Reliquary (17 page)

She went through several more clips almost mechanically, settling into the standard firing range routine: reload, reset target, fire. When the ammunition box was half empty, she switched to silhouette targets at twenty-five yards. Emptying the final clip at last, she turned away to clean her weapon and was surprised to see Lieutenant D’Agosta behind her, arms folded, watching.

“Hi,” she said, removing her ear cups and shouting over the din.

D’Agosta nodded toward her target. “Let’s see how you did,” he mouthed, and waited for her to pull the silhouette in. “Nice rosette,” he said approvingly.

Margo laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “I have you to thank for that. Just like I have you to thank for the permit.” She dumped the empty clips into her carryall, thinking about how strange it must have seemed to D’Agosta at the time: her bursting into his office three months after the conclusion of the Museum murders, asking him to arrange for a handgun permit. For protection, she’d told him. How could she have brought herself to explain the lingering fear, the sweat-drenched nightmares, the feeling of vulnerability that plagued her?

“Brad told me you were a good student,” D’Agosta said. “I figured you’d get on well, that’s why I recommended him. But as for the permit, you don’t have me to thank. Pendergast took care of it personally. Now, let’s see what kind of gun Brad set you up with.”

Margo handed it over. “It’s a baby Glock. Model 26, with a factory-modified ‘New York trigger.’ ”

D’Agosta hefted it. “Nice and light. Short sight radius, though.”

“Your friend Brad was very helpful with that. Taught me Kentucky windage, helped me set up the adjustable sight. I’ve done all my training with it. I’d probably be useless with anything else.”

“I doubt it.” D’Agosta handed the subcompact back. “With scores like those, you could probably handle just about anything.” He nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get away from this noise. I’ll walk you out.”

Margo stopped at the desk to sign out and return the ear cups, and was surprised when D’Agosta signed the log as well. “You were shooting?” she asked.

“Why not?” D’Agosta turned to her. “Even old farts like me get rusty.” They stepped out of the range and began climbing the long, steep staircase. “Actually, cases like this get everybody on edge,” he said. “A little practice seemed like a good idea. Especially after that briefing.”

Margo didn’t bother to reply. At the top of the steps, she stopped and waited for the Lieutenant to catch up. He emerged, puffing slightly, and they passed through the revolving door onto 31st Street. It was a cool evening, and traffic was light. Margo looked at her watch: almost eight. She could jog home, fix herself a light dinner, then try to catch up on her sleep.,

“I’ll bet those damn stairs have caused more coronaries than all the pastry in New York,” D’Agosta said. “Doesn’t seem to have bothered you any, though.”

Margo shrugged. “I’ve been working out.”

“So I noticed. You’re not the same person I met eighteen months ago. Not on the outside, anyway. What’s your routine?”

“Strength workout, mostly. You know, high weight, low reps.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Couple times a week?”

“I work the upper and lower muscle groups on alternating days. I try to work in some interval training, as well.”

“What are you currently benching? One twenty?”

Margo shook her head. “One thirty-five, actually. It’s nice, because for the first time I don’t have to change all those little weights on the bar. I can just use the forty-fives.”

D’Agosta nodded again. “Not bad.” They started toward Sixth Avenue. “And has it worked?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, has it worked?”

Margo frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, but even as she said the words, she understood.

“No,” she said a moment later, in a lower voice. “Not completely, anyway.”

“Don’t mean to be nosy,” D’Agosta replied, patting his pockets, absently searching for a cigar. “I’m a blunt kind of guy, just in case you didn’t know.” Finding one, he picked off the label with his fingernail and inspected the wrapper. “That shit at the Museum affected all of us, I suppose.”

They reached the avenue, and Margo hesitated a moment, looking northward. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s just hard for me to talk about.”

“I know,” D’Agosta said. “Especially now.” There was a brief silence as he lit up. “Take good care of yourself, Dr. Green.”

Margo smiled slightly. “You too. And thanks again for this.” She patted her carryall, then eased into a jog, moving northward through the traffic, aiming for the West Side and home.

= 20 =

D’Agosta looked at his watch: 10:00
P.M.,
and they still had jack shit to show for all their work. Details of beat cops had checked the shelters, redemption centers, and soup kitchens, searching fruitlessly for word of anyone who might have an excessive interest in Mbwun. Hayward, whose knowledge of the underground homeless was becoming an ever more valuable resource, had led a number of special rousting details. Unfortunately, the results had also been disappointing: the moles had melted before their sweeps, disappearing into ever darker and more obscure recesses. Besides, as Hayward explained, the sweeps could only scratch the surface of the vast tunnel networks beneath the city’s streets. At least the stream of nutcases calling in to claim the
Post
reward was beginning to slow to a trickle. Maybe everyone was too worried about the
Times
report and the Bitterman murder.

He looked down at his desk, still buried under the half-coordinated results of the sweeps. Then he glanced up at the precinct board for the hundredth time that evening, staring fixedly at the map as if the fierceness of his glare would force it to yield up an answer. What was the pattern? There had to be one; it was the first rule of detective work.

He didn’t give a shit what Horlocker said: his gut told him that these killings were the work of more than one murderer. And it wasn’t only his gut--there were just too many; and the MOs, while similar, weren’t similar enough: some decapitated, some with their heads crushed, others simply mutilated. Perhaps it was some kind of truly screwed-up cult. But whatever it turned out to be, Horlocker’s threatening deadlines were time-consuming distractions. What was needed here was patient, methodical, intelligent detective work.

D’Agosta laughed to himself.
Christ, I’m sounding more like Pendergast all the time
.

From beyond the closed door of the storage room at one side of his office, he began to make out a series of odd shuffling noises. Hayward had gone in there a few minutes earlier on her coffee break. He stared at the door for a moment while the noises continued. At last, he rose, walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped in. Hayward stood in the middle of the storage room, crouched in an animal-like stance, her left hand stuck rigidly in front of her like an arrow, her right cocked back to the side of her head. Her hands were tensed and slightly curved, bent thumbs protruding upward. As he watched, she swiveled her small form through ninety degrees of the compass, reversed the position of her arms in a silent punching motion, then turned another ninety degrees. It looked like some kind of dangerous ballet.

The movements were punctuated by sharp exhalations, not unlike the breathing she’d done during the confrontation in the tunnels. As he watched, she swiveled again, facing him this time, and brought her hands together in front of her with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Need something, Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Just an explanation of what the hell you’re doing,” he replied.

Hayward straightened up slowly to her full height, released a deep breath, then looked up at him. “It’s one of the
heian
series of kata.”

“What’s that again?”

“Formal exercises of
shotokan
karate,” she said. Then she caught his look. “It helps keep me relaxed, in shape,” she explained. “And it
is my
break, Lieutenant.”

“Then get on with it.” D’Agosta turned toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “What’s your belt?”

She looked up at him for a moment. “White,” she replied at last.

“I see.”

Hayward smiled slightly. “
Shotokan
is the original Japanese school of karate. They don’t usually believe in all sorts of pastel belt colors, Lieutenant. There are six degrees of white belt, three brown, then black.”

D’Agosta nodded. “So what degree are you?” he asked curiously.

“I go for my
sankyu
brown belt examination next month.”

From his office beyond D’Agosta could hear the rattle of a knob. Stepping out of the supply room and closing the door behind him, he found himself looking at the corpulent form of Captain Waxie. Without a word, Waxie sauntered over to the precinct board. He studied the riot of red and white pins intently, hands clasped behind his back.

“There’s a pattern here,” he said at last.

“Really?” D’Agosta asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

Waxie nodded sagely, keeping his back turned.

D’Agosta said nothing. He knew he was going to regret to his dying day bringing Waxie into the case.

“It originates
here
.” Waxie’s finger hit a green spot on the map with a soft thump. D’Agosta saw that he had fingered the Ramble, the wildest area of Central Park.

“How do you figure?”

“Simple,” said Waxie. “The Chief had a talk with the top actuary in human resources. He looked at the murder locations, did a best-fit linear analysis, and said they were radiating right from this spot. See? The deaths form a semicircle around this point. The Belvedere Castle murder was the key.”

He turned. “Out there in the Ramble, there are rocks, caves, dense woods. Lots of homeless, too. It’s a perfect hideout.
That’s
where we’ll find the killer.”

This time, D’Agosta was unable to keep the incredulity off his face. “Let me get this straight. Some insurance dweeb in
personnel
gave you this tip? Did he try to sell you on the savings plan, too?”

Waxie frowned, his jowly cheeks turning a rich crimson. “I don’t appreciate your tone, Vinnie. It wasn’t appropriate in the meeting this afternoon, and it isn’t appropriate here.”

“Look, Jack,” D’Agosta said, struggling to keep his patience. “What the hell would an actuary, even a police actuary, know about a murder pattern? That just isn’t enough. You have to take into account ingress, egress, everything. Besides, the Belvedere Castle murder is the one that
least
fits the pattern.” Then he gave up. There was no point in telling Waxie anything. Horlocker was one of those chiefs who loved specialists, experts, and consultants. And Waxie was such a yes-man that ...

“I’m going to need this map,” Waxie said.

D’Agosta stared at the broad back in front of him. As he did, a light suddenly turned on inside his head. Now he knew what this was all about.

He stood up. “Be my guest,” he said. “The primary case files are in these cabinets here, and Sergeant Hayward has some valuable--”

“I won’t be needing her,” said Waxie. “Just the precinct board and the files. Have them sent over to my office by eight tomorrow morning. Suite 2403. They’re moving me here to headquarters.”

He slowly turned on his heel and eyed D’Agosta. “Sorry, Vinnie. I think it boiled down to a question of chemistry. Me and Horlocker. He needs someone he can relate to. Someone who can keep a lid on the press. Nothing personal, you know. You’ll still be on the case, in one capacity or another. And now that we’re going to start making progress, you might even feel better about things. We’ll be staking out the Ramble, and we’re going to catch this guy.”

“Sure,” said D’Agosta. He reminded himself that this was a no-win case, that he hadn’t wanted it in the first place. It didn’t help.

Waxie held out his hand. “No hard feelings, Vinnie?”

D’Agosta shook the plump warm hand. “None at all, Jack,” he heard himself saying.

Waxie took another look around the office, as if searching for other items worth appropriating. “Well, I gotta go,” he said at last. “I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Thanks.”

They stood for a moment as the uncomfortable silence grew. Then Waxie patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and walked out of the office.

There was a soft rustle as Hayward came up beside him. They stood silently, listening to the footsteps retreat down the linoleum corridor until they were finally lost amidst the low buzz of typing and distant conversations. Then Hayward turned to D’Agosta.

“Lieutenant, how can you let him get away with it?” she asked bitterly. “I mean, when our backs were against the wall down in those tunnels, that mother ran.”

D’Agosta sat down again, feeling inside the upper drawer of his desk for a cigar. “Respect for superiors isn’t your strong suit, is it, Sergeant?” he asked. “Anyway, what makes you so sure this isn’t a reward?” He located the cigar, dug a hole in its crown with a pencil, and lit up.

It was two hours later, as D’Agosta was making final arrangements to move the case files upstairs, that Pendergast strolled into his office. It was Pendergast as D’Agosta remembered him: impeccable black suit severely tailored to his spare frame, blond-white hair combed back from his high forehead, handmade English loafers in polished oxblood. As usual, looking more like a fashionable undertaker than an FBI agent.

Pendergast indicated the visitor’s chair with a brief nod of his head. “May I?”

D’Agosta hung up the phone and nodded. Pendergast slipped into the chair with his catlike grace. He looked around, taking in the boxed files and the bare patch on the wall where the map had once hung. He turned back to D’Agosta, eyebrows raised quizzically.

“It’s Waxie’s headache now.” D’Agosta answered the unspoken question. “I’ve been placed on modified assignment.”

“Indeed,” Pendergast replied. “Lieutenant, you don’t seem dismayed by the turn of events.”

“Dismayed?” D’Agosta said. “Look around again. The precinct board’s gone, the files are packed, Hayward’s in bed, the coffee is hot, the cigar is lit. I feel terrific.”