Cemetery Dance p-9

by Lincoln Child

  Pendergast deftly pocketed the tweezers, slid the rack of tubes into a Gladstone doctor's bag, followed by the loupe. "The killer wasn't in here, or the bedroom. A rather obvious deduction, but I wanted to make sure."

  "Is this now an FBI matter?" D'Agosta asked, following Pendergast as the agent moved through the bedroom into the living room.

  "Not exactly."

  "So you're freelancing again?"

  "You might say that. I would appreciate it if we kept my involvement to yourself for the moment." He turned. "Your take, Vincent?"

  D'Agosta went through his reconstruction of the crime while Pendergast nodded in approval. "Not that it makes much difference," D'Agosta summed up. "We already know who the dirtbag is. We just have to find him."

  Pendergast gave a quizzical rise to his eyebrows.

  "He lives in the building. We got two eyewitnesses who saw the killer enter, and two who saw him leave, all covered with blood, clutching the knife. He attacked Nora Kelly on the way out of the apartment — tried to attack, I should say, but the fight had attracted neighbors and he ran away. They got a good look at him, the neighbors I mean. Nora's in the hospital now — minor concussion, but should be all right. Considering."

  Another faint incline of the head.

  "He's a creep named Fearing. Colin Fearing. Out — of — work British actor. Apartment two fourteen. He'd hassled Nora once or twice in the lobby. Looks to me like a rape gone bad. He probably hoped he'd find Nora home alone, got Smithback instead. Chances are he lifted the key from the super's key locker. I've got a man checking on that."

  This time there was no confirming nod. Just the usual inscrutable look in those deep, silvery eyes.

  "Anyway, it's an open — and — shut case," D'Agosta said, starting to feel defensive for some unknown reason. "Wasn't just Nora's ID. We got him on the building's security tapes, too, an Oscar performance. Coming in and going out. On the way out we got a full — frontal shot, knife in hand, covered with blood, dragging his sorry ass through the lobby, threatening the doorman before splitting. Gonna look beautiful in front of a jury. This is one bastard who is goingdown. "

  "Open and shut, you say?"

  D'Agosta felt another twinge at the doubtful note in Pendergast's voice. "Yeah," he said firmly. "Open and shut." He checked his watch. "They're holding the doorman downstairs, waiting for me. He's going to be a star witness, a reliable, solid family man — knew the perp for years. Want to ask him any questions before we send him home?"

  "Delighted to. But before we go downstairs…" The agent's voice trailed off. A pair of spidery white fingers reached into the breast pocket of his black suit and withdrew a folded document. With a flourish of his wrist, he proffered it to D'Agosta.

  "What's this?" D'Agosta took it and unfolded it, taking in the red notary stamp, the Great Seal of New York, the elegant engraving, the signatures.

  "It is Colin Fearing's death certificate. Signed and dated ten days ago."

  Chapter 3

  D'Agosta entered the security nook of 666 West End Avenue, followed by the spectral figure of Pendergast. The doorman, a plump gentleman from the Dominican Republic named Enrico Mosquea, sat on a metal stool, hammy legs spread. He sported a pencil mustache and a marcel wave. The man sprang to his feet with surprising nimbleness as they came in.

  "You find this son bitch," he said passionately. "You find him. Smithback, he was a good man. I tell you—"

  D'Agosta gently laid a hand on the man's neat brown uniform. "This is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI. He's going to help us out."

  His eyes took in Pendergast. "Good. Very good."

  D'Agosta took a deep breath. He hadn't quite absorbed the ramifications of the document Pendergast showed him. Maybe they were dealing with a twin. Maybe there were two Colin Fearings. New York was a big city, and half the Brits in town seemed to be named Colin. Or maybe the M.E.'s office had made a hideous mistake.

  "I know you've already answered a lot of questions, Mr. Mosquea," D'Agosta went on, "but Agent Pendergast has a few more."

  "No trouble. I answer questions ten times over, twenty times, if it help get this son bitch."

  D'Agosta pulled out a notebook. What he really wanted was for Pendergast to hear what the man had to say. He was a very credible witness.

  Pendergast spoke softly. "Mr. Mosquea, describe what you saw. From the beginning."

  "This man, Fearing, he arrive when I was putting someone in a cab. I saw him come in. He didn't look too good, like he been in a fight. Face swollen, black eye maybe. Skin a funny color, too pale. He's walking kind of funny, too. Slow."

  "When was the last time you saw him — before this?"

  "Maybe two weeks. I think he been away."

  "Go on."

  "So he walk past me and into the elevator. A little later, Ms. Kelly come back to the building. Maybe five minutes pass. Then he is coming back out. Unbelievable. He all covered with blood, holding knife, lurching along like he been hurt." Mosquea paused for a moment. "I try to grab him, but he swing at me with knife, then turn and run. I call police."

  Pendergast slid an ivory hand across his chin. "I imagine when you were putting the person in the cab — when he came in — you got a fleeting glimpse of him."

  "I get good,

  long

  look. Not fleeting. Like I said, he was walking slow."

  "You said his face was swollen? Could it have been someone else?"

  "Fearing live here six years. I open door for that son bitch three, four times a day."

  Pendergast paused. "And then, when he came back out, his face was covered with blood, I imagine."

  "Not face. No blood on face, or maybe just a little. Blood all over hands, clothes. Knife."

  Pendergast was silent for a moment, and then said, "What if I were to tell you that Colin Fearing's body was found in the Harlem River ten days ago?"

  Mosquea's eyes narrowed. "Then I say you wrong!"

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Mosquea. Identified, autopsied, everything."

  The man drew himself up to his full five foot three inches, his voice assuming a grave dignity. "If you don't believe, I ask you: look at the tape. The man on that tape is Colin Fearing." He stopped, giving Pendergast a challenging stare. "I don't care about any body in river. The murderer is Colin Fearing. I know. "

  "Thank you, Mr. Mosquea," said Pendergast.

  D'Agosta cleared his throat. "If we need to speak to you again, I'll let you know."

  The man nodded, keeping a suspicious eye on Pendergast. "The killer is Colin Fearing. You find that son bitch."

  * * *

  They stepped out into the street, the crisp October air refreshing after the sickening confines of the apartment. Pendergast gestured toward a '59 Rolls — Royce Silver Wraith idling at the curb, and D'Agosta could see the stolid outline of Proctor, Pendergast's chauffeur, in the driver's seat. "Care to take a ride uptown?"

  "Might as well. It's already half past three, I won't be getting any sleep tonight."

  D'Agosta climbed into the leather — fragrant confines, Pendergast slipping in beside him. "Let's have a look at the security tape." The agent pressed a button in the armrest, and an LCD screen swung down from the ceiling.

  D'Agosta removed a DVD from his briefcase. "Here's a copy. The original already went down to headquarters."

  Pendergast slid it into the drive. A moment later, the lobby of 666 West End sprang into wide — angle view on the screen, the fisheye lens covering the area from the elevator to the front door. A time stamp in the corner ran off the seconds. D'Agosta watched — for perhaps the tenth time — as the doorman went outside with one of the tenants, where he presumably flagged down a cab. As he was outside, a figure came pushing in through the doors. There was something ineffably chilling about the way he walked — strangely shambling, almost rudderless, heavy — footed, with no trace of hurry. He glanced up once at the camera, his eyes glazed, seemingly sightless. He was wearing a bizarre outfit, a gaudy, sequined g
arment over his shirt, multicolored designs on a field of red, with curlicues, hearts, and rattle — shaped bones. His face was bloated, misshapen.

  Pendergast fast — forwarded it until a new person entered the camera's field of view: Nora Kelly, carrying a cake box. She walked to the elevator, disappearing again. Another fast — forward, and then Fearing lurched out of the elevator, suddenly wild. His outfit was now torn and smeared with blood, the right hand clutching a massive, ten — inch scuba knife. The doorman came forward, tried to grab him; Fearing slashed at him instead and shambled through the double doors, disappearing into the night.

  "The bastard," D'Agosta said. "I'd like to rip his nuts off and feed them back to him on toast."

  He glanced at Pendergast. The agent appeared to be deep in thought.

  "You have to admit, the tape is pretty damn clear. You sure the body in the Harlem River was Fearing?"

  "His sister identified the corpse. There were a couple of birth — marks, tattoos, that confirmed it. The M.E. who handled the case is reliable, if a bit difficult."

  "How'd he die?"

  "Suicide."

  D'Agosta grunted. "No other family?"

  "The mother is non compos mentis, in a nursing home. No one else."

  "And the sister?"

  "She went back to England after identifying the body." He fell silent, and then D'Agosta heard him murmur, sotto voce: "Curious, very curious."

  "What?"

  "My dear Vincent, in an already puzzling case, there is one thing about that tape that strikes me as especially baffling. Did you notice what he does when he enters the lobby for the first time, on his way in?"

  "Yeah, what?"

  "He glances up at the camera."

  "He knew it was there. He lived in the building." "Precisely." And the FBI agent lapsed once more into contemplative silence.

  Chapter 4

  Caitlyn Kidd sat in the driver's seat of her RAV4, balancing a breakfast sandwich from Subway in one hand and a large black coffee in the other. Her nose was buried in the issue ofVanity Fair that lay propped against the steering wheel. Outside, the morning rush — hour traffic on West 79th Street hooted and blared in an uncomfortable ostinato.

  A police radio set into the dashboard crackled to life, and Caitlyn glanced down at it immediately.

  "…Headquarters to 2527, respond to a 10–50 at corner of One Eighteenth and Third…"

  As quickly as it had flared up, her interest vanished again. She took another bite of her sandwich, flipped the pages of the magazine with a free fingertip.

  As a reporter covering Manhattan's crime beat, Caitlyn found herself spending a lot of her time hanging out in her car. Crimes often occurred in out — of — the — way corners of the island, and if you knew your way around, your own car beat the hell out of riding the subway or hailing a cab. It was a business where the scoop was everything, where minutes counted. And the police — band radio helped make sure she stayed on top of the most interesting stories. One big scoop — that's what she was hoping for. One really big scoop.

  On the passenger seat, her cell phone blared. She picked it up and snugged it between chin and shoulder, performing a complex three — way juggle involving sandwich, phone, and coffee. "Kidd."

  "Caitlyn. Where are you?"

  She recognized the voice: Larry Bassington, an obituary writer with the West Sider, the daily throwaway tabloid where they both worked. He was always hitting on her. She'd agreed to let him buy her lunch, mostly because money was short and payday wasn't until the end of the week.

  "In the field," said Kidd.

  "This early?"

  "I get my best calls around dawn. That's when they find the stiffs."

  "I don't know why you bother — the

  West Sider

  ain't exactly the

  Daily News.

  Hey, don't forget—"

  "Hold a sec." Once again, Kidd turned her attention to the police radio.

  "…Headquarters to 3133, reports of a 10–53 at 1579 Broadway, please respond."

  "3133 to Headquarters, 10–4…"

  She tuned it out, went back to the phone. "Sorry. You were saying?"

  "I was saying, don't forget about our date."

  "It's not a date. It's lunch."

  "Allow me my dreams, okay? Where do you want to go?"

  "You're buying, you tell me."

  A pause. "How about that Vietnamese place on Thirty — second?"

  "Um, no thanks. Ate there yesterday, regretted it all afternoon."

  "Okay, what about Alfredo's?"

  But once again, Kidd was listening to the police radio.

  "…Dispatch, dispatch, this is 7477, on that 10–29 homicide, note that victim Smithback, William, is at present en route M.E.'s office for processing. Supervisor leaving the scene."

  "10–4, 7477…"

  She almost dropped her coffee. "Holy shit! Did you hear that?"

  "Hear what?"

  "It just came over the car — to — car channel. There's been a murder. And I know the victim — Bill Smithback. He's that guy who writes for theTimes — I met him at that journalism conference at Columbia last month."

  "How do you know it's the same guy?"

  "How many people you know with a name like Smithback? Look, Larry, gotta go."

  "Gee, how awful for him. Now about lunch—"

  "Screw lunch." She nudged the phone closed with her chin, let it drop to her lap, and fired up the engine. Lettuce, tomato, green peppers, and scrambled egg went flying as she popped the clutch and scooted out into traffic.

  It was the work of five minutes to get to West End Avenue and 92nd. Caitlyn was an expert at urban driving, and her Toyota had just enough dings and scrapes to warn off anyone who might think that one more wouldn't matter. She nudged the car into a spot in front of a fire hydrant — with any luck, she'd get her story and be gone before a traffic cop spotted the infraction. And if not, well, screw it, she owed more in tickets on the car than it was worth.

  She walked quickly down the block, pulling a digital recorder from her pocket. A bunch of vehicles were double — parked outside 666 West End Avenue: two patrol cars, an unmarked Crown Vic, and an ambulance. A morgue wagon was just pulling away. Two uniformed cops were standing on the top step of the building's entrance, limiting access to residents only, but a knot of people huddled below on the sidewalk, talking in tense whispers. Their faces were uniformly pinched and drawn, almost — Kidd observed wryly — as if they'd all seen a ghost.

  With practiced efficiency, she inserted herself into the restless, muttering group, listening to half a dozen conversations at once, deftly filtering out extraneous chatter and homing in on those who seemed to know something. She turned to one, a bald, heavyset man with a face the color of pomegranate skin. Despite the fall chill in the air, he was sweating profusely.

  "Pardon me," she said, coming up to him. "Caitlyn Kidd, press. Is it true William Smithback was killed?"

  He nodded.

  "The reporter?"

  The man nodded again. "Tragedy. He was a nice guy, used to bring me free newspapers. You a colleague?"

  "I work the crime desk for the

  West Sider.

  So you knew him well?"

  "Lived down the hall. I saw him just yesterday." He shook his head.

  This was just what she needed. "What happened, exactly?"

  "It was late last night. Guy with a knife cut him up real bad. I heard the whole thing. Awful."

  "And the murderer?"

  "Saw him, recognized him, guy who lives in the building. Colin Fearing." "Colin Fearing." Kidd repeated it slowly, for the recorder.

  The man's expression changed to something she couldn't readily identify. "See, there's a problem there, though."

  Kidd leapt at this. "Yes?"

  "It seems Fearing died almost two weeks ago."

  "Oh yeah?

  How so?"

  "Found his body floating up near Spuyten Duyvil. Identified, a
utopsied, everything."

  "You sure about this?"

  "The police told the doorman all about it. Then he told us."

  "I don't understand," Kidd said.

  The man shook his head. "Neither do I."

  "But you're sure the man you saw last night was also Colin Fearing?"

  "Not a doubt in my mind. Ask Heidi here, she recognized him as well." And the man gestured at a bookish, frightened — looking woman standing beside him. "The doorman, he saw him, too. Struggled with him. There he is now, coming out of the building." And he gestured toward the door where a short, dapper Hispanic man was emerging.

  Quickly, Caitlyn got their names and a few other relevant details. She could only imagine what the headline guy back at the

  West Sider

  would do with this one.

  Other reporters were arriving now, descending like buzzards, arguing with the cops who had roused themselves and were beginning to shoo the residents back into the building. Reaching her car, she found a ticket tucked under one wiper.

  She couldn't have cared less. She had her big scoop.

  Chapter 5

  Nora Kelly opened her eyes. It was night and all was quiet. A faint city breeze came through the window of her hospital room and rustled the modesty curtains drawn around the empty bed next to her.

  The fog of painkillers was gone, and when she realized sleep would not return she lay very still, trying to hold back the tide of horror and sorrow threatening to overwhelm her. The world was cruel and capricious, and the very act of drawing breath seemed pointless. Even so, she tried to master her grief, to focus on the faint throbbing of her bandaged head, the sounds of the great hospital around her. Slowly, the shaking of her limbs subsided.

  Bill — her husband, her lover, her friend — was dead. It wasn't just that she'd seen it; she couldfeel it in her bones. There was an absence, an emptiness. He was gone from the earth.

  The shock and horror of the tragedy only seemed to grow with each passing hour, and the clarity of her thoughts was agonizing. How could this have happened? It was a nightmare, the brutal act of a pitiless God. Just last night they had been celebrating the first anniversary of their marriage. And now…now …