Dance Of Death Page 2

  A huge bubble of ragù rose from the pot, burst like a volcanic eruption, and spewed sauce over his hand. "Ouch!" he cried, dousing the hand in dishwater while turning down the flame.

  "What's up?"

  "Nothing. Everything's just fine." He stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon, realized the bottom had burned, moved it hastily onto a back burner. He raised the spoon to his lips a little gingerly. Not bad, not bad at all. Decent texture, nice mouth feel, only a slight burned taste. Not like his grandmother's, though.

  "What else goes in the ragù, Nonna?" he murmured.

  If there was any response from the choir invisible, D'Agosta couldn't hear it.

  Suddenly, there was a loud hissing from the stove. The giant pot of salted water was bubbling over. Swallowing a curse, D'Agosta turned down the heat on that as well, tore open a box of pasta, dumped in a pound of lasagna.

  The sound of music filtered in from the living room: Laura had put on a Steely Dan CD. "I swear I'm going to speak to the landlord about that doorman," she said through the door.

  "Which doorman?"

  "That new one who came on a few weeks ago. He's the surliest guy I've ever met. What kind of a doorman doesn't even open the door for you? And this morning he wouldn't call me a cab. Just shook his head and walked away. I don't think he speaks English. At least, he pretends he doesn't."

  What do you expect for twenty-five hundred a month? D'Agosta thought to himself. But it was her apartment, so he kept his mouth shut. And it was her money that paid the rent-at least for now. He was determined to change that as soon as possible.

  When he'd moved in, he hadn't brought any expectations with him. He'd just gone through one of the worst times in his life, and he refused to let himself think more than a day ahead. Also, he was still in the early stages of what promised to be an unpleasant divorce: a new romantic entanglement probably wasn't the smartest thing for him right now. But this had turned out far better than he could ever have hoped. Laura Hayward was more than a girlfriend or lover-she'd become a soulmate. He'd thought that their both being on the job, her ranking him, would be a problem. It was just the opposite: it gave them common ground, a chance to help each other, to talk about their cases without worrying about confidentiality or second-guessers.

  "Any new leads on the Dangler?" he heard Laura ask from the living room.

  The Dangler was the NYPD's pet name for a perp who'd recently been stealing money from ATMs with a hacked bank card, then exposing his johnson to the security camera. Most of the incidents had been in D'Agosta's precinct.

  "Got a possible eyewitness to yesterday's job."

  "Eyewitness to what?" Laura asked suggestively.

  "To the face, of course." D'Agosta gave the pasta a stir, regulated the boil. He glanced at the oven, made sure it was up to temperature. Then he turned back to the messy counter, mentally going over everything. Sausage: check. Meatballs: check. Ricotta, Parmesan, and mozzarella fiordilatte: all check. Looks like I might pull this one out of a hat, after all…

  Hell. He still had to grate the Parmesan.

  He threw open a drawer, began rummaging frantically. As he did so, he thought he heard the doorbell ring.

  Maybe it was his imagination: Laura didn't get all that many callers, and he sure as hell didn't get any. Especially this time of night. It was probably a delivery from the Vietnamese restaurant downstairs, knocking at the wrong door.

  His hand closed over the box grater. He yanked it out, set it on the counter, grabbed the brick of Parmesan. He chose the face with the finest grate, raised the Parmesan to the steel.

  "Vinnie?" Laura said. "You'd better come out here."

  D'Agosta hesitated only a moment. Something in her tone made him drop everything on the counter and walk out of the kitchen.

  She was standing in the front doorway of the apartment, speaking to a stranger. The man's face was in shadow, and he was dressed in an expensive trench coat. Something about him seemed familiar.

  Then the man took a step forward, into the light. D'Agosta caught his breath.

  "You!" he said.

  The man bowed. "And you are Vincent D'Agosta."

  Laura glanced back at him. Who's he? her expression read.

  Slowly, D'Agosta released the breath. "Laura," he said, "I'd like you to meet Proctor. Agent Pendergast's chauffeur."

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  Proctor bowed. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am."

  She simply nodded in reply.

  Proctor turned back to D'Agosta. "Now, sir, if you'd kindly come with me?"

  "Where?" But already D'Agosta knew the answer.

  "Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive."

  D'Agosta licked his lips. "Why?"

  "Because someone is waiting for you there. Someone who has requested your presence."

  "Now?"

  Proctor simply bowed again in reply.

  THREE

  D'Agosta sat in the backseat of the vintage '59 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, looking out the window but not really seeing anything. Proctor had taken him west through the park, and the big car was now rocketing up Broadway.

  D'Agosta shifted in the white leather interior, barely able to contain his curiosity and impatience. He was tempted to pepper Proctor with questions, but he felt sure the chauffeur would not respond.

  Eight ninety-one Riverside Drive. The home-one of the homes- of Special Agent Aloysius Pendergast, D'Agosta's friend and partner in several unusual cases. The mysterious FBI agent whom D'Agosta knew, and yet did not know, who seemed to have as many lives as a cat…

  Until that day not two months ago, when he'd seen Pendergast for the last time.

  It had been on the steep flank of a hill south of Florence, Italy. The special agent had been below him, surrounded by a ravening pack of boar-hunting dogs, backed up by a dozen armed men. Pendergast had sacrificed himself so D'Agosta could get away.

  And D'Agosta had let him do it.

  D'Agosta stirred restlessly at the memory. Someone who has requested your presence, Proctor had said. Was it possible that, despite everything, Pendergast had somehow managed to escape? It wouldn't be the first time. He suppressed a surge of hope…

  But no, it was not possible. He knew in his heart that Pendergast was dead.

  Now the Rolls was cruising up Riverside Drive. D'Agosta shifted again, glancing out at the passing street signs: 125th Street, 130th. Very quickly, the well-tended neighborhood surrounding Columbia University gave way to dilapidated brownstones and decaying hulks. The usual loiterers had been chased indoors by the January chill, and in the dim light of evening the street looked deserted.

  Up ahead now, just past 137th Street, D'Agosta could make out the boarded-up facade and widow's walk of Pendergast's mansion. The dark lines of the vast structure sent a chill through him.

  The Rolls pulled past the gates of the spiked iron fence and stopped beneath the porte-cochere. Without waiting for Proctor, D'Agosta let himself out and stared up at the familiar lines of the rambling mansion, windows covered with tin, looking for all the world like the other abandoned mansions along the drive. Inside, it was home to wonders and secrets almost beyond belief. He felt his heart begin to race. Maybe Pendergast was inside, after all, in his usual black suit, sitting in the library before a blazing fire, the dancing flames casting strange shadows over his pale face. "My dear Vincent," he would say, "thank you for coming. May I interest you in a glass of Armagnac?"

  D'Agosta waited as Proctor unlocked, then opened, the heavy door. Pale yellow light streamed out onto the worn brickwork. He stepped forward while Proctor carefully relocked the door behind him. He felt his heart beat still faster. Just being back inside the mansion sent a strange mix of emotions coursing through him: excitement, anxiety, regret.

  Proctor turned toward him. "This way, sir, if you please."

  The chauffeur led the way down the length of the gallery and into the blue-domed reception hall. Here, dozens of rippled-glass cabinets displa
yed an array of fabulous specimens: meteorites, gems, fossils, butterflies. D'Agosta's eyes stole across the parquet floor to the far side, where the double doors of the library lay open. If Pendergastwas waiting for him, that's where he'd be: sitting in a wing chair, a half-smile playing across his lips, enjoying the effect of this little drama on his friend.

  Proctor ushered D'Agosta toward the library. Heart pounding, he stepped through the doors and into the sumptuous room.

  The smell of the place was as he remembered it: leather, buckram, a faint hint of woodsmoke. But today there was no fire crackling merrily on the hearth. The room was cold. The inlaid bookshelves, full of leather-bound volumes tooled in gold, were dim and indistinct. Only a single lamp glowed-a Tiffany piece standing on a side table-casting a small pool of light in a vast lake of darkness.

  After a moment, D'Agosta made out a form standing beside the table, just outside the circle of light. As he watched, the form advanced toward him across the carpeting. He recognized immediately the young girl as Constance Greene, Pendergast's ward and assistant. She was perhaps twenty, wearing a long, old-fashioned velvet dress that snugged her slender waist and fell in lines almost to the floor. Despite her obvious youth, her bearing had the poise of a much older woman. And her eyes, too-D'Agosta remembered her strange eyes, full of experience and learning, her speech old-fashioned, even quaint. And then there was that something else, something just the other side of normal, that seemed to cling to her like the antique air that exhaled from her dresses.

  Those eyes seemed different today. They looked haunted, dark, heavy with loss… and fear?

  Constance held out her right hand. "Lieutenant D'Agosta," she said in a measured tone.

  D'Agosta took the hand, uncertain as always whether to shake it or kiss it. He did neither, and after a moment the hand was withdrawn.

  Normally, Constance was polite to a fault. But today she simply stood before D'Agosta, without offering him a chair or inquiring after his health. She seemed uncertain. And D'Agosta could guess why. The hope that had been stirring within him began to fade.

  "Have you heard anything?" she asked, her voice almost too low to make out. "Anything at all?"

  D'Agosta shook his head, the flame of hope dashed out.

  Constance held his glance a moment longer. Then she nodded her understanding, her gaze dropping to the floor, her hands fluttering at her sides like confused white moths.

  They stood there together in silence for a minute, perhaps two.

  Constance raised her eyes again. "It's foolish for me to continue to hope. More than six weeks have passed without a word."

  "I know."

  "He is dead," she said, voice even lower.

  D'Agosta said nothing.

  She roused herself. "That means it is time for me to give you this." She went to the mantelpiece, took down a small sandalwood box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A tiny key already in her hand, she unlocked it and, without opening it, held it out toward D'Agosta.

  "I have delayed this moment too long already. I felt that there was still a chance he might appear."

  D'Agosta stared at the box. It looked familiar, but for a moment he could not place where he'd seen it before. Then it came to him: it had been in this house, this very room, the previous October. He'd entered the library and disturbed Pendergast in the act of writing a note. The agent had slipped it into this same box. That had been the night before they left on their fateful trip to Italy-the night Pendergast told him about his brother, Diogenes.

  "Take it, Lieutenant," Constance said, her voice breaking. "Please don't draw this out."

  "Sorry." D'Agosta gently took the box, opened it. Inside lay a single sheet of heavy cream-colored paper, folded once.

  Suddenly, the very last thing D'Agosta wanted to do was to take out that piece of paper. With deep misgivings, he reached for it, opened it, and began to read.

  My dear Vincent,

  If you are reading this letter, it means that I am dead. It also means I died before I could accomplish a task that, rightfully, belongs to me and no other. That task is preventing my brother, Diogenes, from committing what he once boasted would be the "perfect" crime.

  I wish I could tell you more about this crime, but all I know of it is that he has been planning it for many years and that he intends it to be his apotheosis. Whatever this "perfect" crime is, it will be infamous. It will make the world a darker place. Diogenes is a man with exceptional standards. He would not settle for less.

  I'm afraid, Vincent, that the task of stopping Diogenes must now fall to you. I cannot tell you how much I regret this. It is something I would not wish on my worst enemy, and especially not on somebody I've come to regard as a trusted friend. But it is something I believe you are best equipped to handle. Diogenes's threat is too amorphous for me to take to the FBI or other law enforcement agency, since he contrived his own false death some years ago. A single, dedicated individual has the best chance of preventing my brother from carrying out this crime. That individual is you.

  Diogenes has sent me a letter consisting of only one thing: a date, January 28. In all likelihood, the crime will be committed on that date. I would not, however, make any assumptions-the date could mean nothing at all. Diogenes is, if anything, unpredictable.

  You will need to take a leave of absence from the Southampton P.D. or wherever you are currently employed. This cannot be avoided. Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement. Diogenes is an expert on forensics and police procedure, and any information left at the scene of the crime-assuming, God forbid, you are not in time to stop said crime-will no doubt be cleverly contrived to mislead the police. Hayward, as fine an officer as she is, is no match for my brother.

  I've left a separate note for Constance, who will at this point know all the particulars of this matter. She will make my house, my finances, and all my resources available to you. She will immediately put at your disposal a bank account containing $500,000 in your name, to use as you see fit. I recommend that you use her invaluable research skills, though I ask that you keep her out of your direct investigation for obvious reasons. She must never leave the mansion-ever. And you must watch her very, very carefully. She is still fragile, both mentally and physically.

  As a first step, you should pay a visit to my Great-Aunt Cornelia, who is confined to a hospital on Little Governors Island. She knew Diogenes as a boy, and she will provide you with the personal and family information you will undoubtedly need. Treat this information-and her-with great care.

  One final word. Diogenes is consummately dangerous. He is my intellectual equal, but he was somehow formed without the slightest shred of moral conscience. In addition, a severe childhood illness left him damaged. He is motivated by an undying hatred of myself and an utter contempt for humanity. Do not gain his attention any earlier than you have to. Be vigilant at all times.

  Goodbye, my friend-and good luck.

  Aloysius Pendergast

  D'Agosta looked up. "January 28? My God, that's just one week away."

  Constance only bowed her head.

  FOUR

  IT was the smell of the place, she thought, that really brought home the fact she was back in the museum: that mixture of mothballs, dust, old varnish, and a whiff of decay. She walked down the great fifth-floor corridor, past the oaken office doors, each sporting the name of a curator in black-edged gold leaf. She was surprised at how few new names there were. A lot of things had changed in six years, but here, in the museum, time seemed to run at a different pace.

  She had been worried-more worried than she cared to admit- about how it would feel to be back in the museum several years after the most frightening experience of her life. In fact, that worry had delayed her decision to return. But she had to admit, after a slightly rough first couple of days, that little of the old terror still clung to the place. Her nightmares, the lingering sense of vulnerability, had faded with the years. The
old events, the bad events, were now ancient history. And the museum was still a wonderful old pile, a Gothic castle of Brobdingnagian proportions, full of wonderful, eccentric people-and bursting with strange and fascinating specimens. The most extensive collection of trilobites in the world. Lucifer's Heart, the most precious diamond ever found. "Snaggletooth," the largest and best-preserved T. rex fossil known.

  Nevertheless, she had been careful not to stray into the museum's sub-basement. And it was not laziness that made her limit the number of nights she worked much past closing.

  She remembered the time when she had walked down this august corridor for the first time as a graduate student of no account. Graduate students were so low on the museum's totem pole they were not even despised-they were simply invisible. Not that she'd been resentful: it was a rite of passage everyone had to go through. Back then she was a nobody-a "you," or, at best, a "Miss."

  How things had changed. Now she was "Doctor," sometimes even "Professor," and her name appeared in print with a string of titles after it: Pierpont Research Fellow (the "fellow" part always made her smile); adjunct professor of ethnopharmacology; and her most recent title, only three weeks old: editor in chief of Museology. While she'd always told herself that titles meant nothing, she was surprised to discover that, once she'd acquired them, they were most gratifying. Professor… that had a nice round sound to it, especially on the lips of those crusty old curators who, six years ago, wouldn't even give her the time of day. Now they went out of their way to ask her opinion or press their monographs on her. Just that morning, no less a personage than the head of anthropology and her titular boss, Hugo Menzies, had asked solicitously after the subject of her panel discussion for the forthcoming Society of American Anthropologists meeting.

  Yes: a refreshing change, indeed.

  The office of the director lay at the end of the hall, in one of the coveted tower offices. She paused before the great oaken door, darkened with the patina of a century. She raised her hand, then lowered it, suddenly feeling nervous. She took a deep breath. She felt happy to be back in the museum, and she wondered yet again if the sudden controversy she was about to launch herself into wasn't a serious mistake. She reminded herself that this controversy had been forced on her and that as editor of Museology she had to take a stand. If she ducked this one, she would immediately lose her credibility as an arbiter of ethics and free expression. Worse, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.