Dance of Death (41 page)

"That's her!" Pendergast whispered urgently, pointing at the screen.

D'Agosta made out the slender form of Viola Maskelene, carrying a small bag. She approached the carousel, pulled her ticket out of the bag, examined the baggage claim checks, then crossed her arms to wait.

For a minute, Pendergast just stared at the image. Then he spoke again. "Switch to the greeting area, please. Same time frame."

The technician typed in some more commands. The image of the baggage area disappeared, replaced by the waiting area outside customs. It was sparsely populated, a few knots of people standing around restlessly, waiting to meet arrivals.

"There,"
said Pendergast.

A man stood off to one side, tall, slender, dressed in a dark overcoat. He had gingery hair, and he was looking around the room rather languidly, peering into various corners. His eye turned and stopped, fixed on the security camera.

D'Agosta had to stop himself from taking an instinctual step back. The man was staring right at them. His face was tan and angular and he had a closely trimmed beard, one eye milky blue, the other hazel. D'Agosta recognized him instantly as the man he had seen on theslopes above Castel Fosco in Italy that fateful day not two months earlier.

The man nodded formally at the camera, raised his hand just a little, and tipped a wave. His lips moved as if in speech.

D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. His face was white-with rage.

Pendergast turned to the technician. "Back that up and print it out, there-when the man waves."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later and the computer printer was humming. Pendergast ripped the color image out and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Fast-forward, please, until a lady conies out and greets him."

Once again, the images on the screen scurried briefly in accelerated motion, slowing again when Viola emerged. Diogenes approached with two outstretched hands and a large smile. D'Agosta watched breathlessly as the two exchanged what appeared to be pleasantries; then Diogenes waved a bill and a skycap came rushing over. They turned and headed toward the door, the skycap following with Viola's bags.

Pendergast pointed at the screen. "Who's that skycap?"

Carter, the security officer, squinted at the screen. "Looks like Norm. Norman Saunders."

"Is he still on?"

Carter shook his head. "Couldn't say."

"He goes off at eight," one of the other guards said. "But sometimes he works overtime."

The figures disappeared out the glass doors.

"Go to the curbside camera."

"Right."

More rapping of keys. The scene abruptly changed again. There was Diogenes striding toward a dark Lincoln. He grasped the door handle, opened the door for Viola, helped her in. He waited for the skycap to close the trunk; then he walked around the car and got into the driver's seat.

The car pulled away, accelerating into the darkness beyond, and was gone.

"Back up," said Pendergast, "and get me a print of the car. When the door is open, please: I want to see the interior. And another print when the car's pulling away, so we can get a make on the plate."

A moment later, the computer was spitting out the images, which Pendergast immediately thrust into his jacket. "Good. Now we're going to find Saunders."

"If he's here, he'll be at the east carousels," Carter said.

"Thank you." Pendergast turned to go.

"So," said the technician, "how do I collect my ten grand?"

Pendergast paused. "Ten thousand dollars? Just for doing your job? A ridiculous idea."

To much muffled laughter and shaking of heads, they left the room. "If Saunders is on, he'll be over by baggage," said Carter. "I'll show you."

Several flights had recently arrived, and streams of travelers were crowding into baggage claim. All carousels were running full-bore, packed with luggage, and skycaps were coming and going busily.

Carter stopped one of them. "Saunders take an extra shift?"

The man shook his head. "He's off until midnight."

Looking past the skycap, D'Agosta noticed four Port Authority cops on the landing above the baggage claim concourse, scanning the crowd. Immediately, he nudged Pendergast. "I don't like that."

"Neither do I."

Carter's radio went off and he grabbed it.

"We better get the hell out of here," murmured D'Agosta.

They began walking briskly toward the exit.

"Hey!" came a distant shout. "Wait!"

D'Agosta glanced back to see the officers spilling into the crowd, pushing their way through. "You two! Wait!"

Pendergast broke into a run, darting through the throngs of people and heading back out to the curb. The P.A. cop was still beside the idling Rolls, talking on his radio. Pendergast shot past him, and D'Agosta half jumped, half tumbled into the passenger seat. The man's protest was lost in the roar of the big engine and the tremendous screech of rubber as the Rolls shot away from the pickup area at high speed.

As they accelerated onto the JFK Expressway, Pendergast pulled the printouts from his suit coat.

"Boot up my laptop, there in the carrier, and do a make on a Lincoln Town Car, New York license 453A WQ6. Radio the milepost 11 toll plaza on the Van Wyck Expressway and talk someone into reviewing the security tapes for between twelve-thirty and one a.m., going both east and west."

"What about us?"

"We're going east."

"East? You don't think he took her into the city?"

"That's exactly what I
do
think he did. But given that Diogenes seems to be able to anticipate what I think, I'm going east-to the far end of the island."

"Right."

"Another thing: we're going to need to trade down." And Pendergast abruptly pulled off the airport expressway into the returns lot of a Hertz office, steered the big car into an empty spot, and killed the engine.

D'Agosta looked up from the laptop. "What, rent something?"

"No. Steal something."

FORTY-NINE

Once again, Smithback entered the gracious confines of Dr. Tisander's office, a load of textbooks under one arm. It was eight o'clock, well past the barbaric 5:30 p.m. dinner hour of River Oaks. He found the psychiatrist seated behind his desk, but this evening the usual look of genteel condescension was marred by an irritated flash in the eyes.

"Edward," Dr. Tisander said. "Although I am extremely busy, I am happy to give you five minutes of my undivided attention."

Smithback seated himself without an invitation and thumped the load of books onto the man's desk.

"I've been thinking about something you said in our conversation the day before yesterday," he began. "You told me: 'It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with total scrupulosity'"

"I may have said something like that, yes."

"You said exactly that. It made me curious to know just what that process is."

Tisander nodded condescendingly. "You seem to have found our library to your satisfaction."

"Very much so. In fact, I found exactly what I was looking for."

"How nice," said Tisander, feigning interest while taking a surreptitious glance at his watch.

Smithback patted the top book. "The laws of New York State regarding the involuntary commitment of the mentally ill are among the strictest in the nation."

"I am well aware of that. It's one reason why we have so many homeless people on the street."

"It isn't enough for a family to sign the documents in order to commit someone against his will. There's a whole process involved."

Another sage nod from Tisander.

"Isn't it true, for example, that a judge has to declare the person non compos mentis?"

"Yes."

"And even a judge cannot make that declaration unless two conditions are met. Do you recall those two conditions, Dr. Tisander?"

This time the psychiatrist gave a genuine smile, delighted to show off his erudition. "I certainly do. The person is either a danger to himself-mentally or physically-or a danger to society."

"Right. In the first case, suicide ideation or an actual attempt must usually be present, which must be attested to by a signed letter from a doctor. In the case of a person being a danger to society, it's usually necessary for the person to have been arrested."

"You
have
been busy, Edward," said Tisander.

"And then,
after
the declaration of non compos mentis, there must be a psychiatric evaluation recommending involuntary commitment."

"All standard procedure. Now, Edward, it's after eight, and it isn't long until lights-out, so if you'd-"

Smithback pulled one of the books from the pile. "I'll be done in a minute."

Tisander rose, squaring papers on his desk. "If you make it quick." He nodded imperceptibly, and an orderly emerged from the shadows near the door.

Smithback hastily pulled a sheet of paper from the book and handed it over the desk. "I drew up a list of documents that must, by law, be in my file."

Tisander took the list, scanned it with a frown. "A judge's declaration. A suicide-attempt report-signed by a doctor-or an arrest record. A psychiatric evaluation." He read them off. "I've no doubt they're all there. Now, Edward, it's time."

The orderly advanced.

"One other thing," Smithback said.

"Thank
you, Edward." A note of exasperation had crept into Tisander's orotund voice.

"A question. That psychiatric evaluation that must be in the file- who administers it?"

"We do. Always. Surely, Edward, you remember the interview and tests you took on admittance."

"There's where you blew it, Tisander." Smithback dropped the heavy tome back on the desk, for effect. "It says right in here-"

"Jonathan?"

The orderly appeared at Smithback's elbow, a hulking presence. "This way, Mr. Jones."

"-by law," Smithback went on loudly, "the psychiatric evaluation can't be done by anyone on the staff of the admitting institution."

"Rubbish. Show Mr. Jones to his room, Jonathan."

"It's
true!"
Smithback cried as the orderly took his arm. "Back in the fifties, a young man was committed by his family in collusion with the asylum. They stole his inheritance. In the aftermath, a law was passed stating the evaluation had to be done by an independent psychiatrist. Check it out. Page 337,
Romanski v. Reynauld State Hospital!"

"This way, Mr. Jones," said the orderly, propelling him firmly across the Persian carpet.

Smithback dug in his heels. "Tisander, when I get out, I'm going to sue River Oaks and you personally. If you can't produce that independent evaluation, you'll lose the suit-and it'll cost you dearly."

"
Good night,
Edward."

"I'll make it my mission in life! I'll dog you like the Furies dogged Orestes. I'll take away everything you have, your job, your reputation, this whole pile. As you know, I'm as rich as Croesus. Check my file. I know
for a fact
you cut that corner! There's no independent evaluation, and you know it!"

Smithback felt himself being dragged bodily toward the door.

"Shut the door on your way out, will you, Jonathan?" Dr. Tisander said.

"Tisander?" Smithback raised his voice. "Can you afford to make this mistake? You'll lose the whole enchilada, you son of a-!"

Jonathan shut the door to the office. "Come on, Jones," he said, giving Smithback a gentle push down the hall. "Give it a rest."

"Get your hands off me!" Smithback cried, struggling.

"Hey, man, I'm just doing my job," said the orderly calmly.

Smithback relaxed. "Right. Sorry. I imagine it's about as much fun working here as it is being a 'guest.'"

The orderly released him and Smithback dusted off his jacket. "All right, Jonathan," he said, mustering a feeble smile. "Escort me back to my cage. I'll work up a new angle tomorrow."

Just as they were turning the corner, Tisander's voice came echoing down the hall. "Jonathan? Bring Mr. Jones back."

Jonathan paused. "Looks like you get another hearing."

"Yeah, right."

As they turned back toward Tisander's office, Smithback heard the low voice of the orderly behind him. "Good luck."

Smithback entered the office. Tisander was standing behind the desk, his figure rigid. Smithback saw his own file open on the director's desk. Next to it was the book he'd indicated-opened to page 337.

"Sit down," Tisander said tersely. He nodded at the orderly. "You can wait outside."

Smithback took a seat.

"You think you're a clever fellow," Tisander said. All the phony good humor and condescension was gone. His face was now as hard and gray as a boiled potato.

"I was right," Smithback murmured, more to himself than to Tisander.