Cemetery Dance p-9 Page 6

  "So," he said, "you read it?"

  She glanced at the newspaper he'd brought. "Yes."

  D'Agosta shook his head. "Can you believe they print this stuff? Now we've got all kinds of jackasses calling in sightings, anonymous letters that have to be followed up, phone calls from psychics and tarot card readers… You know what this town is like whenever a weird story like this breaks. This is just the sort of shit I don't need right now."

  A small smile played about Hawyard's lips. "I understand."

  "And people believe this trash." He shoved the paper out of the way and took another sip of coffee. "So… what do you make of it?"

  "You have four eyewitnesses swearing Fearing is the killer?"

  "Five — including the victim's wife."

  "Nora Kelly."

  "You know her, right?"

  "Yes. I knew Bill Smithback, too. A little unorthodox in his methods, but a good reporter. What a tragedy."

  D'Agosta took a bite of his sandwich. The pastrami was lean, the dressing warm — just the way he liked it. It always seemed that when a case was pissing him off, he started to overeat.

  "Well," she continued, "either it's Fearing or somebody disguised as him. He's dead or he isn't. Simple enough. Got any DNA results?"

  "Blood from two people was found at the scene — Smithback's and somebody as yet unidentified. We've obtained samples of DNA from Fearing's mother and we're running them against the unknown blood now." He paused, wondered if he should tell her about the unusual way they were getting the DNA tests done, decided against it. It might not be legal, and he knew what a stickler Hayward was for the proverbial book. "The thing is, if it wasn't Fearing, why would anybody go to the trouble of trying to look like him?"

  Hayward took a sip of water. "Good question. What does Pendergast think?"

  "Since when does anybody know what that guy thinks? But I'll tell you one thing: he's more interested in that voodoo crap found at the scene than he wants to let on. He's spending an awful lot of time going over it."

  "That stuff mentioned in the article?"

  "Right. Sequins, a bunch of feathers tied together, a little parchment bag full of dust."

  "Gris — gris," Hayward murmured.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Voodoo charms used to ward off evil. Or sometimes to inflict it."

  "Please. We're dealing with a psychopath. The crime couldn't have been more disorganized and poorly planned. On the security tape the guy looks like he's on drugs."

  "You want my opinion, Vinnie?"

  "You know I do."

  "Exhume Fearing's body."

  "In process."

  "I'd also see if any of Smithback's news stories have made somebody mad recently."

  "Also in process. It seems all of Smithback's stories made people mad. I got a list of his recent assignments from his editor at the Times, and my men are going through them, following up."

  "You're doing well, Vinnie. Let me just add that the crime might not be as 'disorganized' as you think — it might have been very carefully planned and executed."

  "I don't think so."

  "Hey — no snap judgments." "Sorry."

  "One other thing." Hayward hesitated. "You remember my saying that, before taking the job with the transit police, I worked on the New Orleans PD for eighteen months?"

  "Sure."

  "Pendergast is from New Orleans."

  "So?"

  Hayward took another sip of water. "A minute ago, I said that either Fearing's dead or he isn't. Well, there are those on the NOPD who would say otherwise. That there might be a third possibility."

  "Laura, don't tell me you buy that zombii crap."

  Hayward finished the half of her sandwich, pushed the plate aside. "I'm full. Want some?"

  "I'm good, thanks. You didn't answer my question."

  "I don't 'buy' anything. Just talk to Pendergast about it. He knows a lot more about that… particular subject than you or I ever will. All I'm saying is, don't make up your mind too fast. It's one of your faults, Vinnie. And you know it."

  D'Agosta sighed; she was right, as usual. He looked around the luncheonette: at the bustling waitresses; at the other diners reading papers, talking on cell phones, or chatting with lunch companions. He was reminded of other meals he'd had with Laura, at other restaurants. In particular, he recalled their first drink together. That had been at a particularly low point in his life — and yet it was also the moment he realized just how much he was attracted to her. They worked well together. She challenged him — in a good way. The irony of the situation was painful: he'd won his disciplinary hearing, kept his job, but it seemed that he'd lost Laura.

  He cleared his throat. "So tell me about this promotion you're getting."

  "I haven't gotten it yet."

  "Come on, I've heard the scuttlebutt. It's just a question of formalities now."

  She took a sip of water. "It's a special task force they're setting up. One — year trial period. A few members of the chief's staff will be appointed to interface with the mayor on terror response, quality — of — life issues, that kind of thing. Big public concerns."

  "Visibility?"

  "Extremely high."

  "Wow. Another feather in your cap. Just wait, you'll be chief in a couple of years."

  Laura smiled. "Not likely."

  D'Agosta hesitated. "Laura. I really miss you." The smile faded. "I miss you, too."

  He looked across the table at her. She was so pretty his heart ached: pale skin, hair so black it was almost blue. "So why don't we try again? Start over?"

  She paused, then shook her head. "I'm just not ready."

  "Why not?"

  "Vinnie, I don't trust many people. But I trusted you. And you hurt me."

  "I know that, and I'm sorry. Really sorry. But I've explained all that. I had no choice, surely you see that now."

  "Of course you had a choice. You could have told me the truth. You could have trusted me. As I trusted you."

  D'Agosta sighed. "Look — I'm sorry."

  There was a loud beep as his cell phone started ringing. When it continued, Laura said, "I think you should answer that."

  "But—"

  "Go ahead. Take it."

  D'Agosta reached into his pocket, flipped the phone open. "Yes?"

  "Vincent," drawled the mellifluous southern voice. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

  He swallowed. "No, not really."

  "Excellent. We have an appointment with a certain Mr. Kline."

  "On my way."

  "Good. Oh, one other thing — care to take a drive with me tomorrow morning?"

  "Where to?"

  "Whispering Oaks Mausoleum. The exhumation order came through. We're opening Fearing's crypt tomorrow at noon."

  Chapter 13

  Digital Veracity Inc. was located in one of the giant glass office towers that lined Avenue of the Americas in the lower fifties. D'Agosta met Pendergast in the main lobby and, after a brief stop at the security station, they made their way to the thirty — seventh floor.

  "Did you bring a copy of the letter?" Pendergast asked.

  D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "You got anything on Kline's background I should know?"

  "Indeed I do. Our Mr. Lucas Kline grew up in a poor family from Avenue J in Brooklyn, childhood unremarkable, grades excellent, always the last chosen for the team, a 'nice boy.' He matriculated from NYU, began work as a journalist — which, by all accounts, was where his heart lay. But it worked out badly: he got scooped on an important story — unfairly, it seems, but when was journalism a fair field? — and was fired as a result. He drifted a bit, ultimately becoming a computer programmer for a Wall Street bank. Apparently he had a talent for it: he started DVI a few years later and seems to have carried it a fair distance." He glanced at D'Agosta. "Are you considering a search warrant?"

  "I thought I'd see how the interview goes first."

  The elevator doors rolled back on an elegantly furnished lobby. Se
veral sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Serapi rugs. Half a dozen large pieces of African sculpture — warriors with imposing headpieces, large masks with dizzyingly complex traceries — decorated the space.

  "It would appear our Mr. Kline has come farther than a 'fair distance,' " D'Agosta said, looking around.

  They gave their names to the receptionist and sat down. D'Agosta hunted in vain for a copy of People or Entertainment Weekly among the stacks of Computerworld and Database Journal. Five minutes went by, then ten. Just as D'Agosta was about to get up and make a nuisance of himself, a buzzer sounded on the receptionist's desk.

  "Mr. Kline will see you now," she said, standing and leading the way through an unmarked door.

  They walked down a long, softly lit hallway that terminated in another door. The receptionist ushered them through an outer office where a gorgeous secretary sat typing at a computer. She gave them a furtive look before returning to her work. She had the tense, cowed manner of a beaten dog.

  Beyond, yet another pair of doors opened onto a sprawling corner office. Two walls of glass offered dizzying views of Sixth Avenue. A man of about forty stood behind a desk covered with four personal computers. He was standing while speaking into a wireless telephone headset, his back to them, looking out the windows.

  D'Agosta examined the office: more black leather sofas, more tribal art on the walls: Mr. Kline, it seemed, was a collector. A polished glass case held several dusty artifacts, clay pipes and buckles and twisted pieces of iron, labeled as coming from the original Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. A few recessed bookcases contained books on finance and computer programming languages, in sharp contrast with the leering, slightly unsettling masks.

  Finishing the phone call, the man hung up and turned to face them. He had a thin, remarkably youthful face that still bore traces of a struggle with adolescent acne. D'Agosta noticed he was relatively short, no taller than five foot five. His hair stuck up in the back, like a kid's. Only his eyes were old — and very cool.

  He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta and back again. "Yes?" he asked in a soft voice.

  "I will have a seat, thank you," Pendergast said, taking a chair and throwing one leg over the other. D'Agosta followed suit.

  The man smiled slightly but said nothing.

  "Mr. Lucas Kline?" D'Agosta said. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD."

  "I knew you had to be D'Agosta." Kline looked at Pendergast. "And you must be the special agent. You already know who I am. Now, what is it you want? I happen to be busy."

  "Is that so?" D'Agosta asked, lounging back in the leather, making it creak in a most satisfying way. "And just what is it you busy yourself with, Mr. Kline?"

  "I'm CEO of DVI."

  "That doesn't really tell me anything."

  "If you want my rags — to — riches story, read that." Kline pointed to half a dozen identical books sitting together on one of the shelves. "How I went from a lowly DBA to head of my own company. It's required reading for all my employees: a volume of brilliance and insight for which they are privileged to pay forty — five dollars." He bestowed a deprecating smile on them. "My secretary will accept your cash or check on the way out."

  "DBA?" D'Agosta asked. "What's that?"

  "Database administrator. Once upon a time I massaged databases for a living, kept them healthy. And on the side, I wrote a program to automatically normalize large financial databases."

  "Normalize?" D'Agosta echoed.

  Kline waved his hand dismissively. "Don't even ask. In any case, my program worked very, very well. It turned out there was a large market for normalizing databases. I put a lot of other DBAs out of jobs. And created all this." His chin tilted slightly upward, the self — satisfied smile still lingering at the edges of his pink, girlish lips.

  The man's egghead egotism set D'Agosta's teeth on edge. He was going to enjoy this. He leaned back casually in his seat, to more protesting of expensive leather. "Actually, we're more interested in your extracurricular activities."

  Kline looked more closely at him. "Such as?"

  "Such as your penchant for hiring pretty secretaries, intimidating them into having sex with you, then bullying them or paying them off to keep quiet about it."

  The expression on Kline's face did not change. "Ah. So you're here about the Smithback murder."

  "You used your position of power to abuse and dominate those women. They were too afraid of you, too afraid of losing their jobs, to say anything. But Smithback wasn't afraid. He exposed you to the world."

  "He exposed nothing," Kline said. "Allegations were made, nothing was proven, and any settlements, if they exist, are sealed forever. Alas for you and Smithback, nobody went officially on the record."

  D'Agosta shrugged as if to say,

  Doesn't matter, the cat's still out of the bag.

  Pendergast stirred in his seat. "How unpleasant it must have been for you that after Smithback's article was published, DVI's stock market capitalization dropped by fifty percent."

  Kline's face remained serene. "You know the markets. So fickle. DVI is almost back up to where it was."

  Pendergast folded his hands. "You're a CEO now, and nobody's going to kick sand in your face again or take your lunch money. Nobody's going to disrespect you and get away with it these days — am I right, Mr. Kline?" Pendergast smiled mildly and glanced at D'Agosta. "The letter?"

  D'Agosta reached into his pocket, slipped out the letter, and began to quote: " I promise that, no matter how much time it takes or how much it costs, you will regret having written that article. You cannot know how I will act, or when, but rest assured: I will act." He looked up. "Did you write that, Mr. Kline?"

  "Yes," he said, his face remaining utterly under control.

  "And did you send that to William Smithback?"

  "I did."

  "Did you—"

  Kline interrupted. "Lieutenant, you are such a bore. Let me ask myself the questions and save us all some time. Was I serious? Absolutely. Was I responsible for his death? It's a possibility. Am I glad he's dead? Delighted, thank you." He winked.

  "You—" D'Agosta began.

  "The thing is" — Kline rode over him again—"you'll

  never

  know. I have the finest lawyers in town. I know precisely what I can say and cannot say. You'll never touch me."

  "We can take you in," D'Agosta said. "We could do it right now."

  "Of course you could. And I will sit silently where you take me until my lawyer arrives, and then I will leave."

  "We could book you for probable cause."

  "You're bloviating, Lieutenant."

  "The letter is a clear threat."

  "All my movements at the time of the killing can be accounted for. The finest legal minds in the country vetted that letter. There's nothing in there that is actionable on your part."

  D'Agosta grinned. "Why, hell, Kline, we could have a little fun, perp — walking you out the lobby downstairs — after we tip off the press."

  "Actually, it would be excellent publicity. I would be back in my office within the hour, you would be embarrassed, and my enemies would see that I am untouchable." Kline smiled again. "Remember, Lieutenant: I was trained as a programmer. It was my job to write long, complicated routines in which faultless logic was of paramount importance. That's the first thing you learn as a programmer, the most vital thing. Thinkeverything through, forward and backward. Make sure you've made provisions for any unexpected output. And don't leave any holes. Not a one."

  D'Agosta could feel himself doing a slow burn. A silence settled over the large office. Kline sat there, arms folded, looking back at D'Agosta.

  "Dysfunctional," D'Agosta said. At least he'd wipe that smug smile off this little bastard's face.

  "Excuse me?" Kline asked.

  "If I wasn't so disgusted, I could almost feel sorry for you. The only way you can get laid is to brandish money and power, to harass and force. That doesn't sound dysfunctional to y
ou? No? How about another word, then: pathetic. That girl in the outer office — when are you planning to rotate her out for this year's model?"

  "Kick your fucking ass" came the response.

  D'Agosta rose. "That's a threat of violence, Kline. Made against a police officer." He put his hands on his cuffs. "You think you're so smart, but you just crossed the line."

  "Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta," came the voice again.

  D'Agosta realized it wasn't Kline who had spoken. The voice was slightly different. And it hadn't come from behind the desk: it had come from beyond a door set into the opposite wall.

  "Who's that?" D'Agosta said. He had grown so angry, so quickly, that he could feel himself shaking.

  "That?" Kline replied. "Oh, that's Chauncy."

  "Get him out here. Now."

  "I can't do that."

  "What?" D'Agosta said through clenched teeth.

  "He's busy."

  "Kick your fucking ass," came the voice of Chauncy.

  "Busy?"

  "Yes. Eating his lunch."

  Without another word, D'Agosta strode to the door, flung it open.

  Beyond lay a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It held nothing but a wooden T — bar about chest high — and sitting on it was a huge, salmon — colored parrot. A Brazil nut was in one claw. It regarded him mildly, massive beak coyly hidden by cheek feathers, the crest atop its head raised slightly in inquiry.

  "Lieutenant D'Agosta, meet Chauncy," Kline said.

  "Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta," said the parrot.

  D'Agosta took a step forward. The parrot gave out an ear — piercing shriek and dropped the nut, flapping its wide wings and showering D'Agosta with feathers and dander, its crest flaring wildly.

  "Now look what you've done," said Kline in a tone of mild reproof. "You've disturbed his lunch."

  D'Agosta stepped back again, breathing heavily. Abruptly, he realized there was nothing — absolutely nothing — he could do. Kline had broken no law. What was he going to do, cuff a Moluccan cockatoo and haul it downtown? He'd be laughed out of Police Plaza. The little prick really had thought everything through. His hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. The frustration was agonizing.