Dance of Death (31 page)

"Can I be of assistance, Lady Maskelene?"

She winced at the use of her title. How in the world did they all seem to know? "Champagne. And if you don't mind, please don't call me Lady Maskelene. It makes me feel like an old bag. Call me Viola instead."

"My apologies. I'll bring the champagne right away."

"Thanks ever so."

While Viola waited, she rummaged in her purse and withdrew the letter she had received at her house on the Italian island of Capraia three days before. It already showed signs of being opened and closed one too many times, but she read it again, anyway.

My
dear Viola,

This letter will no doubt come as a shock to you, and for that I'm sorry. I find myself in the same position as Mark Twain in having to announce that the reports of my death are much exaggerated. I am alive and well, but I was forced to go underground due to an exceptionally delicate case I have been working on. That, combined with certain recent events in Tuscany with which you are no doubt acquainted, created the unfortunate impression among my friends and colleagues that I was dead. For a time, it was useful for me not to correct that impression. But I
am
alive, Viola-though I experienced a situation that put me as close to death as a human being can get.

That terrible experience is the reason for this letter. I realized during those dreadful hours of near-death how short life is, how fragile, and how we must none of us let slip those rare opportunities for happiness. When we met by chance on Capraia scant hours before that experience began, I was taken by surprise-and so, if you'll pardon my saying so, were you. Something happened between us. You made an indelible impression on me, and I entertain hopes that I made a not dissimilar impression on you. I would therefore like to invite you to stay with me in New York forten days, so that we may get to know each other better. To see, in effect, if indeed that impression is as indelible, and as favorable, as I strongly believe it to be.

At this, Viola had to smile; the old-fashioned, somewhat awkward wording was so like Pendergast that she could almost hear his voice. But the fact was, this
was
an extraordinary letter, unlike any she had ever received. Viola had been approached by many different men in many different ways, but never quite like this.
Something happened between us.
It was true. Even so, most women would be surprised and even shocked to receive an invitation like this. Somehow, even on one meeting, Aloysius already knew her well enough to understand that such a letter would not displease her. On the contrary...

She returned her attention to the letter.

If you accept this admittedly unconventional invitation, please arrange to be on the January 27 British Airways Flight 822 from Gatwick to Kennedy.
Do not tell anyone why you are coming.
I will explain when you get here; suffice to say that, if word of your visit got out, it could even now endanger my life.

When you arrive at Kennedy, my dear brother, Diogenes, will meet you at the luggage carousel.

Diogenes.
She found herself smiling, remembering how Aloysius had said on Capraia that eccentric names ran in his family. He wasn't kidding-who would ever name their child Diogenes?

You will recognize him instantly because of his strong resemblance to me-except that he sports a neatly trimmed beard. What is most striking about him is that, due to a childhood accident, he has eyes of two different colors: one hazel, the other a milky blue. He will carry no sign and he, of course, does not know what you look like, so you will have to find him yourself. I wouldn't trust you with anyone less than my brother, who is utterly discreet.

Diogenes will escort you to my cottage out on Long Island, in a little town on Gardiners Bay, where I will be waiting for you. This will allow us several days in each other's company. The cottage is well equipped but rustic, with a splendid view of Shelter Island across the bay. You will naturally have your own chambers, and we will comport ourselves with propriety-unless, of course, circumstances dictate otherwise.

At this, Viola giggled out loud. He was so old-fashioned, and yet here he was, basically propositioning her in a way that wasn't even subtle-but managing to do it tastefully, with the driest sense of humor.

In three days following your arrival, the case I've been involved in will conclude. We will then emerge and I will once again show myself to the living, with (I trust) you on my arm. We will proceed to enjoy a splendid week of theater, music, art, and culinary exploration in New York City before your return to Capraia.

Viola, I beg you again, tell no one of this. Please give me your answer by old-fashioned telegram to the following address:

A. Pendleton

15 Glover's Box Road

The Springs, NY 10511

and sign it, "Anna Livia Plurabelle."

You will make me very happy if you accept my invitation. I know I am not very clever with sentiment and flowery phraseology-that is not my way. I will save further demonstrations of affection for when we meet in person.

Sincerely,

Aloysius

Again, Viola had to smile. She could almost hear Pendergast, with his elegant but rather severe air, speaking the sentences. Anna Livia Plurabelle, indeed; nice to know that Pendergast wasn't above tossing in a witty literary allusion, and an esoteric, highbrow one at that. How appealing he was; she fairly tingled with the thought of seeing him again. And the faint whiff of danger he alluded to in the letter simply added spice to the adventure. Once again, she couldn't help but reflect on how odd it was she seemed to know him so well after spending only that one afternoon together. She had never before believed in that nonsense about soulmates, about love at first sight, about matches made in heaven. But somehow...

She folded up the letter and took out the second one. It was a telegram, and it read simply:

Delighted you are coining! Confirmed my brother will meet you. I know I can trust you to be discreet. Fondly, A.X.L.P.

She carefully put both letters back into her handbag and sipped the champagne, her mind drifting back to that meeting on Capraia. She remembered how she had been digging manure into her vineyard when she saw a man in a black suit approaching, picking his way gingerly among the clods, accompanied by an American policeman in mufti. It was such an odd sight it had almost made her laugh. They had called out to her, thinking she was a peasant laborer. And then they'd drawn closer and she had looked at Pendergast's strange and beautiful face for the first time. Nothing like that sudden, queer feeling had happened to her before. She could read the same experience in his face, despite his efforts to conceal it. It had been a short visit- an hour's talk over glasses of white wine on her terrace overlooking the sea-and yet her mind had returned again and again to that afternoon, as if something momentous had happened.

Then there was that second visit-by D'Agosta alone, his face wan and troubled, and his terrible news of Pendergast's death. It wasn't until that awful moment that she had realized just how much she'd looked forward to seeing Agent Pendergast again-and how certain she had somehow been that he would figure in the rest of her life.

How dreadful that day had been. And how joyful things had become, now that she'd received his letter.

She smiled, thinking about seeing him again. She loved intrigue. She had never shied away from anything life had thrown at her. Her impulsiveness had gotten her into trouble on occasion, but it had also given her a colorful and fascinating life she wouldn't trade for anything. This mysterious invitation was like something out of the romance novels she used to devour in her early teen years. A weekend in a cottage hidden away on Long Island, with a man who fascinated her like no other, followed by a whirlwind week in New York City. How could she refuse? She certainly didn't have to sleep with him- he was the very soul of a gentleman-although just the thought brought an electric tingle that caused her to blush...

She finished off the champagne, which was excellent, as it always was in first class. She sometimes felt guilty about flying first class- it seemed elitist-but on a transatlantic flight, it was so much more comfortable. Viola was used to discomfort from her many years digging up tombs in Egypt, but she had never seen any sense in being uncomfortable for its own sake.

She checked her watch. She'd be landing at Kennedy in just over four hours.

It would certainly be interesting to meet this brother of Pendergast's-this Diogenes. You could tell a lot about a person by meeting his brother.

THIRTY-NINE

D'Agosta followed Pendergast's downtrodden form as the agent shambled around the corner of Ninth Avenue onto Little West 12th Street. It was nine o'clock in the evening and a bitter wind was blowing hard off the Hudson River. The old meatpacking district-sandwiched into a narrow corridor south of Chelsea and north of Greenwich Village-had changed in the years D'Agosta was away. Now hip restaurants, boutiques, and technology start-ups were sprinkled among the wholesale meat distributors and commercial butcheries. It seemed like a hell of a place for a forensic profiler to hang up his shingle.

Halfway down the block, Pendergast halted before a large twelve-story warehouse that had seen better days. The steel-mesh windows were opaque with age, and the lower stories were caked with soot. There was no sign of any kind, no name, nothing to announce the existence of any firm within beyond a weathered sign painted directly onto the old brick which read
Price Price Pork Packing Inc.
Below that was an oversize entrance for truck deliveries, closed and barred, and a smaller door beside it with an unlabeled buzzer. Pendergast's finger went up to it and gave it a jab.

"Yes?" a voice asked immediately from the adjoining speaker grille.

Pendergast murmured something and there was the sound of an electronic lock disengaging. The door opened into a small white space, empty save for a tiny camera mounted high on the rear wall. The door closed behind them with a faint click. They stood there, facing the camera, for thirty seconds. Then an almost invisible door in the rear wall slid back. Pendergast and D'Agosta walked down a white corridor, then stepped into a dim room-an
amazing
room.

The lower floors of the warehouse had been gutted, leaving a large, six-story shell. Ahead, the sprawling main floor was a maze of display tables, hulking scientific equipment, computer workstations, and intricate models and dioramas, all cloaked in shadow. D'Agosta's attention was drawn to a gigantic table displaying what appeared to be a model of the ocean floor somewhere around Antarctica, cut away to show sub-seafloor geology, along with what looked like a strange volcano of some kind. There were other intricate models, including one of a ship packed with mysterious-looking ROVs, scientific equipment, and military hardware.

A voice sounded from the shadows. "Welcome."

D'Agosta turned into the dimness and saw a figure in a wheelchair approaching between two rows of long tables: a man with closely cropped brown hair and thin lips set above a square jaw. He wore an unassuming but well-cut suit and controlled the wheelchair with a small joystick operated by a black-gloved hand. D'Agosta realized that one of the man's eyes must be glass, because it conveyed none of the fierce gleam of its mate. A purple scar ran down the right side of his face, from hairline to jaw, giving the illusion of a dueling wound.

"I am Eli Glinn," he said, his voice low, mild, and neutral. "You must be Lieutenant D'Agosta and Special Agent Pendergast." He stopped the wheelchair and extended his hand. "Welcome to Effective Engineering Solutions."

They followed him back between the tables and past a small greenhouse, its grow-lamps flickering eerily, then got into an elevator cage that took them up to a fourth-floor catwalk. As he followed the wheelchair down the catwalk, D'Agosta felt a twinge of doubt. Effective Engineering Solutions? Mr.-not Dr.-Eli Glinn? He wondered if, despite her vaunted research skills, Constance Greene had made a mistake. This didn't look like any forensic profiling consultant he had ever seen before-and he had dealt with quite a few.

Glinn glanced back, ran his good eye over D'Agosta's uniform. "You might as well turn off your radio and cell phone, Lieutenant. We block all wireless signals and radio frequencies in this building."

He led the way into a small conference room decorated in polished wood, dosed the door, then gestured for them to be seated. He wheeled himself to the far side of the lone table, where a gap between the charcoal-colored Herman Miller chairs was clearly reserved for him. A thin envelope lay on the table before him; otherwise, the spotless table was empty. Leaning back in the wheelchair, he fixed them both with a penetrating gaze.

"Yours is an unusual request," he said.

"Mine is an unusual problem," Pendergast replied.

Glinn eyed him up and down. "That is a rather effective disguise, Mr. Pendergast."

"Indeed."

Glinn folded his hands. "Tell me the nature of your problem."

Pendergast glanced around. "Tell me the nature of your company. I ask because all this"-he gestured-"does not look like the office of a forensic profiler."

A slow, mirthless smile stretched the features of the man's face, distorting and inflaming the scar. "A fair question. Effective Engineering Solutions is in the business of solving unique engineering problems and performing failure analysis."