Cemetery Dance p-9 Read online

Kline frowned. "What?"

  "Indulge me, please."

  Kline hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached up and tugged down his tie.

  "Now unbutton the top button of your shirt and spread the collar."

  "What are you up to, D'Agosta?" Kline asked, doing as instructed.

  D'Agosta peered at the scrawny neck. "That cord — draw it out, please."

  Even more slowly, Kline reached in and pulled out the cord. Sure enough: dangling from its end was a small flash drive.

  "I'll take that, please."

  "It's encrypted," Kline said.

  "I'll take it anyway."

  Kline stared. "You'll regret this, Lieutenant."

  "You'll get it back." And D'Agosta held out his hand. Kline raised it over his head and placed it on the desk beside the Black — Berry. His expression, his manner, betrayed nothing. The only sign of what might be going on inside his head was a faint rising of pink on his acne — scarred cheeks.

  D'Agosta looked around. "We'll need to take some of these African masks and statues, as well."

  "Why?"

  "They may relate to certain, ah, exotic elements of the case."

  Kline began to speak, stopped, began again. "They are extremely valuable works of art, Lieutenant."

  "We won't break anything."

  The sergeant had finished with the books and was now unscrewing ceiling ducts with a screwgun. D'Agosta stood up, walked to the closet, opened the door. Today Chauncy was absent. He glanced back at Kline. "Do you have a safe?"

  "In the far office."

  "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

  The journey down the hallway took in half a dozen scenes of devastation. His team was disassembling monitors, searching cabinets with Maglites, pulling drawers out of desks. Kline's employees had assembled in the lobby, where an ever — growing mountain of paper stood beside the evidence boxes. Kline looked left and right with hooded eyes. The pinkish cast to his face had deepened somewhat. "Vincent D'Agosta," he said as they walked. "Do your pals call you Vinnie?"

  "Some of them do."

  "Vinnie, I believe we might have friends in common."

  "I don't think so."

  "Well, the person I'm referring to isn't exactly a friend as of yet. But I feel as though I know her. Laura Hayward."

  It took all the force of will D'Agosta could muster not to check his stride.

  "You see, I've done quite a bit of looking into that girlfriend of yours — or ex — girlfriend, I should say. What's the matter, Viagra no longer working?"

  D'Agosta kept his eyes locked straight ahead.

  "Still, my sources say you two are close. Boy, does she have a great career. She could make commissioner someday, if she plays her cards right…"

  At last, D'Agosta stopped. "Let me tell you something, Mr. Kline. If you think you can threaten or intimidate Captain Hayward, you're sadly mistaken. She could crush you like a roach. And if, in her infinite mercy, she decides to spare you — rest assured that I won't. Now, if you'd show me to the safe, please?"

  Chapter 21

  Nora exited the subway at the 207th Street station. She walked to the north end of the platform, then climbed the stairs to street level, where she found a three — way confluence of streets: Broadway, Isham, and West 211th. This was a neighborhood she had never been in before, the northernmost tip of Manhattan, and she looked around curiously. The buildings reminded her of Harlem: prewar walkups, attractive and sturdily built. There were few brownstones or town houses: dollar stores, bodegas, and nail salons sat cheek — by — jowl with funky restaurants and whole — grain bakeries. Nearby, she knew, was Dyckman House: the last remaining Dutch Colonial farmhouse in Manhattan. It was a place she had always intended to visit with Bill some sunny weekend afternoon.

  She pushed this thought from her mind. Checking the document she had printed earlier — a satellite view of the neighborhood, with the street names marked — she got her bearings and began making her way north and west, along Isham, climbing the rise toward Seaman Avenue and the setting sun.

  She crossed broad, busy Seaman Avenue and continued down an asphalt path, tennis courts to her left and a large baseball diamond to her right. She paused. Ahead of her, across the fields, lay what appeared to be primeval forest. The map showed an extension of Indian Road passing through the northern end of Inwood Hill Park, which connected to a tight little unmarked neighborhood she assumed must be the Ville. The path was more direct and, she felt, perhaps more secure. It crossed the field and disappeared into a dark tangle of red oaks and tulip trees, their long shadows knitting together amid the rocky undergrowth. Their leaves glowed with autumnal glory, russet and yellow, with splashes of blood red, forming an almost impenetrable wall. She had heard this was the last wild forest in Manhattan, and it looked it.

  Nora glanced at her watch: five thirty. Night was falling quickly and the air had taken on an almost frosty chill. She took a step forward, then stopped again, glancing uncertainly into the gloomy forest. She had never been in Inwood Hill Park before — in fact, she didn't know anybody who had — and she had no idea how safe it was after dark. Hadn't a jogger been murdered in here a few years back…

  Her jaw set in a hard line. She hadn't come all this way just to turn back now. There was still plenty of light left. Shaking her head impatiently, she started forward, leaning toward the wall of trees almost as if challenging them to stop her.

  The path curved gently to the right, running past a small grassy field before diving between the first massive trunks. Nora walked on quickly, feeling the shadow of the heavy boughs fall over her. The path split, then split again, the tarmac webbed with grassy cracks, plastered with fallen leaves, the bushes on either side crowding into the path. She passed an occasional gas lamp, once clearly elegant but now rusted and long disused. The oaks and tulip trees — some with trunks as massive as five feet across — were punctuated by dogwoods and ginkgos. Here and there, a rocky defile thrust up from the forest floor like the edge of a knife.

  Soon the paved path gave way to a dirt track that wound its way sinuously among the trunks, climbing all the while. Through a gap in the trees, Nora could make out a steep slope plunging to a tidal basin, thick with mud and populated by noisy seabirds. Their cries followed her faintly as she continued climbing the winding path, her feet kicking aside drifts of fallen leaves.

  After about fifteen minutes, she stopped at the foot of an ancient retaining wall, crumbling into ruin. The roar of Manhattan had receded to the sound of wind sighing in trees. The sun had fallen behind the rise of land, and an angry orange glow suffused the October sky. The chill of night was coming down. Nora glanced at the hardwoods crowding in around her, at the glacial boulders and kettle holes scattered treacherously about. It seemed almost impossible that two hundred acres of such wild forest existed here on the most urban of all islands. Nearby, she knew, were the remains of the old Straus mansion. Isidor Straus had been a congressman and co — owner of Macy's. After he and his wife died on the Titanic, their country house in Inwood Hill Park had gradually fallen into ruin. Perhaps this very retaining wall had once been part of the estate.

  The path continued to drift westward, away from the direction she needed to go. She peered at the satellite map in the dying light and then, hesitating only a moment longer, decided to bushwhack northward. She left the trail and began pushing through the sparse undergrowth, away from the trail.

  The land pitched sharply upward, shelves of exposed gneiss cropping out here and there. She scrambled up the defile, hands grabbing for purchase on bushes and small trunks. Her fingers were very cold now, and she bitterly regretted not bringing gloves. She slipped, falling onto a striated rib of rock. She clambered back to her feet with a curse, brushed the leaves off, slung her bag back over her shoulder, and listened. There were no sounds of birds or rustles of squirrels, only the gentle sigh of the wind. The air smelled of dead leaves and damp earth. After a moment, she scrambled on, feeling increasingly alone in the wood
ed stillness.

  This was crazy. It was getting dark a lot faster than she'd thought. Already the lights of Manhattan had drowned out the last of the twilight, casting an eerie glow across the sky, the black silhouettes of the half — bare trees outlined against it, giving the scene the unreality of a Magritte painting, bright above, dark below. Ahead, at the top of the defile, Nora could make out the ridgeline, studded with spectral trees. Quickly now, she half ran, half scrambled toward it. Gaining the height of land, she paused a moment to catch her breath. An old, rusting chain — link fence ran east to west, but it was bowed and twisted from neglect, and Nora soon found a loose section and ducked beneath easily. She took a few steps forward, angled her way around a set of massive boulders — and then stopped again abruptly.

  The vista that lay ahead took her breath away. Before her feet, the ground fell away in a cliff, ramparts of rock dropping toward the tidal waters. She had reached the uttermost tip of Manhattan. Far below, the waters of the Harlem River were black, running westward around the Spuyten Duyvil to the great vast opening of the Hudson River, the color of dark steel in the dying light, a vast waterscape glittering beneath a rising gibbous moon. Beyond the Hudson, the high cliffs of the Jersey Palisades stood black against the final light of sunset; in the middle ground, the Henry Hudson Parkway arched over the Harlem River on a graceful bridge, arrowing northward into the Bronx. A solid stream of yellow headlights flowed over it, commuters heading home from the city. Directly across the water was Riverdale, almost as thickly wooded here as Inwood Hill Park itself. And to the east, beyond the Harlem River, lay the smoky flanks of the Bronx, pierced by a dozen bridges, afire with a million lights. The landscape formed a confusing, bizarre, and magnificent spectacle of geologic majesty: a sprawling tableau of the primeval and the cosmopolitan, thrown together with supreme capriciousness over the course of the city's centuries of growth.

  But Nora admired it for only a moment. Because, looking down again, a quarter mile away and a hundred feet below, she saw — half hidden in a thick knot of woods — a cluster of grimy brick buildings, dotted with the faint twinkle of yellow lights. They sat on a flat shelf of land, perched halfway between a ragged, trash — strewn pebble beach along the Harlem River and her own vantage spot atop the ridge. It was unreachable from her cliff — in fact, she wasn't quite sure how it could be reached at all, although through the trees she could glimpse a ribbon of asphalt that, she thought, must connect to Indian Road. As she stared, she realized that the surrounding copse of trees would render the community invisible from almost any angle: from the parkway, from the riverbank, from the cliffs on the far shore. At the center of the cluster was a much larger structure, evidently an old church, which had been added on to indiscriminately, again and again, until the whole lost any architectural cohesion. This was tightly surrounded by a tangle of small, ancient timber — frame buildings, divided by deep alleyways.

  The Ville: the target of Bill's most recent article. The place he believed to be the main source of animal sacrifice in the city. She stared at it in mingled dread and fascination. The huge structure at its heart looked almost as old as the Manhattan Purchase itself: extravagantly dilapidated, part brick, part chocolate — brown timber, with a squat, crudely built spire rising from behind a massive gambrel roof. While the lower windows were bricked over, the cracked glasswork of the upper stories flickered with a pale yellow glow she felt certain could only be candlelight. The place lay apparently somnolent in the silvery moonlight, now and then falling into deeper darkness as a cloud scudded past.

  As she stood, staring at the flickering lights, the craziness of what she had done became clear. Why had she really come — to stare at a bunch of buildings? What could she hope to accomplish here by herself? What made her feel so certain thatthe secret lay within: the secret to her husband's murder?

  The Ville remained wrapped in silence as a chilly night breeze stirred the leaves around her.

  Nora shivered. Then — wrapping her coat more tightly around her — she turned and began to make her way as quickly as she could back through the dark woods toward the welcoming streets of the city.

  Chapter 22

  Strange how therealways seems to be fog out here," D'Agosta said as the big Rolls hummed along the one — lane road that crossed Little Governor's Island.

  "It must come from the marshes," Pendergast murmured.

  D'Agosta looked out the window. The marshes did indeed stretch away into the darkness, exhaling miasmic vapors that curled and moved among the rushes and cattails, the nocturnal skyline of Manhattan rising incongruously in the background. Passing a row of dead trees, they came to a set of iron gates and a bronze plaque.

  THE MOUNT MERCY HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINALLY INSANE

  The car slowed at the little guardhouse and a uniformed man stepped out of its door. "Good evening, Mr. Pendergast," the guard said, apparently unsurprised by the late hour. "Here to see Miss Cornelia?"

  "Good evening to you, Mr. Gott. Yes, thank you. We have an appointment." A rumble, and the gates began to open. "Have a good night," the guard said.

  Proctor eased the car through and they approached the main house: an immense Gothic Revival building in brown brick, standing like a grim sentinel among dark, heavy fir trees, sagging under the weight of their ancient branches.

  Proctor swung into the visitors' parking lot. Within minutes, D'Agosta found himself following a doctor down the hospital's long, tiled halls. Mount Mercy had once been New York's largest tuberculosis sanatorium. Now it had been converted into a high — security hospital for murderers and other violent criminals found not guilty by reason of insanity.

  "How is she?" Pendergast asked.

  "The same" came the terse answer.

  Two guards joined them and they continued down the echoing corridors, finally stopping at a steel door with a barred window. A guard unlocked the door, and they entered the small "quiet room" beyond. D'Agosta remembered the room from his first visit here, with Laura Hayward, last January. It seemed like years ago, but the room hadn't changed an iota, with its plastic furniture bolted to the floor, its green walls devoid of pictures or decoration.

  The two attendants disappeared through a heavy metal door in the rear of the room. A minute or two later, D'Agosta made out a faint creaking noise approaching, and then one of the guards pushed a wheelchair into the room. The old lady was dressed with Victorian severity, in deep mourning, her black taffeta dress and black lace rustling with every move, but D'Agosta could see underneath a white — canvas, five — point restraint.

  "Raise my veil" came the querulous command. One of the attendants did as ordered. A remarkably seamed face, alive with malice, was revealed. A pair of small black eyes, which somehow reminded D'Agosta of the beady eyes of a snake, raked over him. She gave a faint smile of sardonic recognition. Then the glittering eyes fell on Pendergast.

  The agent took a step forward.

  "Mr. Pendergast?" came the edgy voice of the doctor. "I'm sure I don't have to remind you to respect your distance."

  At the sound of the name, the old lady seemed to startle. "Why," she cried in a suddenly strong voice, "how are you, Diogenes, my dear? What acharming surprise!" She turned to the nearest attendant and rapped out in a shrill voice, "Bring out the best Amontillado. Diogenes has paid us a visit." She turned and smiled broadly, her face wrinkling grotesquely. "Or would you prefer tea, dearest Diogenes?"

  "Nothing, thank you," said Pendergast, his voice cool. "It is Aloysius, Aunt Cornelia, not Diogenes."

  "Nonsense! Diogenes, you bad thing, don't try to tease an old woman. Don't you think I know my own nephew?"

  Pendergast hesitated a moment. "I never could fool you, Aunt. We were in the area and thought we'd drop in."

  "How lovely. Yes, I see you brought my brother Ambergris with you."

  Pendergast glanced over at D'Agosta briefly before nodding.

  "I have a few minutes before I have to start preparing for the dinner party. You kn
ow how it is with servants these days. I should fire them all and do it myself."

  "Indeed."

  D'Agosta waited as Pendergast engaged his aunt in what seemed like interminable small talk. Slowly, the agent brought the conversation back to his own childhood in New Orleans.

  "I wonder if you remember that, ah, unpleasantness with Marie LeBon, one of the downstairs servants," he asked at last. "We children used to call her Miss Marie."

  "The one who looked like a broomstick? I never liked her. She gave me the heebie — jeebies." And Aunt Cornelia gave a delicious shudder.

  "She was found dead one day, isn't that right?"

  "It is most unfortunate when the servants bring scandal into the house. And Marie was the worst of the lot. Except, of course, for that dreadful,dreadful Monsieur Bertin." The old woman shook her head in distaste and muttered something under her breath.

  "Can you tell me what happened with Miss Marie? I was just a child then."

  "Marie was from the bayou, a promiscuous woman, like so many of the swamp folk. A mixture of French Acadian and Micmac Indian, and who knows what else besides. She got to fooling around with the groom, who was married — you remember, Diogenes, that groom with the pompadour who fancied himself a gentleman? The man was as common as dirt."

  She looked around. "Where is my drink? Gaston!"

  One of the attendants lifted a Dixie cup to her lips, and she sucked daintily through the straw. "I prefer gin, as you know," she said.

  "Yes, ma'am," said the attendant, with a smirk at his partner.

  "What happened?" Pendergast asked.

  "The groom's wife — God bless her — didn't care for Marie LeBon congressing with her husband. She wreaked her revenge." She cackled. "Settled her hash with a meat cleaver. I didn't think she had it in her."

  "The jealous wife's name was Mrs. Ducharme."

  "Mrs. Ducharme! A big woman with arms like French hams. She knew how to swing that cleaver!"

  "Mr. Pendergast?" said the doctor. "I have warned you about these types of interviews before."