Текст книги "Dance Of Death"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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FOURTEEN

When D'Agosta arrived at the Omeleteria, Hayward had already taken their usual booth by the window. He hadn't seen her for twenty-four hours-she'd pulled an all-nighter at the office. He paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking at her. The morning sunlight had turned her glossy black hair almost blue, given her pale skin the sheen of fine marble. She was industriously making notes on a Pocket PC, chewing her lower lip, brow knitted in concentration. Just seeing her sent a throb of affection through him so sharp it was almost painful.

He didn't know if he was going to be able to do this.

She looked up suddenly, as if aware of his gaze. The look of concentration vanished and a smile broke over her beautiful features.

"Vinnie," she said as he approached. "Sorry I missed your lasagna napoletana."

He kissed her, then took a seat opposite. "It's okay. Lasagna's lasagna. I'm worried you're working too hard."

"Nature of the business."

Just then a skinny waitress came up, placed an egg white omelette before Hayward, started to refill her coffee cup.

"Just leave the pot, please," Hayward said.

The waitress nodded, turned to D'Agosta. "Need a menu, hon?"

"No. Give me two fried eggs, over well, with rye toast."

"I went ahead and ordered," Hayward said, taking a gulp of her coffee. "Hope you don't mind. I've got to get back to the office and-"

"You're going back?"

Hayward frowned, gave her head a single vigorous shake. "I'll rest tonight."

"Pressure from on high?"

"There's always pressure from on high. No, it's the case itself. I just can't get a handle on it."

D'Agosta watched as she tucked into her omelet, feeling the dismay grow inside him. Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me may die,Pendergast had told him the night before. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward.He glanced around the coffee shop, looking at the faces, looking for one bluish-white, one hazel eye. But, of course, Diogenes would be wearing contacts, disguising his most striking characteristic.

"Why don't you tell me about the case?" he asked as easily as he could.

She took another bite, dabbed at her mouth. "The autopsy results came back. No surprise there. Duchamp died of massive internal injuries resulting from his fall. Several pharyngeal bones were fractured, but the hanging itself didn't cause death: the spinal cord had not been severed and asphyxiation hadn't yet occurred. And here's the first of many weird things. The rope had been cut almost through beforehand with a very sharp blade. The killer wantedit to part during the hanging."

D'Agosta felt himself go cold. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner…

"Duchamp was initially subdued in his apartment, then tied up. There was a contusion on the left temple, but the head itself was so badly crushed in the fall we can't be certain that's what caused all the blood in the apartment. But get this: the contusion had been doctored and bandaged,apparently by the killer."

"I see." The case made sense to D'Agosta… too much sense. And he could say nothing to Hayward.

"Then the perp pushed a long desk up against the window, convinced Duchamp to climb on it, and take a running jump out the window."

"Unassisted?"

Hayward nodded. "With his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck."

"Anyone see the perp?" D'Agosta felt a constriction in his chest; he knew who the perp was, yet he couldn't tell her directly. It was an unexpectedly difficult feeling.

"Nobody in the apartment building remembers seeing anybody unusual. There's only one possible sighting, by a basement security camera. Just a rear view of a man in a trench coat. Tall, thin. Light hair. We're having the image digitally enhanced, but the techs aren't hopeful we'll get enough to be useful. He knew the camera was there and took care passing through its field of view." She finished her coffee and poured herself another.

"We went through the victim's papers, his studio, looking for any motive," she went on. "None. Then we used his Rolodex to call up friends and acquaintances. Nobody we spoke with could believe it. A real Mister Rogers, this guy Duchamp. Oh, and here's a bizarre coincidence. Duchamp knew Agent Pendergast."

D'Agosta froze. He didn't know what to say, how to act. Somehow, he just couldn't be phony with Laura Hayward. He felt a flush spread across his face.

"Seems they were friends. Pendergast's Dakota address was on the Rolodex. According to Duchamp's appointment book, the two had lunch three times last year, always at '21.' Too bad we can't get Pendergast's take on this from beyond the grave. Right about now I think I'd welcome even his help."

Suddenly, she stopped, catching sight of D'Agosta's expression. "Oh, Vinnie," she said, sliding a hand across the table and grasping his. "I'm sorry. That was a thoughtless thing to say."

This made D'Agosta feel ten times worse. "Maybe this is the crime Pendergast warned me about in his note."

Slowly, Hayward withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry?"

"Well…" D'Agosta stammered. "Diogenes hated his brother.

Maybe he plans to revenge himself on Pendergast by killing off Pendergast's friends."

Hayward looked at him, her eyes narrowing.

"I heard there was another friend of Pendergast's killed recently. A professor in New Orleans."

"But, Vinnie, Pendergast is dead. Why kill his brother's friends now?"

"Who knows how crazy people think? All I'm saying is that, if it were my case, I'd consider it a suspicious coincidence."

"How'd you hear about this New Orleans murder?"

D'Agosta looked down, arranged his napkin on his lap. "I can't recall. I think maybe his-his secretary, Constance, mentioned it to me."

"Well, there are lots of strange aspects to the case, I'll give you that." Hayward sighed. "It's far-fetched, but I'll look into it."

The waitress reappeared with his breakfast order.

D'Agosta hardly dared meet Laura's eyes. Instead, he lifted his fork and knife and sliced into the glistening egg. A jet of yellow spurted across the plate.

D'Agosta jerked back. "Waitress!"

The woman, half a dozen booths away already, turned and walked slowly back.

D'Agosta handed her the plate. "These eggs are runny. I said over well. I didn't say over easy."

"All right, hon, hold your water." The woman took the plate and walked away.

"Ouch," Hayward said in a low voice. "Don't you think you were hard on the poor woman?"

"I haterunny eggs," D'Agosta said, staring into his coffee once again. "I can't stand looking at them."

There was a brief silence. "What's wrong, Vinnie?" she asked.

"This Diogenes business."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but it's time you dropped this wild-goose chase and got back on the job. It's not going to bring Pendergast back. Singleton's not going to let this go on forever. On top of that, you're not acting like yourself. Nothing like getting back to work as a way of curing the blues."

You're right,he thought. He wasn't acting like himself because he wasn't feeling like himself. It felt bad enough, not telling Hayward the truth. But it went even beyond that: here he was, pumping her for information while withholding the fact Pendergast was still alive.

He arranged his lips into what he hoped was a sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry, Laura. You're right: it's time I got back on the job. And here I am, acting cranky, when you're the one who's had no sleep. What else about the case kept you up all night?"

She glanced at him searchingly for a moment. Then she took another bite of her omelet, pushed it away. "I've never seen such a careful murder. It's not just the fact there are so few clues, but the ones we have are so damn puzzling. The only evidence left behind by the perp, other than the ropes, was some clothing fibers."

"Well, that gives you three clues to work, at least."

"That's right. The fibers, the rope, and the structure of the knots. And so far, we've come up blank on all three. That'swhat kept me away all night: that, and the usual paperwork. The fibers are of some kind of exotic wool that forensics hasn't seen before. It's in none of the local or federal databases. We've got a textile expert working on it. Same with the ropes. The material is nothing manufactured in America, Europe, Australia, the Middle East."

"And the knots?"

"They're even more bizarre. The ligature specialist-who we dragged out of bed at three, by the way-was fascinated. At first glance, they look random, massive, like some bondage fetishist gone crazy. But they're not that at all. Turns out they're expertly fashioned. Very intricate. The specialist was staggered: he said he'd never seen the knot before, that it seemed to be of a new type entirely. He went into a whole riff on mathematics and knot theory that I couldn't even begin to follow."

"I'd like to see a photograph of the knots, if I could."

She flashed him another questioning gaze.

"Hey, I was in the Boy Scouts," he said with a levity he didn't feel.

She nodded slowly. "I had this instructor at the Academy, Rider-back. Remember him?"

"Nope."

"He was fascinated by knots. He used to say they were a three-dimensional manifestation of a fourth-dimensional problem. Whatever that means." She took another sip of coffee. "Sooner or later, those knots are going to help us crack this case."

The waitress came back, placing D'Agosta's eggs before him with a look of triumph. Now they were wizened-looking, almost desiccated, crisp around the edges.

Hayward glanced at the plate, a smile returning to her lips. "Enjoy," she said with a giggle.

Suddenly, his coat began to vibrate. For a moment, D'Agosta went rigid in surprise. Then, remembering the cell phone Pendergast had given him, he dug a hand into his pocket and pulled it out.

"New phone?" Hayward asked. "When'd you pick that up?"

D'Agosta hesitated. Then, rather abruptly, he decided that he just couldn't tell her one more lie.

"Sorry," he said, standing up. "Gotta go. I'll explain later."

Hayward half rose as well, a look of surprise on her face. "But, Vin-"

"Will you get breakfast?" he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her. "I'll get the next."

"But-"

"See you tonight, sweetheart. Good luck with the case." And– holding her questioning stare with his own for a brief moment-he gave her shoulders a parting squeeze, turned, and hurriedly left the restaurant.

He glanced once more at the message displayed on the tiny cell screen:

SW Corner77 and York. NOW.

FIFTEEN

The big black limo, tearing southward on York Avenue, appeared seconds after D'Agosta reached the corner. It slewed to a stop; the door flew open. Even before D'Agosta shut the door, the limo was accelerating from the curb, driver leaning on the horn, cars behind them screeching to a halt to let the big car pass.

D'Agosta turned in astonishment. A stranger sat in the seat beside him: tall, slender, well tanned, dressed in an impeccable gray suit, slim black attaché case across his knees.

"Don't be alarmed, Vincent," said the familiar voice of Pendergast. "An emergency has forced me to change my spots again. Today I am an investment banker."

"Emergency?"

Pendergast handed D'Agosta a sheet of paper, carefully sealed within layers of glassine. It read:

Nine of Swords: Torrance Hamilton

Ten of Swords: Charles Duchamp

King of Swords, Reversed: Michael Decker

The Five of Swords– ?

"Diogenes is telegraphing his move in advance. Baiting me." Disguise or no disguise, Pendergast's face was as grim as D'Agosta had ever seen it.

"What are those-tarot cards?"

"Diogenes always had an interest in tarot. As you may have guessed, those cards involve death and betrayal."

"Who's Michael Decker?"

"He was my mentor when I first moved to the FBI. Before, I'd been in more, ah, exoticforms of government service, and he helped me make a rather difficult transition. Mike's highly placed in Quantico these days, and he's been invaluable in clearing the way for my somewhat unorthodox methods. It was thanks to Mike that I was able to get the FBI involved so quickly on the Jeremy Grove murder last fall, and he helped smooth some ruffled feathers after a small case I handled in the Midwest prior to that."

"So Diogenes is threatening another one of your friends."

"Yes. I can't raise Mike on his cell or at home. His secretary tells me he's on elevated assignment, which means they won't release any details about it-even if I were to reveal myself as a colleague. I must warn him in person, if I can find him."

"As an FBI agent, though, he must be pretty hard to get the jump on."

"He's one of the best field agents in the Bureau. I fear that would deter Diogenes not at all."

D'Agosta glanced back at the letter. "Your brother wrote this?"

"Yes. Curious: it doesn't look like his handwriting-more like a crude attempt to disguise his handwriting, rather. Far too crude, in fact, for him. And yet there's something strangely familiar about it…" Pendergast's voice trailed off.

"How'd you get it?"

"It arrived at my Dakota apartment early this morning. I employ a doorman there, Martyn, to take care of special things for me. He got it to Proctor, and Proctor got it to me through a prior arrangement."

"Proctor knows you're alive?"

"Yes. Constance Greene does, too, as of last night."

"What about her? Does she still think you're dead?"

D'Agosta didn't say the name-he didn't need to. Pendergast would know he was referring to Viola Maskelene.

"I haven't communicated with her. It would put her in grave danger. Ignorance, as painful as it is, will keep her safe."

There was a brief, awkward silence.

D'Agosta changed direction. "So your brother took this letter to the Dakota? Aren't you having the place watched?"

"Of course. Very carefully. It was delivered by a derelict. When we caught him and questioned him, he said he was paid to deliver it by a man on Broadway. His description was too vague to be of use."

The limo sheared toward the on-ramp for the FDR Drive, leaning into the turn, wheels smoking.

"You think your FBI friend will listen?"

"Mike Decker knows me."

"It seems to me that you rushing down to warn Decker is exactly what Diogenes expects."

"Correct. It is like a forced move in chess: I'm falling into a trap and there's not a thing I can do about it." Pendergast looked at D'Agosta, eyes bright even behind brown contact lenses. "We must find some way to reverse the pattern, get on the offensive. Have you learned anything more from Captain Hayward?"

"They recovered some fibers from the site. That and the ropes are the only hard evidence they've got so far. There are some other weird things about the murder, too. For example, it seems Diogenes stunned Duchamp with a blow to the head, then doctored and bandaged the injury before killing him."

Pendergast shook his head. "Vincent, I must know more. I must.Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical. I have, shall we say, a connection in New Orleans who is getting me the police dossier on the Hamilton poisoning. But I have no such connection here, for the Duchamp case."

D'Agosta nodded. "Understood."

"There's another thing. Diogenes seems to be working forward, choosing his victims chronologically. That means you might soon be at risk. We worked together on my first really large-scale case on the FBI-the museum murders."

D'Agosta swallowed. "Don't worry about me."

"It seems Diogenes has begun to take pleasure in giving me advance warning. We might assume you and other potential targets are temporarily safe-at least until I receive the next message. Even so, Vincent, you must take every precaution possible. The safest thing is to go back to work immediately. Surround yourself with police, remain in the precinct house when not on call. Most important, alter all your habits-every single one. Temporarily move your residence. Take cabs instead of walking or riding the subway. Go to bed and rise at different hours. Change everything in your life that might cause you danger-or danger to those you care about. An attempt on your life could easily result in collateral damage to others, in particular Captain Hayward. Vincent, you're a good officer-I don't need to tell you what to do."

The limo came screeching to a stop. The blacktopped expanse of the East 34th Street Heliport lay directly ahead, its stubby, three-hundred-foot runway gleaming dully in the morning sun. A red Bell 206 Jet Ranger was waiting on the tarmac, rotors turning. Pendergast abruptly slipped into investment banker mode, his face relaxing, the glittering hatred and determination vanishing from his eyes, leaving behind a pleasant blandness.

"One other thing," D'Agosta said.

Pendergast turned back.

D'Agosta reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved something, held it out in a closed fist. Pendergast reached out and D'Agosta dropped into his palm a platinum medallion, slightly melted along one edge, on a chain. On one side of the medallion was the image of a lidless eye hovering over a phoenix, rising from the ashes of a fire. A crest of some sort had been stamped into the other side.

Pendergast stared at it, a strange expression passing over his face.

"Count Fosco was wearing this when I went back to his castle with the Italian police. He showed it to me, privately, as proof you were dead. You'll see the bastard engraved his own crest on the back-his final trick against me. I thought you'd want it."

Pendergast turned it over, peered at it, turned it over again.

"I took it from him the night I… paid him a final visit. Maybe it'll bring you good luck."

"Normally I despise luck, but at the moment I find myself in singular need of it. Thank you, Vincent." Pendergast's voice was almost too low to be heard above the revving of the rotors. He placed the medallion around his neck, tucked it into his shirt, and grasped D'Agosta's hand.

And then, without another word, he strode across the tarmac toward the waiting chopper.

SIXTEEN

The chopper landed at a corporate heliport in Chevy Chase, Maryland, where a car without a driver awaited. By nine o'clock, Pendergast was crossing into D.C. It was a cold, sunny January day, with a weak yellow sun filtering through the bare branches of the trees, leaving frost in the shadows.

In a few minutes, he was driving along Oregon Avenue, lined with stately mansions-one of Washington's most exclusive suburbs. He slowed as he passed Mike Decker's house. The tidy, brick-fronted Georgian seemed as somnolent as the rest of the neighborhood. No car was parked outside, but that in itself meant nothing: Decker ranked a car and driver when he wanted one.

Pendergast drove a block farther, then pulled over to the curb. Taking out a cell phone, he once again tried Decker's home and mobile. No answer.

Behind the row of mansions lay the wooded fastness of Rock Creek Park. Pendergast got out of the car with his attaché case and walked thoughtfully into the park. Diogenes, he felt sure, would be watching the scene and would recognize him despite his disguise– just as he felt sure he would recognize his brother, no matter what.

But he saw no one and heard nothing but the faint rush of water from Rock Creek.

He walked briskly along the fringe of the park, then darted across a driveway, crossed a garden, and came up through a hedge into Decker's backyard. The yard was deep and well tended, falling away at the rear into the dense woods of the park. There, hidden from the neighbors by thick shrubbery, he glanced up at the windows. They were closed, white curtains pulled shut. Glancing at the adjoining houses, he proceeded, with practiced casualness, across the yard and to the back door, pulling on a pair of gloves as he did so and leaving his attaché on the stoop.

Pendergast paused again, his alert eyes taking in every detail. Then, without knocking, he peered through the small window.

Decker's kitchen was modern and almost spartan in its bachelor emptiness. A folded newspaper lay on a counter beside the phone; a suit jacket had been draped over the back of a chair. On one side of the room, a door-shut-opened no doubt onto the basement stairway; on the other side, a dark corridor led into the front rooms of the house.

A shape lay on the floor of the corridor, vague in the dim light. It moved feebly, once, twice.

In an instant, Pendergast moved to pick the lock, only to find that the knob-broken-turned easily in his hand. There was a telltale cut wire: a security system had been bypassed. Nearby, the phone wire had also been snipped. He swept inside, darting toward the shape in the hall and kneeling on the broad floorboards.

A male Weimaraner lay there, eyes glassy, rear legs still twitching in slowing spasms. Pendergast ran his gloved fingers quickly over the dog's frame. Its neck had been broken in two places.

Now, rising, Pendergast reached into his pocket. When his hand appeared again, it was holding a gleaming Wilson Combat TSGC.45. Moving quickly and with utter silence, Pendergast searched the first floor of the house: wheeling around corners, gun extended, eyes darting over every surface and place of concealment. Living room, dining room, front hall, bath: all empty and still.

Next, Pendergast flew up the stairs, pausing to glance around at the upper landing. Four rooms gave onto a central hallway. Sunlight lanced in through the open doors, illuminating a few dust motes dancing lazily in the sluggish air.

Gun at the ready, he spun around the first doorway, which led into a back bedroom. Inside, the guest beds were made with almost military perfection, bedspreads tight across the mattresses and over the pillows. Beyond, the gaunt trees of Rock Creek Park were visible through the window. Everything was wrapped in a deep silence.

A faint sound came from nearby.

Pendergast froze, his hyperacute senses strained to the maximum. There had been one sound, only one: the slow outrush of air, like a languorous sigh.

He exited the back bedroom, darted across the hall, paused outside the entrance to the room opposite. Tall bookshelves and the edge of a table could be seen through the open door: a study. Here, closer, another sound could just be discerned-a fast, running patter as of a faucet improperly closed.

Tensing, gun forward, Pendergast wheeled around the door frame.

Mike Decker sat in a leather chair, facing his desk. He was ex-military and had always endowed his movements with economy and precision, yet it was not preciseness that kept him so erect in the chair. A heavy steel bayonet had been driven into his mouth, angling down through his neck and pinning him to the headrest. The point of the old bayonet pierced all the way through the chair back, sticking out the back side, its rough edge heavy with blood. Drops fell from its tip onto the sodden carpet.

Another low sigh sounded in Decker's ruined throat, like the collapsing of a bellows. It died into a faint, bloody gargle. The man stared sightlessly at Pendergast, white shirt stained a uniform red. Streams of blood still flowed across the table, running in slow meanders and draining, with a pattering sound, to the floor.

For a moment, Pendergast remained still, as if thunderstruck. Then he removed one glove and-leaning forward, careful not to step in the blood that had ponded beneath the chair-placed the back of his hand against Decker's forehead. The man's skin felt supple, elastic, and its surface temperature was no cooler than Pendergast's own.

Abruptly, Pendergast drew back. The house was silent-except for the steady dripping.

The sighs, Pendergast knew, were postmortem: air bleeding from the lungs as the body relaxed against the bayonet. Even so, Mike Decker had been dead less than five minutes. Probably less than three.

Yet again, he hesitated. The precise time of death was irrelevant. What was far more important was Pendergast's realization that Diogenes had waited until Pendergast entered the house beforekilling Decker.

And that meant his brother might still be here, in this house.

In the distance, at the threshold of hearing, came the wail of police sirens.

Pendergast swept the room, eyes glittering, searching for the slightest clue that might help him track down his brother. His eye finally rested on the bayonet-and, abruptly, he recognized it.

A moment later, his gaze fell to Decker's hands. One lay slack; the other was clenched in a ball.

Ignoring the approaching sirens, Pendergast withdrew a gold pen from his pocket and carefully teased the clenched hand open. Inside lay three strands of blond hair.

Retrieving a jeweler's loupe from his pocket, he bent forward and examined the hairs. Returning his hand back into his pocket, he exchanged the loupe for a pair of tweezers. Very carefully, he plucked every strand from the motionless hand.

The sirens were louder now.

By now, Diogenes was certainly gone. He had choreographed the scene, managed its many variables, with perfection. He had entered the house, no doubt immobilized Decker with some kind of drug, then waited for Pendergast to arrive before killing him. Chances were that Diogenes had deliberately tripped the burglar alarm while leaving the house.

A senior FBI agent lay dead, and the house would be picked apart in the search for clues. Diogenes would not risk sticking around– and neither could he.

He heard a screeching of tires, a confusion of sirens, as a phalanx of police cars barreled down Oregon Avenue, now just seconds from the house. Pendergast glanced back at his friend one last time, briskly wiped a trace of excess moisture from one eye, then dashed down the stairs.

The front door was now wide open, a security panel beside it blinking red. He leaped over the inert form of the Weimaraner, exited through the back door, snagged his attaché case, sprinted across the yard, and-tossing the strands of hair into a pile of dead leaves– vanished like a ghost into the shadowy depths of Rock Creek Park.