Dance of Death (23 page)

"I'm ready.
Museology's
been an independent voice in museum affairs for more than a century, and I'm not about to knuckle under- not with my first issue."

Menzies smiled. "I admire your spirit. But there's another complication I must share with you."

"And what's that?"

"The Tanos are planning a cross-country protest caravan, due to arrive at the museum the night of the opening. It isn't just to call attention to their demands, but ostensibly to 'call back the lost souls of the masks' or something along those lines. They're going to stage an all-night religious ceremony and dances on Museum Drive, directly outside the museum. The trustees received notice earlier today."

Margo frowned. "The press is going to eat it up."

"Indeed."

"The administration's going to be embarrassed."

"Undoubtably."

"The opening's going to be total chaos."

"Without question."

"God, what a mess."

"My sentiments exactly."

There was a long pause. Finally, Menzies spoke. "You do what you have to do. Academic freedom is a critical issue in these parlous times. May I venture a piece of advice?"

"Please."

"Don't speak to the press-
at all.
When they come calling, politely refer them to the editorial you wrote and tell them that's all you have to say on the matter. The museum can't fire you over the editorial, but you can bet they'll be looking for another reason. Lie low, keep your mouth shut, and don't give it to them."

Margo rose. "Dr. Menzies, I thank you more than I can say."

The man smoothed down his unruly mane and rose as well, taking Margo's hand. "You're a brave woman," he said with a smile of admiration.

TWENTY-SEVEN

A light rap sounded on the glass of the office door. Laura Hayward, who'd been peering intently at her computer screen, sat up in surprise. For a ridiculous moment, she thought it might be D'Agosta, suitcase in hand, offering to take her home. But it was just the Guatemalan cleaning lady, armed with mop and pail, smiling and nodding her head.

"Is okay I clean?" she asked.

"Sure." Hayward wheeled away from her desk to allow the woman access to her wastebasket. She glanced up at the clock: almost 2:30 in the morning. So much for getting to bed early. But all of a sudden, she found she had a lot to do-anything to avoid going back to her empty apartment.

She waited until the woman had gone, then wheeled back to the terminal, scrolling through the federal database once again. But it was really just a perfunctory check: she had what she needed, for now.

After a few more moments, she turned to her desk. Messy on the best of days, it was now awash in computer printouts, manila folders, SOC photographs, CD-ROMs, faxes, and index cards-the results of her search of recent unsolved homicides meeting certain criteria. The papers formed a vague sort of pile. On a far corner of the desk, neater and very much smaller, sat another pile containing only three folders. Each had been labeled with a name:
Duchamp. Decker. Hamilton.
All acquaintances of Pendergast. And now all dead.

Duchamp and Decker: one a friend of Pendergast, the other a colleague. Was it really a coincidence they were murdered within days of each other?

Pendergast had disappeared in Italy-under strange and almost unbelievable circumstances, as related by D'Agosta. There were no witnesses to his death, no body, no proof. Seven weeks later, three acquaintances of his were brutally murdered, one after the other. She glanced at the pile. For all she knew, there might be other victims whose connections to Pendergast she had not yet uncovered. Three was troubling enough.

What the hell was going on here?

She sat for a moment, tapping the small pile of folders restlessly. Then she pulled out the one marked
Hamilton,
opened it, reached for her phone, and dialed a long-distance number.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. At last, someone picked up. There was a silence so long Hayward thought she'd been disconnected. Then, heavy breathing and a slurred, sleep-heavy voice came on.

"Somebody'd better be dying."

"Lieutenant Casson? I'm Captain Hayward of the NYPD."

"I don't care if you're Captain Kangaroo. You know what time it is in New Orleans?"

"It's an hour later in New York, sir. I apologize for the late call, but it's important. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your cases."

"Damn it all, can't it wait until morning?"

"It's the Hamilton murder. Torrance Hamilton, the professor."

There was a long, exasperated sigh. "What about it?"

"Do you have any suspects?"

"No."

"Any leads?"

"No."

"Evidence?"

"Precious little."

"What, exactly?"

"We have the poison that killed him."

Hayward sat up. "Tell me about it."

"It's as nasty as they come-a neurotoxin similar to what you find in certain spiders. Only this stuff was synthetic and highly concentrated. A designer poison. It gave our chemists quite a thrill."

Hayward tucked the phone under her chin and began to type. "And the effects?"

"Leads to brain hemorrhaging, encephalitic shock, sudden dementia, psychosis, grand mal seizures, and death. I've had a medical education from this case you wouldn't believe. Happened right in front of his class at Louisiana State University."

"Must've been quite a scene."

"You're not kidding."

"How'd you isolate the poison?"

"We didn't need to. The killer thoughtfully left us a sample. On Hamilton's desk."

Hayward stopped typing.
"What?"

"Seems he walked, bold as brass, into Hamilton's temporary office and left it on the desk. Right while the old guy was delivering the last lecture of his life. He'd spiked Hamilton's coffee with it half an hour earlier, which means he'd been on the premises for a while. The perp left it there in plain sight, like he was sending some kind of message. Or maybe it was just a taunt to the police."

"Any suspects?"

"None. Nobody noticed anybody going in or out of Hamilton's office that morning."

"Is this information public? About the poison, I mean."

"That it was poison, yes. As to what kind, no."

"Any other evidence? Latents, footprints, anything?"

"You know how it is, the SOC team picks up a shitload of crap that has to be analyzed, hardly any of it relevant. With one possible exception: a recently shed human hair with root, enough to get a DNA reading. Doesn't match Hamilton's DNA, or his secretary's, or anyone else's who frequented the office. Kind of an unusual color-secretary said she couldn't recall any recent visitors with that hair color."

"Which was?"

"Light blond. Ultra-light blond."

Hayward felt her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"I'm here," said Hayward. "Can you fax me the evidence list and the DNA data?"

"Sure can."

"I'll call your office first thing, leave my fax number."

"No problem."

"One other thing. I assume you're investigating Hamilton's past, his acquaintances, that sort of business."

"Naturally."

"Run across the name Pendergast?"

"Can't say I have. Is this a lead?"

"Take it for what you will."

"All right, then. But do me a favor-next time, call me during the day. I'm a lot more charming awake."

"You were charming enough, Lieutenant."

"I'm from the South-I suppose it's genetic."

Hayward replaced the phone in its cradle. For a long time, perhaps ten minutes, she remained motionless, staring at it. Then, slowly and deliberately, she replaced the file marked
Hamilton,
picked up the one marked
Decker,
lifted the phone again, and began to dial.

TWENTY-EIGHT

a nurse-tall, slender, wizened, dressed in black with white shoes and stockings, a real Addams Family creation-stuck her head out from behind a mahogany door. "The director will see you now, Mr. Jones."

Smithback, who'd been cooling his heels in a long hallway on the second floor of River Oaks, jumped so fast he sent the antimacassar flying. "Thanks," he said hastily as he patted it back on the chair.

"This way." And ushering Smithback through the doorway, she began leading him down another one of the mansion's dim, ornate, and seemingly endless corridors.

It had been surprisingly difficult to secure an audience with the director. It seemed "guests" often demanded to see Dr. Tisander, usually to announce that the walls were whispering to them in French or to demand that he stop beaming commands into their heads. The fact that Smithback had been unwilling to divulge the matter he wished to see the director about had made things even more difficult. But Smithback had insisted. Last night's dinner with Throckmorton, and the stroll around the manor house that had followed-with sidelong glances at the shuffling, empty-eyed waxworks and glum-looking fossils inhabiting the library and the various parlors-had been the final straw. Pendergast's concern was all very well, but he simply couldn't face the thought of another day-or another night-in this creepy mausoleum.

Smithback had worked it all out. He'd get a hotel room in Jersey City, take the PATH train to work, stay well away from Nora until all this blew over. He could take care of himself. He'd explain it all to the director. They couldn't very well keep him here against his will.

He followed the tiny figure of the nurse down the endless corridor, passing rows of closed doors bearing gold-leaf numbers. At some point, two burly orderlies had slipped into step behind him. At last, the corridor ended in a particularly grand door bearing the single word
Director.
The nurse knocked on it, then stepped aside, gesturing for Smithback to enter.

Smithback thanked her and stepped through. Beyond lay an elegant suite of rooms dressed in dark wood, illuminated by sconces. A fire flickered in an ornate marble fireplace. Sporting prints decorated the walls. The rear wall of the main room was dominated by a bow window, which afforded a view of the wintry landscape beyond. There were no bookshelves or anything else to suggest this was the office of a hospital director, although through one of the two side doors of the suite, Smithback made out what looked like a medical library.

In the center of the room was a huge desk, surfaced in glass, with heavy, eagle-claw feet. Behind the desk sat Dr. Tisander, writing busily with a fountain pen. He looked up briefly, gave Smithback a warm smile.

"How nice to see you, Edward. Have a seat."

Smithback seated himself. For a minute or so, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire, the scratch of the pen. Then Tisander placed the pen back into its desk set, blotted the paper, and set it aside. He leaned back in his heavy leather chair and smiled confidentially, giving Smithback his utmost attention.

"There, that's finished. Tell me what's on your mind, Edward. How's the adjustment to life at River Oaks?" His voice was low and mellifluous, and the kindly lines of his face were smoothed by age. He had a domed forehead, from which white hair arose in a gravity-defying leonine shock not unlike Einstein's.

Smithback noticed that the two orderlies were standing against the wall behind him.

"Can I offer you any refreshment? Seltzer? Diet soda?"

"Nothing, thanks." Smithback gestured at the orderlies. "Do they have to be here?"

Tisander gave a sympathetic smile. "One of the house rules, alas. Just because I'm the director of River Oaks doesn't mean I'm above its rules."

"Well, if you're sure they can be trusted to keep quiet."

"I have absolute confidence in them." Tisander nodded encouragingly, gestured for Smithback to proceed.

Smithback leaned forward. "You know all about me, why I'm here, I assume."

"Naturally." A warm, concerned smile lit up the director's wise features.

"I agreed to come here for protection, for my own safety. But I have to tell you, Dr. Tisander, that I've changed my mind. I don't know how much you know about this killer who's supposedly after me, but bottom line, I can take care of myself. I don't need to be here any longer."

"I see."

"I've got to get back to my job in New York at the
Times."

"And
why is that?"

Smithback was encouraged by Dr. Tisander's receptiveness. "I was working on a very important story, and if I don't get back there, I'll lose it to another reporter. I can't afford that. This is my
career.
A lot's at stake here."

"Tell me about this story you're working on."

"It's about the Duchamp murder-you know it?"

"Tell me about it."

"A
killer hung an artist named Duchamp out of a high-rise window, dropped him through the glass roof of a restaurant. This is one of those sensational stories that don't come along every day."