With this discovery, it seemed that Bill had secured the paper’s backing for still further investigation, because the article concluded with an italicized note:
This is one of a continuing series of articles on animal sacrifice in New York City.
Nora sat back. Now that she thought about it, she did remember Bill coming home one evening a week or so ago, crowing about some minor coup he’d achieved in his ongoing work on the animal sacrifices story.
Perhaps the coup hadn’t been so minor, after all.
Nora frowned at the screen. It had been around then that the strange little artifacts had begun showing up in their mailbox, and the creepy designs inscribed in dust started appearing outside their front door.
Closing the index of articles, she opened up Bill’s information management software, scanning for the notes he always kept for upcoming stories. The most recent entries were what she was looking for.
Concentrate on the Ville—follow up in next article. ARE THESE REALLY ANIMAL SACRIFICES? Need to PROVE IT— no allegations. Review police files. SEE with own eyes.
Write up Pizzetti interview. Other neighbors who’ve complained? Schedule second interview with Esteban, animal rights guy? Local PETA chapter, etc.
Where obtaining animals?
What is history of Ville? Who are they? Check Times morgue for Ville backstory/history. Good color: rumors of zombies(zombiis?)/ cults/etc. (Check w/ copydesk correct spelling zombie/zombiis.)
Possible article title: “Ville d’Evil?” Nah, Times would nix.
*First anniversary—don’t forget reservation at Café des Artistes & tickets to The Man Who Came to Dinner for the weekend!!!!
This final entry was so unexpected, so out of context with the others, that in a defenseless moment Nora felt hot tears spring to her eyes. She immediately closed the program and stood up from the desk.
She paced the living room once, then glanced at her watch: four fifteen. She could catch the train at 96th and Central Park West and be in Inwood in forty minutes. Firing up a new program on the computer, she typed briefly, examined the screen, then sent a document to the printer. Striding into the bedroom, she plucked her bag from the floor; took a quick look around; then headed for the front door.
A quarter of an hour before, she had felt rudderless, adrift. Now—suddenly—she found herself filled with overwhelming purpose.
20
D’Agosta had brought an entire squad along—twelve armed and uniformed officers—and the elevator was filled to capacity. He pressed the button for thirty-seven, then turned his gaze to the illuminated display above the doors. He felt calm and cool. No, that was wrong: he felt cold. Ice cold.
He believed he was basically a fair human being. If somebody treated him with even a modicum of respect, he’d reciprocate. But when somebody acted like a dick, that was a different story. Lucas Kline had been a dick—a Grade A, first-class, USDA Choice dick. And now he was going to learn what a bad idea it was to really piss off a cop.
He turned to the squad. “Remember the briefing,” he said. “I want this thorough. Thorough and dirty. Work in teams of two—I don’t want any problems with the chain of evidence. And if you encounter any shit, any obstructionism, anything at all, shut it down fast and hard.”
A murmur rippled through the group, followed by a chorus of snaps and clicks as Maglites were checked and batteries slotted into cordless screwdrivers.
The elevator doors opened on the expansive lobby of Digital Veracity. It was late in the afternoon—four thirty—but D’Agosta noticed there were still a couple of clients seated on the leather sofas, waiting for appointments.
Good.
He stepped out of the elevator and into the center of the lobby, the team spreading out behind him. “I’m Lieutenant D’Agosta of the NYPD,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “I have a search warrant to execute on these premises.” He glanced toward the waiting clients. “I would suggest you come back some other time.”
They stood quickly, white-faced, scooped up their jackets and briefcases, and scampered gratefully for the elevator bank. D’Agosta turned to the receptionist. “Why don’t you go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee?”
In fifteen seconds, the lobby was empty except for D’Agosta and his squad. “We’ll use this as a staging area,” he said. “Leave the evidence boxes here and let’s get started.” He pointed to the sergeants. “I want you three with me.”
It was the work of sixty seconds to reach Kline’s outer office. D’Agosta glanced at the frightened-looking secretary. “Nothing more’s going to get done here today,” he said quietly, smiling at her. “Why don’t you knock off early?”
He waited until she had gone. Then he opened the door to the inner office. Kline was once again on the phone, his feet on the broad desk. When he saw D’Agosta and the uniformed officers, he nodded, as if unsurprised. “I’ll have to call you back,” he said into the phone.
“Take all the computers,” D’Agosta told the sergeants. Then he turned to the software developer. “I’ve got a search warrant here.” He pushed it toward Kline’s face, then let it drop to the floor. “Oops. There it is, you can read it when you’ve got time.”
“I thought you might be back, D’Agosta,” Kline said. “I’ve had a talk with my lawyers. That search warrant has to specify what it is you’re looking for.”
“Oh, it does. We’re looking for evidence that Bill Smithback’s murder was either planned, committed, or perhaps paid for by you.”
“And why, precisely, would I plan, commit, or pay for such an act?”
“Because of a psychotic rage against high-profile journalists—such as the one that got you fired from your first job on a newspaper.”
Kline’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“The information could be concealed in any of these offices,” D’Agosta continued. “We’ll have to search the entire suite.”
“It could be anywhere,” Kline replied. “It could be at my home.”
“That’s where we’ll be going next.” D’Agosta sat down. “But you’re right—it could be anywhere. That’s why I’ll have to confiscate all CDs, DVDs, hard disks, PDAs, anything on the premises that can store information. You have a BlackBerry?”
“Yes.”
“Now it’s evidence. Hand it over, please.”
Kline reached his hand into his pocket, pulled out the device, laid it on his desk.
D’Agosta glanced around. One of the sergeants was taking paintings off the cherrywood walls, carefully scrutinizing their backs, then placing them on the floor. Another was plucking books off the shelves, holding them by the spines and shaking them, then dropping them onto growing piles. The third was pulling the expensive rugs from the floor, searching underneath, then leaving them bunched up in a corner. Watching, D’Agosta reflected how convenient it was that no law required you to clean up after a search.
From other offices down the hallway, he could hear drawers slamming, dragging noises, crying, voices raised in protest. The sergeant had finished with the rugs and was starting in on the file cabinets, opening them, removing manila folders, leafing through them, then dumping the papers onto the floor. The sergeant who’d examined the oil paintings was now dismantling the PCs on the desk. “I need those for my business,” Kline said.
“They’re mine now. Hope you backed everything up.” This reminded D’Agosta of something—something Pendergast had recommended. “Would you mind loosening your tie?” he asked.
Kline frowned. “What?”
“Indulge me, please.”
Kline hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached up and tugged down his tie.
“Now unbutton the top button of your shirt and spread the collar.”
“What are you up to, D’Agosta?” Kline asked, doing as instructed.
D’Agosta peered at the scrawny neck. “That cord—draw it out, please.”
Even more slowly, Kline reached in and pulled out the cord. Sure enough: dangling from it
s end was a small flash drive.
“I’ll take that, please.”
“It’s encrypted,” Kline said.
“I’ll take it anyway.”
Kline stared. “You’ll regret this, Lieutenant.”
“You’ll get it back.” And D’Agosta held out his hand. Kline raised it over his head and placed it on the desk beside the Black-Berry. His expression, his manner, betrayed nothing. The only sign of what might be going on inside his head was a faint rising of pink on his acne-scarred cheeks.
D’Agosta looked around. “We’ll need to take some of these African masks and statues, as well.”
“Why?”
“They may relate to certain, ah, exotic elements of the case.”
Kline began to speak, stopped, began again. “They are extremely valuable works of art, Lieutenant.”
“We won’t break anything.”
The sergeant had finished with the books and was now unscrewing ceiling ducts with a screwgun. D’Agosta stood up, walked to the closet, opened the door. Today Chauncy was absent. He glanced back at Kline. “Do you have a safe?”
“In the far office.”
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?”
The journey down the hallway took in half a dozen scenes of devastation. His team was disassembling monitors, searching cabinets with Maglites, pulling drawers out of desks. Kline’s employees had assembled in the lobby, where an ever-growing mountain of paper stood beside the evidence boxes. Kline looked left and right with hooded eyes. The pinkish cast to his face had deepened somewhat. “Vincent D’Agosta,” he said as they walked. “Do your pals call you Vinnie?”
“Some of them do.”
“Vinnie, I believe we might have friends in common.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, the person I’m referring to isn’t exactly a friend as of yet. But I feel as though I know her. Laura Hayward.”
It took all the force of will D’Agosta could muster not to check his stride.
“You see, I’ve done quite a bit of looking into that girlfriend of yours—or ex-girlfriend, I should say. What’s the matter, Viagra no longer working?”
D’Agosta kept his eyes locked straight ahead.
“Still, my sources say you two are close. Boy, does she have a great career. She could make commissioner someday, if she plays her cards right…”
At last, D’Agosta stopped. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Kline. If you think you can threaten or intimidate Captain Hayward, you’re sadly mistaken. She could crush you like a roach. And if, in her infinite mercy, she decides to spare you—rest assured that I won’t. Now, if you’d show me to the safe, please?”
21
Nora exited the subway at the 207th Street station. She walked to the north end of the platform, then climbed the stairs to street level, where she found a three-way confluence of streets: Broadway, Isham, and West 211th. This was a neighborhood she had never been in before, the northernmost tip of Manhattan, and she looked around curiously. The buildings reminded her of Harlem: prewar walkups, attractive and sturdily built. There were few brownstones or town houses: dollar stores, bodegas, and nail salons sat cheek-by-jowl with funky restaurants and whole-grain bakeries. Nearby, she knew, was Dyckman House: the last remaining Dutch Colonial farmhouse in Manhattan. It was a place she had always intended to visit with Bill some sunny weekend afternoon.
She pushed this thought from her mind. Checking the document she had printed earlier—a satellite view of the neighborhood, with the street names marked—she got her bearings and began making her way north and west, along Isham, climbing the rise toward Seaman Avenue and the setting sun.
She crossed broad, busy Seaman Avenue and continued down an asphalt path, tennis courts to her left and a large baseball diamond to her right. She paused. Ahead of her, across the fields, lay what appeared to be primeval forest. The map showed an extension of Indian Road passing through the northern end of Inwood Hill Park, which connected to a tight little unmarked neighborhood she assumed must be the Ville. The path was more direct and, she felt, perhaps more secure. It crossed the field and disappeared into a dark tangle of red oaks and tulip trees, their long shadows knitting together amid the rocky undergrowth. Their leaves glowed with autumnal glory, russet and yellow, with splashes of blood red, forming an almost impenetrable wall. She had heard this was the last wild forest in Manhattan, and it looked it.
Nora glanced at her watch: five thirty. Night was falling quickly and the air had taken on an almost frosty chill. She took a step forward, then stopped again, glancing uncertainly into the gloomy forest. She had never been in Inwood Hill Park before—in fact, she didn’t know anybody who had—and she had no idea how safe it was after dark. Hadn’t a jogger been murdered in here a few years back…?
Her jaw set in a hard line. She hadn’t come all this way just to turn back now. There was still plenty of light left. Shaking her head impatiently, she started forward, leaning toward the wall of trees almost as if challenging them to stop her.
The path curved gently to the right, running past a small grassy field before diving between the first massive trunks. Nora walked on quickly, feeling the shadow of the heavy boughs fall over her. The path split, then split again, the tarmac webbed with grassy cracks, plastered with fallen leaves, the bushes on either side crowding into the path. She passed an occasional gas lamp, once clearly elegant but now rusted and long disused. The oaks and tulip trees—some with trunks as massive as five feet across—were punctuated by dogwoods and ginkgos. Here and there, a rocky defile thrust up from the forest floor like the edge of a knife.
Soon the paved path gave way to a dirt track that wound its way sinuously among the trunks, climbing all the while. Through a gap in the trees, Nora could make out a steep slope plunging to a tidal basin, thick with mud and populated by noisy seabirds. Their cries followed her faintly as she continued climbing the winding path, her feet kicking aside drifts of fallen leaves.
After about fifteen minutes, she stopped at the foot of an ancient retaining wall, crumbling into ruin. The roar of Manhattan had receded to the sound of wind sighing in trees. The sun had fallen behind the rise of land, and an angry orange glow suffused the October sky. The chill of night was coming down. Nora glanced at the hardwoods crowding in around her, at the glacial boulders and kettle holes scattered treacherously about. It seemed almost impossible that two hundred acres of such wild forest existed here on the most urban of all islands. Nearby, she knew, were the remains of the old Straus mansion. Isidor Straus had been a congressman and co-owner of Macy’s. After he and his wife died on the Titanic, their country house in Inwood Hill Park had gradually fallen into ruin. Perhaps this very retaining wall had once been part of the estate.
The path continued to drift westward, away from the direction she needed to go. She peered at the satellite map in the dying light and then, hesitating only a moment longer, decided to bushwhack northward. She left the trail and began pushing through the sparse undergrowth, away from the trail.
The land pitched sharply upward, shelves of exposed gneiss cropping out here and there. She scrambled up the defile, hands grabbing for purchase on bushes and small trunks. Her fingers were very cold now, and she bitterly regretted not bringing gloves. She slipped, falling onto a striated rib of rock. She clambered back to her feet with a curse, brushed the leaves off, slung her bag back over her shoulder, and listened. There were no sounds of birds or rustles of squirrels, only the gentle sigh of the wind. The air smelled of dead leaves and damp earth. After a moment, she scrambled on, feeling increasingly alone in the wooded stillness.
This was crazy. It was getting dark a lot faster than she’d thought. Already the lights of Manhattan had drowned out the last of the twilight, casting an eerie glow across the sky, the black silhouettes of the half-bare trees outlined against it, giving the scene the unreality of a Magritte painting, bright above, dark below. Ahead, at the top of the defile, Nora could make out the ridgeline, studded w
ith spectral trees. Quickly now, she half ran, half scrambled toward it. Gaining the height of land, she paused a moment to catch her breath. An old, rusting chain-link fence ran east to west, but it was bowed and twisted from neglect, and Nora soon found a loose section and ducked beneath easily. She took a few steps forward, angled her way around a set of massive boulders—and then stopped again abruptly.
The vista that lay ahead took her breath away. Before her feet, the ground fell away in a cliff, ramparts of rock dropping toward the tidal waters. She had reached the uttermost tip of Manhattan. Far below, the waters of the Harlem River were black, running westward around the Spuyten Duyvil to the great vast opening of the Hudson River, the color of dark steel in the dying light, a vast waterscape glittering beneath a rising gibbous moon. Beyond the Hudson, the high cliffs of the Jersey Palisades stood black against the final light of sunset; in the middle ground, the Henry Hudson Parkway arched over the Harlem River on a graceful bridge, arrowing northward into the Bronx. A solid stream of yellow headlights flowed over it, commuters heading home from the city. Directly across the water was Riverdale, almost as thickly wooded here as Inwood Hill Park itself. And to the east, beyond the Harlem River, lay the smoky flanks of the Bronx, pierced by a dozen bridges, afire with a million lights. The landscape formed a confusing, bizarre, and magnificent spectacle of geologic majesty: a sprawling tableau of the primeval and the cosmopolitan, thrown together with supreme capriciousness over the course of the city’s centuries of growth.
But Nora admired it for only a moment. Because, looking down again, a quarter mile away and a hundred feet below, she saw—half hidden in a thick knot of woods—a cluster of grimy brick buildings, dotted with the faint twinkle of yellow lights. They sat on a flat shelf of land, perched halfway between a ragged, trash-strewn pebble beach along the Harlem River and her own vantage spot atop the ridge. It was unreachable from her cliff—in fact, she wasn’t quite sure how it could be reached at all, although through the trees she could glimpse a ribbon of asphalt that, she thought, must connect to Indian Road. As she stared, she realized that the surrounding copse of trees would render the community invisible from almost any angle: from the parkway, from the riverbank, from the cliffs on the far shore. At the center of the cluster was a much larger structure, evidently an old church, which had been added on to indiscriminately, again and again, until the whole lost any architectural cohesion. This was tightly surrounded by a tangle of small, ancient timber-frame buildings, divided by deep alleyways.
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