one way or another."

Collopy stepped forward abruptly. "The museum's collection consists mostly of 'fancy' diamonds-that is, colored ones-and most are unusual enough to be recognizable from color and grade alone. That's especially true of a diamond like Lucifer's Heart. There's no other diamond in the world with its deep cinnamon color."

Nora watched as Smithback stepped over the velvet cord and into the group of press, waving his hand.

Rocco pointed to him, squinted. "Smithback, from the Times?"

"Isn't Lucifer's Heart considered the finest diamond in the world?"

"The finest fancydiamond, yes. At least that's what I've been told."

"So how are you going to explain this to the people of New York? How are you going to explain the loss of this unique gemstone?" His voice was suddenly shaking with emotion. It seemed to Nora that all the anger Smithback felt at Margo's death, and at his enforced separation from her, was being channeled into his question. "Howcould the museum have allowed this to happen!"

"No one allowedthis to happen," said Rocco defensively. "The security in the Astor Hall is the most sophisticated in the world."

"Apparently, not sophisticated enough."

More chaos and shouting erupted. Rocco waved her hands. "Please! Let me speak!"

The roar died to an uneasy rumble.

"The museum deeply regretsthe loss of Lucifer's Heart. We understand its importance to the city and, indeed, to the country. We're doing all we can to recover it. Please be patient and give the police time to do their work. Ms. Carlson of the Post?"

"This is for Dr. Collopy. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you were holding that diamond in trust for the people of New York, to whom it really belongs. How do you, personally, as the head of the museum, intend to bear responsibility for this?"

The rumble was rising again. But it suddenly died away as Collopy held up his hands. "The fact is," he said, "any security system devised by man can be defeated by man."

"That's a rather fatalistic view," Carlson continued. "In other words, you're admitting the museum can't ever guarantee the security of its collections."

"We certainly doguarantee the security of our collections," Collopy thundered.

"Next question!" Rocco called. But the reporters had latched onto something and weren't going to let go.

"Can you explain what you mean by 'guarantee'? The greatest diamond in the world has just been stolen and you tell us its security was guaranteed?"

"I can explain." Collopy's face swelled with anger.

"There's a bit of cognitive dissonance floating around here!" Smithback shouted.

"I make that statement because Lucifer's Heart was not amongthe diamonds stolen!"Collopy cried.

There was an astonished silence. Rocco turned and looked at Collopy in amazement, as did Rocker himself.

"Excuse me, sir," Rocco began.

"Silence! I'm the only person in the museum privy to this information, but under the circumstances I don't see any point in keeping the information back any longer. The stone on display was a replica, a real diamond artificially colored by radiation treatments. The trueLucifer's Heart has alwaysbeen safely locked in a vault at the museum's insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display-our insurance company wouldn't allow it."

He raised his head, a glitter of triumph in his eyes. "The thieves, whoever they are, stole a fake."

A roar of questions followed. But Collopy simply mopped his brow and retreated.

"This press conference is over!" shouted Rocco, to no effect. "No more questions!"

But it was clear, from the frantic hands and the shouts, that it was not over, and that there were many, many more questions to come.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Hours passed as they drove through one deserted beach town after another. Dawn had swelled into a dismal day, bitterly cold, with a knife-edged wind whipping out of a pewter sky. D'Agosta was still listening, moodily, to the police radio. He was growing increasingly concerned: the police chatter concerning them had abruptly dropped off-not just because of the gem heist, although that filled most of the channels, but because they'd probably switched to more secure channels that couldn't be monitored from their portable police-band radio.

It was becoming obvious to him they had reached the end of the line. Hitting more convenience stores was hopeless-with a full tank of gas, Diogenes would have no further reason to stop. Their previous score in Yaphank had only confirmed what Diogenes wanted them to know-that he had gone east and that Viola would shortly be dead. Beyond that, nothing. D'Agosta felt sick for Pendergast: it was hopeless, and he knew it.

Still, they soldiered on, stopping at motels, marts, all-night diners, each time exposing themselves to the possibility of being spotted and arrested.

What few scraps D'Agosta had managed to glean from the radio had been disheartening. Bolstered by a new and strong federal presence, the police were rapidly closing in. New roadblocks had been erected, and local authorities were on full alert. Inevitably, they'd learn about the purchase of the pickup truck. Unless Pendergast had something truly clever up his sleeve, their free-range hours were numbered.

The pickup swerved abruptly and D'Agosta clutched the roof handle as Pendergast screeched into a small parking lot, coming to a halt in front of a twenty-four-hour Starbucks. Beyond lay a public parking lot and, beyond that, the gray, rolling Atlantic.

They sat for a moment while the police radio, still tuned to the museum theft, droned on. Some kind of press conference was in session, being broadcast over one of the public channels.

"No way they stopped here," said D'Agosta.

"What I'm after is a wireless hot spot." Pendergast opened the laptop, booted it up. "No doubt there's one inside. I'll use a sniffer to find an open port, tap into the Net that way. I left my pattern-recognition software running at the Dakota. Perhaps it has something more to tell us."

D'Agosta watched morosely as Pendergast tapped on the keyboard. "Would you be so kind as to order us some coffee, Vincent?" he asked without looking up.

D'Agosta got out of the truck and entered the Starbucks. When he returned a few minutes later with a couple of lattes, Pendergast had moved into the passenger seat and was no longer typing.

"Anything?"

Pendergast shook his head. Slowly, he sat back, closed his eyes.

D'Agosta eased himself into the driver's seat with a sigh. As he did so, he noticed a police cruiser turning into the parking lot. It slowed as it passed them, then halted at the far end of the lot.

"Shit. That cop's running our plates."

Pendergast didn't respond. He sat motionless, eyes closed.

"That's it. We're screwed."

Now the cruiser eased into a three-point turn at the end of the lot and headed back toward them.

Pendergast opened his eyes. "I'll hold the drinks. See what you can do about getting him off our tail."

Instantly, D'Agosta slammed the truck into drive and peeled out, fishtailing past the cruiser and onto the road paralleling the boardwalk. The cruiser snapped on its lights and siren, accelerating behind them.

They tore along the dune road. Moments later, D'Agosta heard another siren, this one coming from somewhere ahead.

"The beach," said Pendergast, gingerly balancing the lattes.

"Right." D'Agosta shifted into 4WD, spun the wheel, and bashed through the railing onto the boardwalk. The truck rumbled across the uneven wooden planks, hit the railing on the far side, and was briefly airborne as it made the two-foot drop to the sand.

In a moment, they were racing along the beach, just beyond the surf. D'Agosta glanced back to see the squad cars in the sand, still following.

They were going to have to do better.

He accelerated further, tires spinning up jets of damp sand. Ahead, he could see an area of dunes, one of the many preserves along the South Shore. He swerved into it, broke down another wooden fence, and hit the scrubby dunes at forty. It was clearly a large preserve, and he had no idea where he was going, so he angled the truck into the roughest-looking section, where the brush was heaviest and the dunes highest, covered with a scattering of scrubby pines. No way the cruisers could follow them in here.

Suddenly, Pendergast sat up, like the snapping of a steel spring.

D'Agosta bashed through some more heavy brush, then glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing. The cruisers had been stopped, but D'Agosta knew their respite was only temporary. All the police stations along the South Shore had beach patrol buggies-he knew, he used to drive one, in another life just a few months back. They were still in deep shit and he'd have to find some other way to-

"Stop the truck!" Pendergast said abruptly.

"No way, I've got to-"

"Stop!"

Something in the tone caused D'Agosta to jam on the brakes. They swerved wildly, stopping beneath the shadow of an overhanging dune. He killed the lights and the engine at the same time. This was crazy. They'd left a set of tracks any idiot could follow.

The radio was still on the press conference, and Pendergast was listening intently.

"… always been safely locked in a vault at the museum's insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display– our insurance company wouldn't allow it."

Pendergast turned to D'Agosta, a look of astonishment and sudden, fierce hope lighting up his face.

"That's it!"

"What?"

"Diogenes finally made a mistake. This is the opening we need." He had his cell phone out.

"I wish to hell I knew what you were talking about."

"I'm going to make some calls. As of now, you have but one vital task, Vincent: get us back to Manhattan."

The faint sound of a siren came up from behind the screen of dunes.