She wished, for a moment, that her father and mother were still alive, that she could flee to their warm embrace. But that was an even more foolish, futile line of thinking.
She slowed. Maybe she should go back, after all. This was just the kind of emotional reaction she had hoped to avoid.
She paused, looking around. Beside her, a line of people were waiting to get into the Waterworks Bar. A couple necked in a doorway. A group of Wall Street types were walking home, all dark suits and briefcases. Her attention was attracted to a homeless man who had been shuffling alongside the building façades, matching her pace; he stopped, too, and turned around abruptly, heading the other way.
Something about the furtiveness of that motion, about the way the man kept his face from view, made her big-city instincts sound an alarm.
She watched the homeless man lurch along, covered in dirty rags, looking precisely as if he was trying to get away. Had he just robbed somebody? As she stared after him, the man reached the corner of 88th Street, paused, then shambled around the corner, looking back once just before vanishing.
Nora’s heart stopped. It was Fearing. She felt almost sure of it: the same lean face, the same lanky frame, the same thin lips, unruly hair, and leering smirk.
She was gripped by a paralyzing fear—which, just as quickly, gave way to furious anger.
“Hey!” she yelled, breaking into a run. “Hey, you!” She began pushing her way along the crowded sidewalk, halted by the Water-works crowd. She bullied her way through.
“Whoa, lady!”
“Excuse me!”
She broke free and ran; tripped; stood up again; then resumed her chase, spinning around the corner. Eighty-eighth Street stretched eastward, long and dimly lit, lined by ginkgo trees and dark brownstones. It ended in the bright lights of Amsterdam Avenue with its pretentious bars and eateries.
A dark figure was just turning onto Amsterdam and heading back downtown.
She raced down the street, running for all she was worth, cursing her weakness and sluggishness after the concussion and bed rest. She rounded the corner and stared down Amsterdam, similarly crowded with evening-goers.
There he was: moving quickly and with sudden purpose, half a block ahead.
Thrusting aside a young man, she began running again, catching up to the figure. “Hey! You!”
The figure kept going.
She darted between pedestrians, stretching out her arm. “Stop!”
Just before reaching 87th Street, she caught up to him, seizing the dirty material of his shoulder and spinning him around. The man righted himself unsteadily, staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes. Nora released the shirt and took a step back.
“What’s your problem?” Definitely not Fearing. Just some junkie.
“Sorry,” Nora mumbled. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Leave me alone.” He turned away with a muttered “bitch” and continued his unsteady way down Amsterdam.
Nora looked around wildly, but the real Fearing—if he’d ever been there to begin with—had vanished. She stood amid the surging crowds, her limbs trembling. With a huge effort, she got her breathing under control.
Her eye settled on the closest bar, the Neptune Room: a loud, ostentatious seafood place she had never been into. Never wanted to go into. Never expected to go into.
She went in, settled on a stool. The bartender came over right away. “What’ll it be?”
“Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, twist.”
“Coming right up.”
As she sipped the oversize, ice-cold drink, she upbraided herself for acting like a psycho. The dream was only a dream and the homeless man wasn’t Fearing. She was shaken up; she needed to get a grip, calm down, and put her life back together as best she could.
She finished her drink. “How much?”
“On the house. And I hope”—the bartender said with a wink—“that whatever devil you saw before you came in is gone now.”
She thanked him and rose, feeling the calming effects of the liquor. Devil, the bartender had said. She had to face her devils, and do it now. She was falling apart, seeing things, and that was unacceptable. That wasn’t her.
A few minutes’ walk brought her back to her apartment building. She briskly passed through the door, ran the gauntlet of another barrage of well-meaning comments by the doorman, and entered the elevator. In another moment, she was standing at her door. She slid in the key, unlocked it, and felt around the corner for the light switch, which she immediately found.
Double-locking the door and sliding home its newly installed bolt, she glanced around. Everything was perfectly neat, cleaned, polished, repainted. Quickly but methodically, she searched the entire apartment, including the closets and under the bed. Then, opening the curtains of the living room and the bedroom, she turned off the lights again. The glow of the city filtered in, throwing the apartment into shadow, giving a soft, gauzy focus to its surfaces.
She could stay here tonight, she knew now; she could wrestle with her devils.
Just so long as she didn’t have to look at anything.
12
The waitress brought their orders: pastrami on rye with Russian dressing for D’Agosta, a BLT for Laura Hayward.
“More coffee?” she asked.
“Please.” D’Agosta watched as the harassed-looking waitress refilled his cup. Then he turned back to Hayward. “And that’s about where we stand,” he concluded.
He’d invited Captain Hayward to lunch to bring her up to speed on the investigation so far. Hayward was no longer a homicide captain—she’d been given a lateral shift and was now working in the police commissioner’s office, where she was in line for a plum promotion. If anybody deserved it, he thought ruefully, Laura did.
“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 o
f 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.”
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. Several 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.”
Cemetery Dance Page 6