Dance of Death (55 page)

"I robbed the Astor Hall of Diamonds at the Museum of Natural History. It is a crime I've been planning for many years. I created a new identity to pull it off. And you helped me do it. That's why I wanted to give you that stone. But if you don't want it..." He shrugged, slipped it into his pocket.

"My God." Viola stared at him. And now, for the first time, she was truly afraid.

"You played an important role. The pivotal role. You see, your disappearance kept my brother racing all over Long Island, searching frantically for you, desperately worried about your safety, while I robbed the museum and transported the gems out here."

Viola swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. The fact she was still alive was nothing but a temporary reprieve. He wouldn't tell her all this if he meant to let her live.

He really
was
going to kill her.

"I was giving you that as a little keepsake, a memento, since we shall part, never to see each other in this world again."

"I'm going somewhere?" she said, voice quavering now despite her best efforts.

"Oh, yes."

"Where?"

"You shall find out."

She could see he had his hand in his jacket pocket, fingering something. He took a step into the room. The door remained open behind him.

"Come here, Ice Princess."

She didn't move.

He took a second step forward, and a third. At that moment, she broke for the door. But somehow he had anticipated it, whirling and leaping toward her with the speed of a cat. She felt a shockingly powerful arm, tight as a steel cable, whip around her neck; the other hand slipped out of his pocket now, and in it was the sudden flash of a needle, and then she felt a burning sting in her upper thigh; there was the sensation of heat and an overpowering roar; and then the world abruptly shut down.

SIXTY-SIX

"Any idea what this is about?" Singleton said as they rode an express elevator to the rarefied upper floors of One Police Plaza.

Laura Hayward shook her head. If Commissioner Rocker had asked to see her alone, she might have expected it was more fallout over her fingering Pendergast for the murders. But she and Singleton had been asked to meet with the commissioner together. Besides, Rocker had always been a straight shooter. He wasn't political.

They emerged on the forty-sixth floor and walked down the plushly carpeted corridor to the commissioner's corner suite. A uniformed secretary in the large outer office took their names, dialed her phone, had a brief, hushed conversation, and waved them through.

Rocker's office was expansive but not ostentatious. Instead of the shooting awards and grinning photo ops that covered the office walls of most police brass, these walls sported watercolor landscapes and a couple of diplomas. Rocker was seated behind a large but utilitarian desk. Three couches were arrayed in a rough semicircle around it. Special Agent in Charge Coffey sat in the middle couch, flanked by Agents Brooks and Rabiner.

"Ah, Captain Hayward," Rocker said, rising. "Captain Singleton.

Thanks for coming." There was an unusual, strained quality to his voice she hadn't heard before, and his jaw was set in a tight line.

Agent Brooks and Agent Rabiner rose as well, leaping to their feet as if tickled by live wires. Only Coffey remained seated. He nodded coolly at them, small pale eyes in the big sunburned face moving from Hayward to Singleton and back to Hayward again.

Rocker waved vaguely at the sofas. "Please have a seat."

Hayward seated herself beside the window. So at last Coffey was deigning to bring them into his investigation. They hadn't heard a word from him or anybody else in the FBI since the meeting that morning. Instead, she'd kept herself and her detectives busy questioning additional museum employees and further developing the evidence. At least it had helped keep her mind off the manhunt going on sixty miles to the east, at what D'Agosta was doing-
committing
- on Long Island. Thinking about him, about the whole situation, gave her nothing but pain. She could never understand why he'd done it, why he'd made the decision he did. She'd given him an ultimatum, and under the circumstances an incredibly fair one. Do the right thing, come in out of the cold. And not just the right thing as a cop, but as a human being and a friend. She hadn't actually said it, but it had been clear enough:
It's either me or Pendergast.

D'Agosta had made his choice.

Rocker cleared his throat. "Special Agent in Charge Coffey has asked me to convene this meeting to discuss the Duchamp and Green murders. I've asked Captain Singleton to be here as well, since both homicides took place in his precinct."

Hayward nodded. "I'm glad to hear that, sir. We've had precious little information from the Bureau about the progress of the manhunt, and-"

"I'm sorry, Captain," Rocker interrupted quietly. "Special Agent Coffey wishes to discuss transfer of evidence on the Duchamp and Green murders."

This stopped Hayward dead in her tracks. "Transfer of evidence? We've made all our evidence freely available."

Coffey crossed one trunklike leg over the other. "We're assuming control of the investigation, Captain."

There was a moment of stunned silence.

"You don't have the power to do that," Hayward said.

"This is Captain Hayward's case," Singleton said, turning to Rocker, his voice quiet but strong. "She's been living it night and day. She's the one who found the connection between the D.C. and New Orleans homicides. She developed the evidence, she ID'd Pendergast. Besides, murder isn't a federal crime."

Rocker sighed. "I'm aware of all that. But-"

"Let me explain," Coffey said with a wave of the hand at Rocker. "The perp is FBI, one of the victims is FBI, the case crosses state boundaries, and the suspect's fled your jurisdiction. End of discussion."

"Agent Coffey is right," said Rocker. "It's their case. We'll naturally be on hand to assist-"

"We don't have a lot of time to jawbone," said Rabiner. "Let's get on with the particulars of evidence transfer."

Hayward glanced at Singleton. His face was flushed. "If it wasn't for Captain Hayward," he said, "there wouldn't be any manhunt."

"We're all just as pleased as punch at Captain Hayward's police work," said Coffey. "But the bottom line is, this is no longer an NYPD matter."

"Just give them what they need, please, Captain," Commissioner Rocker said, a note of exasperation in his voice.

Hayward glanced at him and realized he was pissed as hell at this development, but could do nothing about it.

She should have seen it coming. The federal boys were going for the gold, and on top of that, this Coffey seemed to have a personal animosity toward Pendergast. God help him and D'Agosta when the feds finally caught up with them.

Hayward knew she ought to feel outraged at all this. But through the numbness, all she could bring herself to feel was an upwelling of weariness. That, and a feeling of revulsion so strong that she simply could not bear to spend another moment in the same room with Coffey. And so, abruptly, she stood up.

"Fine," she said briskly. "I'll initiate the paperwork. You'll get your evidence as soon as the chain-of-evidence transfers are signed. Anything else?"

"Captain?" said Rocker. "I'm very grateful to you for your fine work."

She nodded, turned, and left the room.

She walked quickly toward the elevator, head lowered, breathing fast. As she did so, her cell phone rang.

She waited, getting her breathing under control. After a minute or two, the cell phone rang again.

This time she answered. "Hayward."

"Laura?" came the voice. "It's me. Vinnie."

Despite herself, she felt her heart rise into her throat. "Vincent, for God's sake. What the hell are you-?"

"Just listen, please. I have something very important to tell you."

Hayward took a deep breath. "I'm listening."

SIXTY-SEVEN

D'Agosta followed Pendergast into Penn Station, which-disgracefully-consisted of little more than an escalator entrance in the shadow of Madison Square Garden. It was a quiet evening, a Tuesday of no consequence, and at such a late hour, the area was almost deserted, save for a few homeless people and a man passing out sheets of his poetry. The two rode the escalator down to the waiting area, then took another that descended still farther, to the track level.

They were headed, D'Agosta noted with a certain grimness, for track 13.

Pendergast had barely spoken a word in the last half hour. As the appointed time drew nearer-as they came closer to seeing Viola and, inevitably, Diogenes-the agent had grown more and more tight-lipped and withdrawn.

The tracks were almost deserted, just a few maintenance men sweeping up trash and two uniformed cops at a security station, chatting and blowing on cups of coffee. Pendergast led the way to the far end of the platform, where the tracks disappeared into a dark tunnel.

"Be ready," Pendergast murmured as his pale eyes roved the tracks.

They waited for a moment. The two cops turned and walked into the security station.

"Now!"
Pendergast said under his breath.

They jumped lightly off the platform onto the tracks and jogged away into the dimness. D'Agosta glanced back at the receding platform, ensuring nobody had noticed.

It was warmer belowground, hovering just around freezing, but it was a much damper cold, and it seemed to cut effortlessly through D'Agosta's purloined sports jacket. After another minute of jogging, Pendergast stopped, fished in his pocket, and pulled out a flashlight.

"We have some way to go," he said, shining the light down the long, dark tunnel. Several pairs of eyes-rat's eyes-gleamed out of the darkness ahead.

The agent set off again at a fast walk, his long legs striding down the middle of the tracks. D'Agosta followed, listening a little nervously for any sound of an approaching train. But all he could hear were their hollow footsteps, his own breathing, and the sound of water dripping from icicles in the ancient brick roof.

"So the Iron Clock is a railroad turntable?" he asked after a moment. He spoke more to break the strained silence than anything else.

"Yes. A very old one."

"I didn't know there were any turntables under Manhattan."

"It was built to manage the flow of train traffic in and out of the old Pennsylvania Station. In fact, it's the only remaining artifact from the original architecture."

"And you know how to find it?"

"Remember the subway murders we worked on some years back? I spent quite a bit of time then, studying the underground landscape of New York City. I still recall much of the layout beneath Manhattan, at least the more common routes."

"How do you think Diogenes knows about it?"

"That is an interesting fact, Vincent, and it has not escaped my attention."

They came to a metal door, set into an alcove in the tunnel wall, fastened with a rust-covered padlock. Pendergast stooped to examine the lock, tracing the heavy lines of rust with his finger. Then he stepped back, nodding to D'Agosta to do the same. Pulling his Wilson Combat 1911 from its holster, Pendergast fired it into the lock. A deafening roar cracked down the tunnel, and the broken lock fell to the ground in a cloud of rust. He leaned to the side and kicked open the door.

A stone staircase led down, exhaling a smell of mold and rot.

"How far down is it?"

"Actually, we're already at the grade of the Iron Clock. This is merely a shortcut."

The staircase was slippery, and as they descended, the air grew warmer still. After a long descent, the steps leveled out, broadening into an old brick tunnel with Gothic arches. Locked work sheds lined the tunnel.

D'Agosta paused. "Lights ahead. And voices."

"Homeless," Pendergast replied.

As they continued, D'Agosta began to smell woodsmoke. Shortly, they came across a group of ragged men and women sitting around a rudely built fire, passing around a bottle of wine.

"What's this?" one of them called out. "You fellows miss your train?"

The laughter subsided as they passed. From the darkness behind the group came the sudden crying of a baby.

"Jeez," D'Agosta muttered. "You hear that?"

Pendergast merely nodded.

They came to another metal door, from which someone had already cut away the lock. Opening the door, they climbed back up a long, wet staircase, dodging streams of water, and emerged onto a new set of tracks.

Pendergast paused, checking his watch. "Eleven-thirty."

More rats scurried away as they walked wordlessly down the tunnel for what seemed miles. No amount of walking seemed to warm D'Agosta against the damp chill. At one point, they passed a siding holding several wrecked train cars. Later, passing a series of stone alcoves, D'Agosta saw an ancient metal gear more than eight feet in diameter. Once in a while, he heard the distant rumble of trains, but nothing seemed to be running on the tracks they were walking on.

At last, Pendergast halted, switched off his flashlight, and nodded ahead. Peering into the darkness, D'Agosta saw that the tunnel ended in an archway of dim yellow light.