Dance of Death (48 page)

"We certainly
do
guarantee the security of our collections," Collopy thundered.

"Next question!" Rocco called. But the reporters had latched onto something and weren't going to let go.

"Can you explain what you mean by 'guarantee'? The greatest diamond in the world has just been stolen and you tell us its security was guaranteed?"

"I can explain." Collopy's face swelled with anger.

"There's a bit of cognitive dissonance floating around here!" Smithback shouted.

"I make that statement because Lucifer's Heart
was not among
the
diamonds stolen!"
Collopy cried.

There was an astonished silence. Rocco turned and looked at Collopy in amazement, as did Rocker himself.

"Excuse me, sir," Rocco began.

"Silence! I'm the only person in the museum privy to this information, but under the circumstances I don't see any point in keeping the information back any longer. The stone on display was a replica, a real diamond artificially colored by radiation treatments. The
true
Lucifer's Heart has
always
been safely locked in a vault at the museum's insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display-our insurance company wouldn't allow it."

He raised his head, a glitter of triumph in his eyes. "The thieves, whoever they are, stole
a fake."

A roar of questions followed. But Collopy simply mopped his brow and retreated.

"This press conference is over!" shouted Rocco, to no effect. "No more questions!"

But it was clear, from the frantic hands and the shouts, that it was not over, and that there were many, many more questions to come.

FIFTY-EIGHT

Hours passed as they drove through one deserted beach town after another. Dawn had swelled into a dismal day, bitterly cold, with a knife-edged wind whipping out of a pewter sky. D'Agosta was still listening, moodily, to the police radio. He was growing increasingly concerned: the police chatter concerning them had abruptly dropped off-not just because of the gem heist, although that filled most of the channels, but because they'd probably switched to more secure channels that couldn't be monitored from their portable police-band radio.

It was becoming obvious to him they had reached the end of the line. Hitting more convenience stores was hopeless-with a full tank of gas, Diogenes would have no further reason to stop. Their previous score in Yaphank had only confirmed what Diogenes wanted them to know-that he had gone east and that Viola would shortly be dead. Beyond that, nothing. D'Agosta felt sick for Pendergast: it was hopeless, and he knew it.

Still, they soldiered on, stopping at motels, marts, all-night diners, each time exposing themselves to the possibility of being spotted and arrested.

What few scraps D'Agosta had managed to glean from the radio had been disheartening. Bolstered by a new and strong federal presence, the police were rapidly closing in. New roadblocks had been erected, and local authorities were on full alert. Inevitably, they'd learn about the purchase of the pickup truck. Unless Pendergast had something truly clever up his sleeve, their free-range hours were numbered.

The pickup swerved abruptly and D'Agosta clutched the roof handle as Pendergast screeched into a small parking lot, coming to a halt in front of a twenty-four-hour Starbucks. Beyond lay a public parking lot and, beyond that, the gray, rolling Atlantic.

They sat for a moment while the police radio, still tuned to the museum theft, droned on. Some kind of press conference was in session, being broadcast over one of the public channels.

"No way they stopped here," said D'Agosta.

"What I'm after is a wireless hot spot." Pendergast opened the laptop, booted it up. "No doubt there's one inside. I'll use a sniffer to find an open port, tap into the Net that way. I left my pattern-recognition software running at the Dakota. Perhaps it has something more to tell us."

D'Agosta watched morosely as Pendergast tapped on the keyboard. "Would you be so kind as to order us some coffee, Vincent?" he asked without looking up.

D'Agosta got out of the truck and entered the Starbucks. When he returned a few minutes later with a couple of lattes, Pendergast had moved into the passenger seat and was no longer typing.

"Anything?"

Pendergast shook his head. Slowly, he sat back, closed his eyes.

D'Agosta eased himself into the driver's seat with a sigh. As he did so, he noticed a police cruiser turning into the parking lot. It slowed as it passed them, then halted at the far end of the lot.

"Shit. That cop's running our plates."

Pendergast didn't respond. He sat motionless, eyes closed.

"That's it. We're screwed."

Now the cruiser eased into a three-point turn at the end of the lot and headed back toward them.

Pendergast opened his eyes. "I'll hold the drinks. See what you can do about getting him off our tail."

Instantly, D'Agosta slammed the truck into drive and peeled out, fishtailing past the cruiser and onto the road paralleling the boardwalk. The cruiser snapped on its lights and siren, accelerating behind them.

They tore along the dune road. Moments later, D'Agosta heard another siren, this one coming from somewhere ahead.

"The beach," said Pendergast, gingerly balancing the lattes.

"Right." D'Agosta shifted into 4WD, spun the wheel, and bashed through the railing onto the boardwalk. The truck rumbled across the uneven wooden planks, hit the railing on the far side, and was briefly airborne as it made the two-foot drop to the sand.

In a moment, they were racing along the beach, just beyond the surf. D'Agosta glanced back to see the squad cars in the sand, still following.

They were going to have to do better.

He accelerated further, tires spinning up jets of damp sand. Ahead, he could see an area of dunes, one of the many preserves along the South Shore. He swerved into it, broke down another wooden fence, and hit the scrubby dunes at forty. It was clearly a large preserve, and he had no idea where he was going, so he angled the truck into the roughest-looking section, where the brush was heaviest and the dunes highest, covered with a scattering of scrubby pines. No way the cruisers could follow them in here.

Suddenly, Pendergast sat up, like the snapping of a steel spring.

D'Agosta bashed through some more heavy brush, then glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing. The cruisers had been stopped, but D'Agosta knew their respite was only temporary. All the police stations along the South Shore had beach patrol buggies-he knew, he used to drive one, in another life just a few months back. They were still in deep shit and he'd have to find some other way to-

"Stop the truck!" Pendergast said abruptly.

"No way, I've got to-"

"Stop!"

Something in the tone caused D'Agosta to jam on the brakes. They swerved wildly, stopping beneath the shadow of an overhanging dune. He killed the lights and the engine at the same time. This was crazy. They'd left a set of tracks any idiot could follow.

The radio was still on the press conference, and Pendergast was listening intently.

"...
always been safely locked in a vault at the museum's insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display
-
our insurance company wouldn't allow it."

Pendergast turned to D'Agosta, a look of astonishment and sudden, fierce hope lighting up his face.

"That's it!"

"What?"

"Diogenes finally made a mistake. This is the opening we need." He had his cell phone out.

"I wish to hell I knew what you were talking about."

"I'm going to make some calls. As of now, you have but one vital task, Vincent:
get us back to Manhattan."

The faint sound of a siren came up from behind the screen of dunes.

FIFTY-NINE

Smithback slowly SHUT his cell phone, stunned by the bizarre call he had just received. He found Nora looking at him curiously. They had finally opened the museum's staff entrance and employees were streaming past them, rushing to gain the warmth of indoors.

"What is it, Bill?" she asked. "Who was that?"

"Special Agent Pendergast. He managed to track me down on this loaner cell phone I picked up at the
Times."

"What'd he want?"

"I'm sorry?" He felt dazed.

"I said, what did he want? You look shell-shocked."

"I've just had a most, um, extraordinary proposal put to me."

"Proposal? What are you talking about?"

Smithback roused himself and grasped Nora's shoulder. "I'll tell you about it later. Look, are you going to be okay here? I'm worried about your safety, with Margo dead and all these warnings of Pendergast's."

"The safest place in New York City is inside that museum right now. There must be a thousand cops in there."

Smithback nodded slowly, thinking. "True."

"Listen, I do have to go to work."

"I'm coming in with you. I've got to talk to Dr. Collopy."

"Collopy? Good luck."

Smithback could already see a large, angry crowd of reporters being kept from the museum by a string of policemen and guards. No one was getting in but employees. And Smithback was well known-all too well known-to the guards.

He felt Nora put an arm around his shoulder. "What are you going to do?"

"I've got to get inside."

Nora frowned. "Does this have to do with that call of Pendergast's?"

"It sure does." He looked into her green eyes, his gaze wandering over her copper hair and freckled nose. "You know what I'd really like to do..."

"Don't tempt me. I have a ton of work to do. Today's the public opening of the exhibition-assuming we ever open again."

Smithback gave her a kiss and a hug. He started to break away but found that Nora wouldn't release him.

"Bill," she murmured in his ear, "thank God you're back."

They held each other a few moments more, then Nora slowly let her arms fall away. She smiled, winked, then turned and walked into the museum.

Smithback watched her disappearing form. Then he shouldered his way into the crowd of employees lined up outside the door, bypassing the thicket of reporters who had been shunted off to one side. All the employees had their IDs out, and the crowd was thick. Police and museum guards were checking everybody's identification: it was going to be a bitch getting in. Smithback thought a moment, then pulled out his business card and scribbled a short note on the back.

When his turn came to pass through the security barrier, a guard barred his way. "ID?"

"I'm Smithback of the
Times."

"You're in the wrong place, pal. Press is over there."

"Listen to me. I have a
very urgent and private
message for Dr. Collopy. It must be delivered to him immediately, or heads will roll. I'm not kidding. Yours, too"-Smithback glanced at the guard's name-plate- "Mr. Primus, if you don't deliver it."

The guard wavered, a look of fear in his eyes. The museum administration had not made life easy in recent years for those on the bottom, fostering a climate of fear more than family. Smithback had used this fact before, to good effect, and he hoped it would work again.

"What's it about?" the guard named Primus asked.

"The diamond theft. I have private information."

The guard seemed to waver. "I don't know..."

"I'm not asking you to let me in. I'm asking you to deliver this note directly to the director. Not to his secretary, not to anyone else-just to him. Look, I'm not some schmuck, okay? Here are my credentials."

The guard took the press pass, looking at it doubtfully.

Smithback pressed the message into his hand. "Don't read it. Put it in an envelope and deliver it personally. Trust me, you'll be glad you did."

The guard hesitated a moment. Then he took the card and retreated to the security office, reappearing a few moments later with an envelope. "I sealed it in here, never looked at it."

"Good man." Smithback scribbled on the envelope: "For Dr. Collopy, extremely important, to be opened immediately. From William Smithback Jr. of the
New York Times."

The guard nodded. "I'll see it's delivered."

Smithback leaned forward. "You don't understand. I want
you
to deliver it personally." He glanced around. "I don't trust any of these other bozos."

The guard flushed, nodded. "All right." Envelope in hand, he disappeared down the hall.

Smithback waited, cell phone in hand. Five minutes passed. Ten.

Fifteen.

Smithback paced in frustration. This was not looking good.

Then his phone gave a shrill ring. He opened it quickly.

"This is Collopy," came the patrician voice. "Is this Smithback?"

"Yes, it is."

"One of the guards will escort you to my office immediately."

A scene of controlled chaos greeted Smithback as he approached the grand, carved oaken doors of the director's office. Outside was a confabulation of New York City police, detectives, and museum officials. The door was shut, but as soon as Smithback's escort announced him, he was shown inside.