Dance of Death (29 page)

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
hardly
think 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
am
surprised at you, Edward. I thought I'd already explained it to you: just because we don't
appear
to have security doesn't mean we don't
have
security. 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,
you
are 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
had
to 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 Esotérico
variant 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?"