Cemetery Dance p-9

by Lincoln Child

  He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.

  The man came over, still holding the ax.

  "Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here," D'Agosta murmured as the agent rejoined him.

  The man was tall, with a short salt — and — pepper beard, longish hair falling below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as Anglo as they came — in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a walking advertisement for Lands' End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos, checked shirt, work gloves — lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked, his melodious voice bearing no trace of accent.

  Pendergast slipped out his badge. "Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD homicide."

  The eyes narrowed, the lips pursed, as he examined the badge carefully. His eyes finally glanced up and past them at the Rolls. "Nice squad car you've got there."

  "Budget cuts," Pendergast replied. "One makes do as best one can."

  "Right."

  "You are Alexander Esteban?" D'Agosta asked.

  "Correct."

  "We'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind." "Do you have a warrant?"

  "We're looking for some help with the homicide of William Smithback, the Times journalist," Pendergast said. "I'd consider it a favor if you would answer our questions."

  The man nodded, stroked his beard. "I knew Smithback. I'll do whatever I can to help."

  "You produce films, is that correct?" Pendergast asked.

  "I used to. These days I spend most of my time in philanthropic pursuits."

  "I saw the article about you in Mademoiselle. The one that called you the 'modern DeMille.' "

  "History's my passion." Esteban gave a light laugh of false modesty. It didn't work.

  D'Agosta suddenly remembered: Esteban was that guy who made the splashy, cheesy historical epics. He'd gone to see the most recent with Laura Hayward,Breakout Sing Sing, about the famous breakout of thirty — three inmates back in the early sixties. Neither of them had liked it. There was another he vaguely recollected: The Last Days of Marie Antoinette.

  "But more to our purpose is the organization you run. Humans for Other Animals, is that correct?"

  He nodded. "HOA, right. Although I'm primarily the mouthpiece, as it were. A well — known name assigned to the cause." He smiled. "Rich Plock is the guy in charge."

  "I see. And you were in touch with Mr. Smithback about the series he was planning to write on the Ville des Zirondelles, known popularly as the Ville?"

  "Our organization has been concerned about reports of animal sacrifices there. It's been going on for a long time, and nothing's been done. I contacted all the papers, including theTimes, and finally Mr. Smithback got back to me."

  "When was that?"

  "Let's see — it was about a week or so before he published his first article, I believe."

  Pendergast nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the questioning.

  D'Agosta took over. "Tell us about it."

  "Smithback called me up and I met with him in the city. We had gathered some information on the Ville — complaints from neighbors, eyewitness reports of live animals being delivered, bills of sale, that sort of thing — and I gave him copies."

  "Did they contain any proof?"

  "Lots of proof! People in Inwood have heard animals being tortured and killed up there for years. The city hasn't done a damn thing, because of some politically correct ideas about religious freedom or some such rot. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for religious freedom — but not if it means torturing and killing animals."

  "Did Smithback make any enemies that you know of by publishing that first article on animal sacrifice?"

  "I'm sure he did — just as I have. Those people at the Ville are fanatics."

  "Do you have any specific information about that? Something that was said to him, threatening phone calls or e — mails to you or him, anything like that?"

  "I got something in the mail once, some charm or other. I threw it away. I don't know if it came from the Ville or not — although the package was postmarked from Upper Manhattan. Those people keep to themselves. A very,very strange group. Clannish and insular, to put it mildly. Been there forever, too, on that bit of ground."

  D'Agosta scuffed his foot on the cobbles, thinking of what else to ask. The man wasn't telling them much they didn't already know.

  Pendergast suddenly spoke again. "A lovely estate you have here, Mr. Esteban. Do you keep horses?"

  "Absolutely not. I don't condone animal slavery."

  "Dogs?"

  "Animals are meant to live in the wild, not be demeaned in the service of man."

  "Are you a vegetarian, Mr. Esteban?"

  "Naturally."

  "Are you married? Children?"

  "Divorced, no children. Now, look—"

  "Why are you a vegetarian?"

  "Killing animals for the gratification of our appetites is unethical. Not to mention bad for the planet, wasteful of energy, and morally atrocious while millions are starving. Like that disgusting car of yours — sorry, I don't mean to offend you, but there's no excuse for driving a car like that." Esteban's lips pursed in disapproval, and for a moment his face reminded D'Agosta of one of the nuns who used to smack his hand with a ruler for talking in class. He wondered how Pendergast was going to take this, but the agent's face remained smoothly untroubled.

  "There are quite a number of people in New York City who practice religions in which animals may be sacrificed," the agent said. "Why focus on the Ville?"

  "It's the most egregious and longest — lived example. We have to start somewhere."

  "How many people belong to your organization?"

  Esteban seemed embarrassed. "Well, Rich is the man to give you the definitive number. I think we have a few hundred."

  "You've read the recent stories in the West Sider, Mr. Esteban?"

  "I have."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think that reporter is on to something. Like I said, those people are crazy. Voodoo, Obeah… I understand they're not even there legally, that they're squatters of some kind. The city should evict them."

  "Where would they go?"

  Esteban gave a short laugh. "They can go to hell for all I care."

  "So you think it's okay to torture humans in hell, but not animals on earth?"

  The laugh died in Esteban's throat. He looked carefully at the agent. "That's just an expression, Mister—"

  "Pendergast."

  "Mr. Pendergast. Are we through here?"

  "I don't think so."

  D'Agosta was surprised to hear the sudden edge in Pendergast's voice.

  "Well, I am."

  "Do you believe in Vôdou, Mr. Esteban?"

  "Are you asking if I believe people practice voodoo, or do I believe that it actually works?"

  "Both."

  "I believe those zealots up in the Ville practice voodoo. Do I think they're bringing people back from the dead? Who knows? I don't care. I just want them gone."

  "Who finances your organization?"

  "It's not my organization. I'm just a member. We get a lot of small donations, but if the truth be told, I'm the major source of support."

  "Is it a 501(c)(3) tax — exempt organization?"

  "Yes."

  "Where do you get your money?"

  "I did well in the movie business — but frankly, I don't see how that's any of your business." Esteban eased the ax off his shoulder. "Your questions seem rambling and pointless, Mr. Pendergast, and I'm getting tired of answering them. So would you please climb back into your carbon monster and remove yourself from my property?"

  "I would be delighted." Pen
dergast half bowed and, with a faint smile on his face, climbed back into the Rolls, D'Agosta following.

  * * *

  As they were heading back into the city, D'Agosta shifted in his seat and scowled. "What a self — righteous prig. I'll bet he sinks his teeth into a bloody steak when no one's around."

  Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private rumination. At this he turned. "Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the most insightful comments I've heard you make today." He pulled a thin Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to D'Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.

  D'Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. "What the hell's that?"

  "I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety — nine the pound."

  "No shit."

  "Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his butcher was." And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.

  Chapter 32

  Nora Kelly turned the corner of Fifth Avenue and headed down West 53rd Street with a feeling of dread. Ahead of her, brown and yellow leaves swirled past the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art. It was dusk, and in the sharpness of the air there was a portent of the coming winter. She had taken a circuitous route from the museum — first a crosstown bus through the park, then the subway — perversely hoping for a breakdown, a traffic jam, anything that would give her an excuse to avoid what lay ahead. But public transportation had been depressingly efficient.

  And now here she was, mere steps from her destination.

  Of their own accord, her feet slowed, then stopped. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the cream — colored envelope, hand — addressed to WILLIAM SMITHBACK, JR., AND GUEST. Plucking out the card inside, she read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

  You are cordially invited to the

  One Hundred and Twenty Seventh Annual

  Press Awards Ceremony

  Gotham Press Club

  25 West 53rd Street, New York City

  October 15, 7:00 PM

  She'd attended her share of these events — typical Manhattan affairs with lots of drinking, gossip, and the usual journalistic oneupmanship. She'd never learned to like them. And this one would be worse than normal: infinitely worse. The pressed hands, the whispered condolences, the looks of sympathy… she felt herself becoming queasy at the mere thought. She'd done all she could to avoid precisely such things at the museum.

  And yet she had to do it. Bill was getting— would have been getting — an honorable mention for one of the awards. And he loved these elbow — rubbing drink — fests. It seemed a dishonor to his memory to skip it. Taking a deep breath, she stuffed the invitation back into her bag and strode on. She was still shaken up by their visit to the Ville the night before last: the terrible cries of the goat, the thing that had chased them. Had it been Fearing? Nora, unsure, hadn't mentioned it to D'Agosta. But the memory haunted her, made her jumpy. Maybe this is what she needed: to get out, mingle, put it behind her.

  The Gotham Press Club was a narrow building vexed by a façade of extravagantly rococo marble. Nora ascended the stairs and passed through the cast — bronze doors, surrendering her coat at the check stand and receiving a ticket in return. Ahead, from the direction of the Horace Greeley Banquet Hall, she could hear music, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. The feeling of dread increased. Adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag, she climbed the plush red carpet and passed into the oak — paneled hall.

  The event had started an hour before, and the vast space was packed. The noise was deafening, everyone talking over one another to ensure no bon mot went unappreciated. At least half a dozen bars were arrayed along the walls: journalistic events like this were notorious bacchanals. Along the right wall, a temporary stage had been erected, supporting a podium festooned with microphones. She threaded her way through the crowds, moving away from the door toward the back of the hall. If she could park herself in an out — of — the — way corner, maybe she could watch the proceedings in peace without having to endure a lot of…

  As if on cue, a nearby man made a point with a broad gesture, sending his elbow into her ribs. He turned, glaring at her briefly before his face broke into recognition. It was Fenton Davies, Bill's boss at theTimes. Standing in a half circle around him were a group of Bill's co — workers.

  "Nora!" he exclaimed. "How good of you to come. We're all so terribly, terribly sorry for your loss. Bill was one of the best — a fine reporter and a stellar human being."

  A chorus of agreement came from the circle of reporters.

  Nora looked from face to sympathetic face. It was all she could do not to bolt. She forced herself to smile. "Thank you. That means a lot."

  "I've been trying to get in touch with you. Have you gotten my calls?"

  "I have, sorry. There've been so many details to clear up—"

  "Of course, of course! I understand. No rush. It's just—" Here Davies lowered his voice, put his lips to her ear. " — we've been approached by the police. They seem to think it might have had something to do with his work. If that's the case, then we at theTimes must know."

  "I'll make it a point to call you when… when I'm a little better able to cope." Davies straightened up, resumed his normal voice. "Also, we've been talking about organizing a memorial in Bill's name. The William Smithback award for excellence, or something along those lines. We'd like to talk to you about that, too, when you have a chance."

  "Certainly."

  "We're getting the word out, soliciting contributions. Maybe it could even become a part of this annual event."

  "That's really great. Bill would have appreciated it."

  Davies touched a hand to his bald pate and nodded, pleased.

  "I'm just going to grab a drink," Nora said. "I'll catch up with you all later."

  "Would you like me to—" several voices began.

  "That's all right, thanks. I'll be back." And with one more smile Nora slipped away into the crowd.

  She managed to gain the back of the room without encountering anyone else. She stood near the bar, trying to get her breathing under control. She never should have come. She was about to order a drink when she felt somebody touch her arm. With a sinking feeling she looked around only to see Caitlyn Kidd.

  "Wasn't sure you'd be here," the reporter said.

  "You've recovered from the excitement?"

  "Sure." Caitlyn didn't exactly look recovered, though — her face was pale and a little drawn.

  "I'm presenting the first award on behalf of the West Sider," said Caitlyn, "so I've got to go up now. Let's try to hook up before you leave. I have an idea for our next move."

  Nora nodded, and with a smile and a little wave the reporter disappeared into the milling crowd.

  Turning back to the bartender, Nora ordered a drink, then retreated to a nearby spot against the bookcases lining the rear wall. There, standing between a bust of Washington Irving and an inscribed photograph of Ring Lardner, she watched the raucous gathering, quietly sipping her cocktail.

  She glanced over at the stage. It was interesting that the West Sider was sponsoring one of the awards. No doubt the scrappy tabloid was trying to buy itself some respectability. Interesting, too, that Caitlyn was presenting…

  She heard her name being called over the babel of voices. She scanned the crowd, frowning, searching for the source. There it was: a man of about forty, waving at her. For a moment, she drew a blank. Then, suddenly, she remembered the patrician features and yuppie haberdashery of Bryce Harriman. He had been her husband's nemesis during Bill's years at both thePost and theTimes. There were at least a dozen people between them, and it would take a minute or two for him to wade over.

  She was willing to put up with a
lot, but this was too much. Placing her half — empty drink on a nearby table, she ducked behind a portly man hovering nearby and then moved away into the crowd, out of Harriman's sight.

  Just then, the lights dimmed and a man took the stage. The music ceased and the crowd noise died down.

  "Ladies and gentlemen!" the man cried, hands grasping the podium. "Welcome to the Gotham Press Club's annual awards ceremony. My name's McGeorge Oddon and I'm in charge of this year's nominating committee. I'm delighted to see all of you here. We have a wonderful evening in store for you tonight."

  Nora braced herself for a rambling introduction, full of self — referential anecdotes and lame jokes.

  "I'd love to stand here, crack bad jokes, and talk about myself," Oddon said. "But we have a lot of awards to hand out this evening. So let's get right to it!" He plucked a card from his jacket pocket, scanned it quickly. "Our first award is a new one for this year: the Jack Wilson Donohue Prize for Investigative Journalism, sponsored by theWest Sider. And here to present the five — thousand — dollar award on behalf of theWest Sider is that paragon of community journalists herself: Caitlyn Kidd!"

  As Nora watched, Caitlyn took the stage to a chorus of applause, raucous cheers, and a few wolf whistles. She shook hands with Oddon, then plucked one of the microphones from its stand. "Thanks, McGeorge," she said. She looked slightly nervous in front of the large crowd, but her voice was strong and clear. "West Sideris as young as this club is old," she began. "Some people say too young. But the fact is, our newspaper couldn't be happier to be a part of this evening. And with this new award, we're putting our money where our mouth is!"

  A deluge of cheers.

  "There are plenty of awards for journalistic excellence," she continued. "Most of them concentrate on the quality of the printed word. Or maybe its timeliness. Or — dare I say — political correctness."

  Jeers, moans, catcalls.

  "But what about an award for sheer guts? For sheer doggedness of doing whatever it takes to get the story, get it right, get it now. For having — oh, all right — a set of brass balls!"