Dance of Death (58 page)

Smithback shrugged. "Sorry. Poor taste on my part."

Nora filled his coffee cup, refilled her own. "There's one thing I still don't get from reading your story. How did Pendergast get Lucifer's Heart out of the Affiliated Transglobal building? I mean, they immediately sealed the building, they X-rayed everyone leaving, they did a count of every single person who had come in and left. And they never found Pendergast. What'd he do, climb down the outside of the building? How'd he get the gem out?"

Smithback smoothed down an unruly cowlick, which popped back up as soon as his hand was gone. "That's the best part of the story-if only I could write it."

"Why can't you?"

Smithback turned toward her and smiled a little grimly. "Because I was the one who walked the diamond out of the building."

"You?" Nora stared at him, incredulous.

Smithback nodded.

"Oh, Bill!"

"Nora, I
had
to. It was the only way. And don't worry-it'll never be traced back to me. The diamond is back where it belongs. It was truly a brilliant plan."

"Tell me about it."

"You sure you want to know? That makes you an accessory after the fact."

"I'm your
wife,
silly. Of course I want to know."

Smithback sighed. "Pendergast worked it all out. He knew they'd seal the building and search everyone on their way out. So he posed as a technician manning the X-ray machine."

"But if security was as tight as you say, wouldn't they X-ray the security technicians, too? I mean, when they left the building?"

"Pendergast figured that out, too. After sending me through the X-ray machine, he pointed me toward the building exit. That's when he slipped the diamond into my pocket. I walked it right out of the building."

Nora could hardly believe it. "If you'd been caught, they would have put you away for twenty years."

"Don't think that wasn't on my mind." Smithback shrugged. "But a life depended on it. And I have faith in Pendergast-sometimes I feel like I'm the only one left in the world who does."

At this, he rose, walked to the window, and stared out restlessly, hands on his hips.

"It's not over, Nora," he muttered. "Not by a long shot."

He turned swiftly, eyes flashing with anger. "It's a travesty of justice. An innocent man's been framed as a horrendous serial killer. The real killer's still loose. I'm a journalist. It's my job to report the truth. There's a hell of a lot of truth still missing in this story. I'm going to find out what it is."

"Bill-for God's sake, don't go after Diogenes."

"What about Margo? Are we going to let her killer go free? With Pendergast in jail and D'Agosta on modified duty or worse, there's no one left who can do it but me."

"Don't.
Please
don't. This is just another one of your impulsive- and stupid-decisions."

He turned back to the window. "I concede that it's impulsive. Maybe even stupid. So be it."

Nora rose from her chair, feeling a surge of anger herself. "What about us? Our future? If you go after Diogenes, he'll kill you. You're no match for him!"

Smithback looked out the window, not answering immediately. Then he stirred. "Pendergast saved my life," he said quietly. He turned again and looked at Nora. "Yours, too."

She wheeled away, exasperated.

He came over and took her in his arms. "I won't do it... if you tell me not to."

"And that's the one thing I'm
not
going to tell you. It's your decision."

Smithback stepped back, knotted his tie, drew on his jacket. "I'd better get to work."

He kissed her. "I love you, Nora."

She shook her head. "Be very, very careful."

"I will, I promise. Have faith in me."

And he vanished out the door.

SEVENTY-ONE

One day later, and fifty miles to the north, the sun shone dimly through the shuttered window of a small room in the intensive-care unit of a private clinic. A single patient lay under a sheet, hooked up to several large machines that beeped softly, almost comfortingly. Her eyes were closed.

A nurse came in, checked the machines, jotted down some of the vitals, and then paused to look at the patient.

"Good morning, Theresa," she said brightly.

The patient's eyes remained closed, and she did not answer. They'd removed the feeding tube, and she was out of immediate danger, but she was still one very sick woman.

"It's a beautiful morning," the nurse went on, opening the shutters and allowing a ray of sun to fall across the covers. Outside the window of the rambling Queen Anne mansion, the Hudson River sparkled amidst the winter landscape of Putnam County.

The woman's pale face lay against the pillow, her short brown hair spreading slightly across the cotton fabric.

The nurse continued to work, changing the IV bag, smoothing the covers. Finally, she leaned over the girl and brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

The girl's eyes slowly opened.

The nurse paused, then took her hand. "Good morning," she said again, holding the hand lightly.

The eyes flicked to the left and right. The lips moved, but no sound came.

"Don't you try to talk just yet," the nurse said, moving to the intercom. "Everything will be all right. You've had a tough time of it, but now everything's fine."

She pressed the intercom lever and leaned toward it, speaking in a low voice.

"The patient in ICU-6 is waking up," she murmured. "Get word to Dr. Winokur."

She went and sat by the bed, taking the woman's hand again.

"Where...?"

"You're at the Feversham Clinic, Theresa dear. A few miles north of Cold Spring. It's January 31, and you've been unconscious for six days, but we've got you on the mend. Everything's just fine. You're a strong, healthy woman and you're going to get better."

The eyes widened slightly. "What... ?" the weak voice managed to say.

"What happened? Never you mind about that now. You had a very close call, but it's all over and done with. You're safe here."

The figure in the bed struggled to speak, her lips moving.

"Don't try to talk just yet. Save your strength for the doctor."

"... tried to kill..." The phrase came out disconnected.

"Like I said, never you mind. You concentrate on getting better."

"...awful..."

The nurse stroked her hand kindly. "I'm sure it was, but let's not dwell on that now. Dr. Winokur will be here at any moment and he might have some questions for you. You should rest, dear."

"Tired ... Tired..."

"Certainly, you are. You're very tired. But you can't go back to sleep quite yet, Theresa. Stay awake for me and the doctor. Just for now. Okay? That's a good girl."

"I'm not... Theresa."

The nurse smiled indulgently, patting her hand. "Don't worry about a thing. A little confusion on awakening is perfectly normal. While waiting for the doctor, let's look out the window. Isn't it a lovely day?"

SEVENTY-TWO

Hayward had never before visited the legendary high-security lockup within Bellevue Hospital, and she walked toward the unit with a rising sense of curiosity. The long, brightly lit hallways stank of rubbing alcohol and bleach, and along the way they passed through almost half a dozen locked doors: Adult Emergency Services, Psychiatric Emergency, Psychiatric Inpatient, finally ending up at the most intimidating door of all: a windowless double set of dented stainless steel, flanked by two orderlies in white suits and an NYPD police sergeant sitting at a desk. The door sported a small, scratched label:
Secure Area.

Hayward flashed her badge. "Captain Laura Hayward and guest. We're expected in D-11."

"Morning, Captain," said the sergeant in a leisurely tone, who took her shield, jotted down some information on the sign-in sheet, and handed it to her to sign.

"My guest will wait here while I visit the inmate first."

"Sure, sure," said the sergeant. "Joe will escort you."

The beefier of the two orderlies nodded, unsmiling.

The sergeant turned to a nearby phone and made a call. A moment later, there came the sound of heavy automatic locks being released. The orderly named Joe pulled the door open. "D-11, you said?"

"That's correct."

"This way, Captain."

Beyond lay a narrow corridor, the floors and walls of linoleum. Long rows of doors lined both walls. These were metal, with tiny observation ports set at eye level. A strange, muted chorus of voices met Hayward's ears: frenzied cursing, crying, a dreadful half-human gibbering, all filtering out from behind the doors. The smell was different here; underlying the stench of alcohol and cleaning fluids was a faint waft of vomit, excrement, and something else which Hayward recognized from her visits to maximum security prisons: the smell of fear.

The door clanged shut behind her. A moment later, the automatic locks reengaged with a crack like a pistol shot.

She followed the orderly down the long corridor, around a corner, and down a similar corridor. There, toward the end, she could easily identify the room they were headed for: it could only be the one with four men in suits standing guard outside. Coffey had missed out on the actual collar, but he sure as hell wasn't going to miss anything else.

The agents turned as she approached. Hayward recognized one of them as Coffey's personal flunky, Agent Rabiner. He didn't seem happy to see her.

"Put your weapons in the lockbox, Captain," he said by way of greeting.

Captain Hayward removed her service piece and pepper spray and placed them in the lockbox.

"Looks like we're keeping him," Rabiner said with an unctuous smile. "We've got him nailed on Decker, and it fits the federal death penalty statute to a T. Right now it's just a question of getting the psych evaluation over with. By the end of the week, he'll be in the isolation unit at Herkmoor. We're taking this sucker to trial, like, tomorrow."

"You're rather garrulous this morning, Agent Rabiner," Hayward said.

That shut him up.

"I'd like to see him now. First myself, then I will bring back a guest."

"You going in alone or want protection?"

Hayward didn't bother answering. She simply stood back and waited while one of the agents peered through the glass, then unbolted the door, weapon at the ready.

"Sing out if he gets physical," Rabiner said.

Captain Hayward stepped into the garishly lit cell.

Pendergast, in an orange prison jumpsuit, sat quietly on the narrow cot. The walls of the cell were thickly padded and there were no other furnishings.

For a moment, Hayward said nothing. She had grown so used to seeing him in a well-tailored black suit that the outfit looked incomprehensibly out of place. His face was pale and drawn, but still composed.

"Captain Hayward." He stood and motioned her toward the cot. "Please have a seat."

"That's all right. I prefer to stand."

"Very well." Pendergast, too, remained standing, as a courtesy.

A silence settled over the small cell. Hayward was not one to find herself at a loss for words, but the fact was, she still didn't quite know what impulse had prompted her to make this visit. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

"What did you do to piss off Special Agent Coffey?" she asked.

Pendergast smiled a little wanly. "Agent Coffey has an inordinately high opinion of himself. It's a viewpoint I've never quite been able to bring myself to share. We worked on a case together some years ago, which did not end well for him."

"I ask because we tried to get jurisdiction over the case, but I've never seen the FBI stomp down so hard on the NYPD. And it wasn't done in the usual semi-cordial way."

"I am not surprised."

"Thing is, there've been a couple of bizarre developments in the case, not yet official, which I wanted to ask you about."

"Please do."

"Turns out Margo Green is alive. Someone pulled a fast one at the hospital, arranging for her to be medevaced upstate under a phony name, while substituting the corpse of a homeless drug addict about to be sent to potter's field in her place. The M.E. says it was an honest mistake, the medical director claims it was a 'regrettable bureaucratic mix-up.' Funny that both of them happen to be old acquaintances of yours. Green's mother just about had a heart attack when she learned the daughter she had just buried was alive."

She paused, her eyes narrowed, then burst out: "Damn it, Pendergast! Can't you do
anything
by the book? And how could you put a mother through that?"

Pendergast was silent a moment before answering. "Because her grief had to be real. Diogenes would have seen through any dissembling. As cruel as it was, it was necessary in order to save Margo Green's life-and her life is, ultimately, more important than a mother's temporary grief. It was this same need for
utmost
secrecy that kept me from telling even Lieutenant D'Agosta."