Cemetery Dance p-9 Read online

  "The neighbors broke it up?"

  D'Agosta took another sip of coffee, nodded. "Her screams brought them running. They kicked down the door."

  "And Nora insists it was Smithback?"

  "Sure enough to testify to it in court. Same with the neighbors."

  Hayward's eyes were on the faux marble of the tabletop. "This is too weird. I mean, what's going on?"

  "The goddamn Ville is what's going on." Just thinking of Nora brought the anger back with a vengeance. It seemed he was always mad these days: mad at the Ville; mad at Kline and his oily threats; mad at the commissioner; mad at all the bureaucratic red tape that tied his hands; mad even at Pendergast with his irritating coyness and his insufferable little French Creole adviser.

  Hayward was looking at him again. The troubled look was more pronounced. "What about the Ville, exactly?"

  "Don't you see? They're behind everything. They have to be. Smithback was right."

  "May I point out that you haven't yet made good the connection. Smithback wrote about their alleged animal killings — that's it."

  "They weren't alleged. I heard the animals in the back of the van. I saw the knives, the bloodied straw. If you could have seen the place, Laura. My God, the robes, the hoods, the chanting… Those people are fanatics."

  "That doesn't make them murderers. Vinnie, you need a direct connection."

  "And they've got the motive. That head priest of theirs, Charrière…" He shook his head. "A real piece of work, that one. Capable of murder? You bet."

  "And what about this Bertin I read about in the report. Who's he?"

  "Pendergast brought him in. Expert in voodoo or something. A quack, if you ask me."

  "Voodoo?"

  "Pendergast's pretty damn interested in it. He pretends not to be, but he is. Hell, he can start sticking pins into dolls for all I care — as long as it will bring down the Ville."

  Their plates arrived, smelling delightfully of fresh blueberries. Hayward drizzled maple syrup over her plate, picked up her fork, set it down again. She leaned forward. "Vinnie, listen to me. You're too angry to be in charge of this case."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You can't be objective. You loved Smithback. You're a great cop, but you need to consider passing this on to someone else."

  "You've got to be kidding. I'm all over this case, twenty — four/seven."

  "That's what I mean. You're on a witch hunt, you're convinced it's the Ville."

  D'Agosta took a deep breath, consciously held off on replying until he'd taken a bite of his pancake. "Aren't we supposed to follow up on our convictions, our gut feelings? Whatever happened to investigating the most likely suspect?"

  "What I'm talking about is being so blinded by anger, by emotion, that you fail to investigate other possibilities."

  D'Agosta opened his mouth, shut it again. He didn't know what to say. Deep down, he sensed she was right. No, heknew she was right. The hell of it was, part of him just didn't care. Smithback's death had shocked him, left a hole he never could have predicted. And he wanted those responsible to burn.

  "And what are you doing with Pendergast? Every time he comes into the picture, he causes trouble. He's no good for you, Vinnie — stay away from him. Work on your own."

  "That's bullshit," D'Agosta snapped. "He's brilliant. He gets results." "Yes, he does. And you know why? Because he's too impatient to go through the process. So he goes outside the system. And he drags you along on his extralegal escapades. And who ends up taking the fall? You do."

  "I've worked with him on half a dozen cases. He's gotten to the bottom of every one, brought the killers to justice."

  "To Pendergast's justice, you mean. The way he goes about gathering evidence, I doubt Pendergast could ever convict his perps in a court of law. Maybe it's no coincidence they end up dead before trial."

  D'Agosta didn't reply. He just pushed his full plate aside. This breakfast hadn't gone as he'd hoped. He felt weary — weary and confused.

  Then Hayward did something he didn't expect. She reached across the table, took his hand. "Look, Vinnie. I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I'm trying to help you."

  "I know that. And I appreciate it, I really do."

  "It's just that you came so close to losing everything on that last case of Pendergast's you were involved with. The commissioner's got his microscope on you now. I know how important your career is to you, I don't want to see it jeopardized again. Will you at least promise me you won't let him draw you into any more illegal expeditions? You're in charge of this case. In the end, you're the guy who's going to be testifying up there on the witness stand about what you did — and didn't do."

  D'Agosta nodded. "Okay."

  She squeezed his hand, smiled.

  "Remember when we first met?" he asked. "I was the seasoned veteran, the big bad NYPD lieutenant."

  "And I was the rookie sergeant, fresh from the transit police."

  "That's right. Seven years ago, if you can believe it. Back then, I kind of looked after you. Watched your back. Funny how the roles have reversed."

  Her eyes dropped back to the tabletop. A faint color rose in her cheeks.

  "But you know what, Laura? I kind of like it this way."

  An urgent, breathless voice intruded from over Hayward's shoulder. "Is that him?"

  He looked past Hayward to the next booth. A skinny woman in a white blouse and black dress had turned around and was staring directly at him, a cell phone pressed against her cheek. For a moment, he couldn't tell who she was talking to — him, a breakfast companion, or the person on the other end of the cell.

  "It is him! I recognize him from last night's news!" Dropping the phone into her purse, the woman slipped out of her own booth and came over. "You're the lieutenant investigating the zombii murders, right?"

  The waitress, overhearing this, came over. "He is?" The skinny woman leaned toward him, manicured nails gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles went white. "Please tell me you're going to solve this soon, put those horrible people behind bars!"

  Now an elderly woman, catching wind of the conversation, stepped forward. " Please,Officer," she implored, as a rat — sized Yorkshire terrier peeped out from a basket cradled in her arms. "I haven't slept in days. Neither have my friends. The city's doing nothing. You'vegot to put a stop to this!"

  D'Agosta looked from one to the next in amazement, temporarily speechless. Nothing like this had happened before, even in high — profile cases. New Yorkers were usually jaded, worldly, dismissive. But these people — the fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voices, was unmistakable.

  He gave the skinny woman what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "We're doing our level best, ma'am. It won't be long now, I promise you that."

  "I hope you keep that promise!" The women retreated, talking animatedly, joined in common cause.

  D'Agosta glanced back at Hayward. She returned the gaze, as nonplussed as he was. "That was interesting," she finally said. "This issue is getting really big, really fast, Vinnie. Take care."

  "Shall we?" he asked her, indicating the door.

  "You go ahead. I think I'll stay and finish my coffee."

  He slipped a twenty onto the table. "See you at the evidence annex this afternoon?"

  When she nodded, he turned and — as gently as he could — pressed his way through the small huddle of anxious faces.

  Chapter 42

  D'Agosta dreaded having anything to do with the new evidence annex in the basement at One Police Plaza. The space, and all the procedures related to it, had been overhauled after yet another case was thrown out of court on a chain — of — evidence error, and now entering the annex was like gaining access to Fort Knox.

  D'Agosta presented the paperwork to a secretary behind bulletproof glass and then he, Hayward, Pendergast, and Bertin cooled their heels in the waiting area — no chairs, no magazines, just a portrait of the governor — while the paperwork was processed. After fiftee
n minutes, a brisk woman, as wrinkled as a mummy and yet remarkably animated, a radio in one hand, appeared and presented them all with badges and cotton gloves.

  "This way," she said in a clear, clipped voice. "Stay together. Touch nothing."

  They followed her down a stark, fluorescent hallway lined with painted and numbered steel doors. After an interminable walk, she halted before one of the doors, swept a card through its key slot, and punched a code into the security pad with machine — like precision. The door sprang ajar. In the room beyond, evidence cabinets lined three of the walls and a Formica table stood in the center beneath a set of bright lights. In the old days, the evidence would already have been laid out on the table. Now, photographs of the evidence were there, next to a corresponding list. They had to make specific requests for items — no more browsing.

  "Stand behind the table," came the brisk voice.

  They filed in and did as instructed, Hayward, Pendergast, and the annoying Bertin. D'Agosta could already feel disapproving vibes radiating from Hayward. She had protested Bertin's presence — the swallowtail coat and cudgel — cane hadn't gone over well at all — but his temporary FBI credentials were in order. The little man looked disheveled, his face pale, beads of sweat standing out on his temples.

  "All right now," said the woman, standing behind the table. "Have we done this before?"

  D'Agosta said nothing. The rest murmured, "No."

  "You can request only one evidence set at a time. I'm the only one allowed to touch the evidence, unless you need to perform a close examination — which, I should add, needs to be pre — approved. Tests may be ordered through written requests. Now, this piece of paper here lists all the evidence collected under the warrant, as well as other evidence assembled in the case. As you can see, there are photographs of everything. Now—" She smiled, her face almost cracking. " — what would you like to examine?"

  "First," said Pendergast, "can you bring out the evidence we retrieved from Colin Fearing's crypt?"

  After a delay, the tiny paper coffin and its faux — skeletal contents were retrieved. "What next?" the woman said.

  "We'd like to see the trunk from the Ville and its contents." D'Agosta pointed. "That picture, there."

  The woman ran a lacquered finger down the list, tapped a number, turned, moved to one of the evidence cabinets, opened a drawer, slid out a tray. "It's rather too big for me," she said.

  D'Agosta stepped forward. "I'll help you."

  "No." The woman made a call on her handheld radio, and a few minutes later a burly man came in and helped her lift the trunk onto the table, then took up a position in the corner.

  "Open it, please, and lay out the contents," said D'Agosta. He hadn't had a good look at it when they'd taken it from the Ville.

  With maddening care, the woman opened the lid and removed the leather — wrapped contents, laying them out with excessive precision.

  "Unwrap them, please," D'Agosta said.

  Each item was untied and unwrapped as if a museum object. A set of knives was revealed, each stranger, more exotic, and more unsettling than the last. Their blades were elaborately curved, serrated, and notched, the bone and wooden handles inlaid with odd curlicues and designs. The last item to be unwrapped wasn't a knife but a thick piece of wire bent and curled into a most fantastical design, with a bone handle at one end and a hook at the other, the hook's outer edge honed to a razor — like sharpness. It was precisely like the one Pendergast had snagged.

  "Sacrifice knives withvévé, " said Bertin, taking a step back.

  D'Agosta turned on him with irritation. "Vay — vay?"

  Bertin covered his mouth, coughed. "The handles," he said in a weak voice, "have vévé on them, the designs of the Loa."

  "And what the hell's a 'loa'?"

  "A demon, or spirit. Each knife represents one of them. The circular designs represent the inner dance or danse — cimetière of that particular demon. When animals or… other living things… are sacrificed to the Loa, you must use theLoa's knife."

  "In other words, voodoo shit," said D'Agosta.

  The little man plucked out a handkerchief, dabbed at his temples with a shaking hand. "Not Vôdou. Obeah."

  Bertin's French pronunciation of voodoo was a fresh irritation for D'Agosta. "What's the difference?"

  "Obeah is the real thing."

  "The real thing," D'Agosta repeated. He glanced at Hayward. Her face was closed.

  Pendergast removed a leather kit from his suit coat, opened it, and began removing things — a small rack, test tubes, tweezers, a pin, several eyedropper bottles of reagents — placing each item on the table in turn.

  "What's this?" Hayward asked, sharply.

  "Tests," was the clipped answer.

  "You can't set up a lab in here," she said. "And you heard the lady — you need pre — approvals."

  A white hand slipped into the black suit coat, reappeared with a piece of paper. Hayward took it and read it, her face darkening.

  "This is highly irregular—" the mummified woman began. Before she could finish, a second paper appeared and was held up before her. She took it, read it, did not offer to return it.

  "Very well," she said. "What object would you like to begin with?"

  Pendergast pointed to the wire hook, bent into elaborate curlicues. "I shall need to handle it."

  The woman glanced at the sheet of paper again, then nodded.

  Pendergast fitted a loupe to his eye, picked the hook up in gloved hands, turned it over, examining it closely, then laid it down. Using the pin with excessive care, he removed some flakes of material encrusted near the handle and put them in a test tube. He took a swab, moistened it in a bottle, swiped it along part of the hook, then sealed the swab in another test tube. He repeated this process with several of the knives, handles, and blades, each swab going into its own tiny test tube. Then, using an eyedropper, he added reagents to each tube. Only the first tube turned color.

  He straightened up. "How unusual." Just as swiftly as the equipment had appeared, it disappeared back into the leather kit, which was folded, zipped up, and tucked back in the suit.

  Pendergast smoothed and patted down his suit, and folded his hands in front. Everyone was staring at him. "Yes?" he asked innocently.

  "Mr. Pendergast," said Hayward, "if it isn't too much trouble, would you mind sharing with us the fruits of your labors?"

  "I'm afraid I've struck out rather badly."

  "What a pity," said Hayward.

  "You're familiar with Wade Davis, the Canadian ethnobotanist, and his 1988 book, Passage of Darkness: The Ethnobiology of the Haitian Zombie?"

  Hayward continued glaring at him, saying nothing, her arms crossed.

  "A most interesting study," said Pendergast, "I recommend it highly."

  "I'll be sure to order it from Amazon," said Hayward.

  "Davis's investigation showed, in essence, that a living person can be zombified by the application of two special chemicals, usually via a wound. The first,coup de poudre, has tetrodotoxin as its primary ingredient — the same toxin found in the Japanese delicacy fugu. The second involves a datura — like dissociative. A particular combination of these substances, applied in doses approaching the LD–50, can keep a person in a state of near — death for days, yet mobile, with minimal brain function and no independent will. In short, according to theory, with certain chemical compounds you can create an actual zombii."

  "And you found these chemical compounds?" asked Hayward, in a clipped voice.

  "That's the surprise. I did not — neither here, nor in independent tests I conducted while at the Ville. I must confess myself surprised — and disappointed."

  She turned away brusquely. "Bring out the next batch of evidence. We've wasted enough time on this as it is."

  "I did find, however," added Pendergast, "that human blood is present on that hook."

  There was a silence.

  D'Agosta grunted, turned to the evidence mummy. "I want a DNA
test on that hook, run it through the databases, test for presence of human tissue as well. In fact, I want all these instruments tested for both human and animal blood. Make sure the handles are fingerprinted — I want a record of who handled them." He turned to Pendergast. "Got any idea what that crazy hook is for?"

  "I confess I am baffled. Monsieur Bertin?"

  Bertin had been looking increasingly agitated. Now he gestured for Pendergast to step to one side. " Mon frere,I cannot continue," he said in a low, urgent whisper. "I am sick, I tell you — sick! It is the work of thathungan, Charrière. His death conjure — you don't feel it at work yet?"

  "I feel fine."

  Hayward looked from the two of them to D'Agosta. She shook her head.

  "We must leave," Bertin said. "We must return home. I need the syrup — sipping syrup. 'Lean'—I know you have some! Nothing else will calm me."

  "Du calme, du calme, maître. Very soon." Then, turning back to the group, Pendergast said in a louder voice: "Now if you'd please examine this hook, monsieur?"

  After a moment Bertin stepped forward most unwillingly, bent warily over the item, sniffed. He was sweating copiously now and his face was sallow. His breathing sounded like the wheezing of old bagpipes in the small room. "How very strange. I've never seen anything like this before."

  Another sniff.

  "And the miniature coffin we retrieved from Fearing's crypt. Is it the work of the same sect?"

  Bertin took a cautious step closer to the little coffin. Its lid was in place now: made of cream — colored paper, hand — decorated with skulls and long bones in black ink. It had been elaborately folded, origami — fashion, to fit snugly over the papier — mâché coffin.

  "The vévé drawn on that paper lid," said Pendergast. "With what Loa is that identified?"

  Bertin shook his head. "This vévé is quite unknown to me. I would guess this is private, secret, known only to a single Obeah sect. Whatever it is, it is very strange. I've never seen anything like it." He stretched out his hand — pulled it back when the ancient woman clucked her desiccated tongue — then stretched it out again and picked up the lid.