Dance of Death (28 page)

"Brava, Margo," came the whispery voice. "I'm impressed. Why, you've ruined my greatcoat."

She began circling the voice again, intending to strike a second time. She had
him
on the defensive now. If she could wound him, preoccupy him, she'd buy herself enough time to run back into the exhibition. If she could do that, put half a dozen rooms between herself and this evil, disembodied voice, he'd never find her in the blackness. She could wait for the guards to make their next set of rounds.

There was a low, breathy chuckle. The person seemed to be circling her at the same time. "Margo, Margo, Margo. You didn't really think you'd
cut
me?"

She lunged again, her arm sweeping only air.

"Good, good," came the voice with another dry chuckle. The chuckle went on and on, hanging in the blackness, circling slowly.

"Leave me alone or I'll kill you," said Margo, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

"What spunk!"

Instantly, Margo tossed her purse toward his voice, heard it strike, and followed up with a lightning-fast slash that met with just enough resistance to let her know she'd struck home.

"My, my, another good trick. You are far more formidable than I had supposed. And now you
have
cut me."

As she turned to run, she felt, rather than heard, a sudden movement; she threw herself sideways, but the man seized her wrist and-with one terrible twist that cracked her bones-sent the box cutter flying. She cried out, struggling despite the unbearable pain shooting up her arm. He twisted again and she screamed, lashing out with her foot, landing a punch with her free hand, but the man pulled her up against him in a brusque, horrid movement that almost caused her to faint from the pain to her broken wrist. His hand was like a steel manacle around her arm, and his hot breath, smelling faintly of damp earth, washed over her.

"You
cut
me," he whispered.

With a hard shove, he released her, stepping back. Margo fell to her knees, close to blacking out from shock and pain, holding her shattered wrist close against herself, trying to gather her wits, to determine where in the darkness the box cutter had fallen.

"Although I am a cruel man," came the voice, "I will not let you suffer."

There was another swift movement, like the rush of a giant bat above her. And then she felt a stunning, searing blow from behind that dropped her to the ground. And as she lay there, she realized, with a sense of strange disbelief, that he had driven a knife into her back; that she'd been given a mortal blow. Yet still she clawed the floor, trying to rise, the sheer force of her will bringing her to her knees. It was no use. Something warm was running down her arm now, running onto the floor, as a different kind of blackness rushed in on her from all sides. The last thing she heard, coming from a great distance as if in a dream, was a final astringent chuckle...

THIRTY-FOUR

Laura Hayward walked quickly through the museum's Great Hall, the early morning light casting parallel banners through its tall bronze windows. She strode through the bands of light with purpose, as if the physical act of walking would somehow prepare her for what was to come. Beside her, almost skipping to keep up, was Jack Manetti, head of museum security. Behind them followed a silent but swift phalanx of NYPD homicide detectives and museum personnel.

"Mr. Manetti, I'm assuming the exhibition has a security system. Correct?"

"State-of-the-art. We're just completing a full overhaul."

"Overhaul? Wasn't the exhibit alarmed?"

"It was. We've got redundancies built into each zone. Strange thing is, no alarm went off."

"Then how'd the perp get in?"

"At this point, we have no idea. We've compiled a list of everyone who had access to the exhibition space."

"I'll want to talk to them all."

"Here's the list." Manetti pulled a printout from his jacket pocket.

"Good man." Hayward took it, scanned it, handed it to one of the detectives behind her. "Tell me about the system."

"It's based on magnetic keys. The system keeps track of everyone coming and going after hours. I have a register of that, as well." He handed her another document.

They rounded the corner of the Hall of Ocean Life. Hayward walked past the great blue whale, hanging ominously from the ceiling, without even a glance.

"Any key cards reported missing?"

"No."

"Can they be duplicated?"

"I'm told it's impossible."

"Someone could have borrowed a card, perhaps?"

"That's possible, although as of now all cards except the victim's are accounted for. I'll be looking into that specific question."

"So will we. Of course, the perp might be a museum employee with prior access."

"I doubt it."

Hayward grunted. She doubted it herself, but you never knew- she'd seen more than her share of certifiable lunatics wandering around this old pile. As soon as she'd heard about this case, she'd asked to be assigned, despite still being busy with the Duchamp murder. She had a theory-no, call it more of a premonition-that the two were connected. And if she was right, it was going to be big. Very big.

They passed through the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, then stopped before the oversize portal leading to the Sacred Images exhibition. The door itself was open but taped off, and beyond, Hayward could hear the murmurings of the SOC team working the scene. "You, you, and you"-she jabbed her finger at detectives in turn- "pass the tape with me. The rest wait here and keep back the curious. Mr. Manetti? You come, too."

"When Dr. Collopy arrives-?"

"This is a crime scene. Keep him out. I'm sorry."

Manetti didn't even argue. His face was the color of putty and it was pretty clear he hadn't even had time for his morning cup of coffee.

She ducked under the police tape, nodded to the waiting sergeant, signed his clipboard. Then she entered the foyer of the exhibition, moving slower now, far more deliberate. SOC and forensics would have already gone over ingress and egress, but it was always good to keep an eye open.

The truncated group wound its way through the first room, past almost completed exhibits, stepping over the odd piece of lumber, and then into the exhibition's second room: the scene of the crime itself. Here a chalk outline delineated where the victim had fallen. There was quite a lot of blood. The SOC photographer had already documented the scene and was awaiting any special requests Hayward, as the investigating officer, might have. Two members of the SOC team were still on their hands and knees with tweezers.

She eyed the scene almost fiercely, her eye roving over the central pool of blood, across various splatters, bloody footprints, smears. She gestured to Hank Barris, the senior SOC officer. He rose, put away his tweezers, came over.

"What a damn mess," she said.

"The paramedics worked on the victim for a while."

"The murder weapon?"

"A knife. It went with the victim to the hospital. You know, you can't pull it out-"

"I'm aware of that," snapped Hayward. "Did you see the original scene?"

"No. The EMTs had already messed it up by the time I arrived."

"ID on the victim?"

"Not that I know of, at least not yet. I could call the hospital."

"Any witnesses to the original scene?"

Barris nodded. "One. A technician named Enderby. Larry Enderby."

Hayward turned. "Bring him in."

"In here?"

"That's what I said."

A silence ensued while Hayward looked around, body completely still, her dark eyes the only thing moving. She scrutinized the blood splatters, making rough estimates of trajectories, speed, and origin.

Slowly, a general picture of the crime began to come together in her mind.

"Captain? Mr. Enderby is ready."

Hayward turned to see a surprisingly young, pimply man with black hair and a ninety-eight-pound-weakling physique. A T-shirt, a Mets cap worn backward, and a pair of ratty jeans completed the picture.

At first, she thought his high-tops were dyed red, until she saw them closer.

A policeman ushered him forward.

"You were the first to find the victim?"

"Yes, ma'am ... I mean ... Officer." He was already flustered.

"You may call me Captain," she said gently. "What's your position at the museum, Mr. Enderby?"

"I'm a systems technician, grade one."

"What were you doing in the hall at three a.m.?"

The voice was high and quavery, ready to break.
Always the timidest who find the deadest,
Hayward remembered her former professor of forensic psychology at NYU joking. Hayward swallowed, tried to make her voice sympathetic. It wouldn't do to have Enderby crack up.

"Checking the install of the new security system."

"I see. Was security up and running in the hall?"

"Mostly. We're running some updated software routines, and there was a glitch. My boss-"

"His name?"

"Walt Smith."

"Proceed."

"My boss sent me down to see if the power had been cut."

"Was it?"

"Yeah. It was. Someone had cut a power cable."

Hayward glanced at Barris.

"We know about it, Captain. It appears the perp cut the cable to kill the emergency lights, the better to ambush the victim."

"So what is this new security system?" she asked, turning back to Enderby.

"Well, it's multilayered and redundant. There are motion sensors, live video feeds, crisscrossing infrared laser beams, vibration sensors, and air pressure sensors."

"Sounds impressive."

"It is. For the past six months, the museum's been upgrading the security in each hall, one after another, to the latest version of the system."

"What does that involve?"

Enderby took a deep breath. "Interfacing with the security contractors, reconfiguring the monitoring software, running a test bed, that sort of thing. All on a rigid schedule calibrated to an atomic satellite clock. And it has to happen at night, when the museum's closed,"

"I see. So you came down here to check the power failure and found the body."

"That's right."

"If you can manage it, Mr. Enderby, could you look at the scene here and describe for me exactly how the victim was lying?"

"Well... the body ... the body was lying just as it's outlined, one arm thrown out like you see. There was an ivory-handled knife sticking out of the small of the back, buried to the hilt."

"Did you touch or try to remove the knife?"

"No."

Hayward nodded. "The victim's right hand, was it open or closed?"

"Ah, it seems to me it was open." Enderby swallowed painfully.

"Bear with me, Mr. Enderby. The victim was moved before the photographer arrived, so all we have is your memory."

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"The left foot: turned in or out?"

"Out."

"And the right?"

"In."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think I'll ever forget. The body was kind of twisted a little."

"How so?"

"Kind of lying facedown, but with the legs almost crossed."

The act of talking seemed to be helping Enderby get a grip on himself. He was turning out to be a good witness.

"And the blood on your shoes? How'd that happen?"

Enderby stared at his shoes, eyes widening. "Oh. I... I rushed over and tried to help."

Hayward's respect for the young man went up a notch. "Describe your movements."

"Let's see ... I was standing there when I saw the body. I stopped, ran over. I knelt, felt for a pulse, and I guess that's when I... stepped in the blood. I got blood on my hands, too, but I washed that off."

Hayward nodded, adding those facts to her mental reconstruction.

"Any pulse?"

"I don't think so. I was hyperventilating, it was hard to tell. I don't really know how to read a pulse too well. First I rang security-"

"On a house phone?"

"Yes, around the corner. Then I tried mouth-to-mouth, but within a minute, a guard arrived."

"The guard's name?"

"Roscoe Wall."

Hayward nodded to one of the detectives to note this.

"Then the paramedics came. They basically pushed me away."

Hayward nodded. "Mr. Enderby, if you could just step aside with Detective Hardcastle for a few minutes, I might have more questions."

She returned to the first room of the exhibition, looked around, then walked slowly back. A thin scattering of sawdust on the floor, despite having been stirred up, retained traces of the struggle. She bent to examine the small sprays of blood. A mental splatter analysis helped finalize her general understanding of what had happened. The victim had been ambushed in the first exhibit room of the hall. Perhaps he'd even been followed from the opposite end of the exhibition-there was a rear door, she'd been told, although it had been found secured and locked. It looked like they had circled each other for a moment. Then the killer grabbed the victim, twisted him sideways; struck him with the knife while moving fast in a lateral motion...