She nodded again without looking at him.
“And remember what I said. We’re going to find Fearing—you have my word.”
7
Special Agent Pendergast glided silently down the long, dimly lit central hallway of his West 72nd Street apartment. As he walked, he passed an elegant library; a room devoted to Renaissance and Baroque oil paintings; a climate-controlled vault stacked floor-to-ceiling with vintage wines in teakwood racks; a salon with leather armchairs, expensive silk carpets, and terminals hardwired to half a dozen law enforcement databases.
These were the public rooms of Pendergast’s apartment, although perhaps fewer than a dozen people had ever seen them. He was headed now toward the private rooms, known only to himself and Kyoko Ishimura, the deaf and mute housekeeper who lived in and looked after the apartment.
Over several years, Pendergast had discreetly purchased two additional adjoining apartments as they came on the market and integrated them with his own. Now his residence stretched along much of the Dakota’s 72nd Street frontage and even part of the Central Park West frontage as well: an immense, rambling, yet exceedingly private eyrie.
Reaching the end of the corridor, he opened the door of what appeared to be a closet. Instead, the small room beyond was empty save for another door in the far wall. Disengaging its security apparatus, Pendergast opened the door and stepped into the private quarters. He walked quickly through these as well, nodding to Miss Ishimura as she stood in the spacious kitchen, preparing fish intestine soup over a restaurant-grade stove. Like all spaces in the Dakota, the kitchen had an unusually high ceiling. At length he reached the end of another corridor, another innocuous-looking door. Beyond lay his destination: the third apartment, the sanctum sanctorum into which even Miss Ishimura entered only infrequently.
He opened the door into a second closet-size room. This time, there was not another door at the far end, but rather a shoji, a sliding partition of wood and rice-paper panels. Pendergast closed the door behind him, then stepped forward and gently drew the shoji aside.
Beyond lay a tranquil garden. Sounds of gently trickling water and birdsong freighted air already heavy with the scents of pine and eucalyptus. The light was dim and indirect, suggesting late afternoon or early evening. Somewhere in the green fastness, a dove cooed.
A narrow path of flat stones lay ahead, flanked by stone lanterns and winding sinuously between evergreen plantings. Pulling the shoji shut, Pendergast stepped over the pebbled verge and made his way down the path. This was an uchi-roji, the inner garden of a teahouse. The intensely private, almost secret spot exuded tranquility, encouraged a contemplative spirit. Pendergast had lived with it so long now that he had almost lost his appreciation for just how unusual it was: a complete and self-sufficient garden, deep within a massive Manhattan apartment building.
Ahead, through the bushes and dwarf trees, a low wooden building came into view, simple and unadorned. Pendergast made his way past the formal washbasin to the teahouse entrance and slowly pulled its shoji aside.
Beyond lay the tearoom itself, decorated with elegant spareness. Pendergast stood in the entrance a moment, letting his eyes move over the hanging scroll in its alcove, the formal chabana flower arrangements, the shelves holding scrupulously clean whisks, tea scoops, and other equipment. Then, closing the sliding door and seating himself seiza-style on the tatami mat, he began performing the exacting rituals of the ceremony itself.
The tea ceremony is at heart a ritual of grace and perfection, the serving of tea to a small group of guests. Though Pendergast was alone, he was nevertheless performing the ceremony for a guest: one who was unable to attend.
Carefully, he filled the caddy, measured in the powdered tea, whisked it to a precise consistency, then poured it into two exquisite seventeenth-century tea bowls. One he placed before himself; the other he set on the opposite side of the mat. He sat a moment, staring at the steam as it rose in gossamer curls from his bowl. Then—slowly, meditatively—he raised the bowl to his lips.
As he sipped, he allowed certain memories to form pictures in his mind, one at a time, lingering over each before moving to the next. The subject of each memory was the same. William Smithback, Jr., assisting him in a race against time to blast open the doors of the Tomb of Senef and rescue the people trapped within. Smithback, lying horrified in the backseat of a purloined taxi as Pendergast careened through traffic, trying to elude his brother, Diogenes. Now, further back in time, Smithback looking on in outrage and dismay as Pendergast burned the recipe for the Arcanum at Mary Greene’s grave site. And still further back, Smithback once again, standing at his side during the terrible struggle with the strange denizens of the Devil’s Attic, far below the streets of New York City.
By the time the tea bowl was empty, there were no more memories to reflect on. Pendergast placed the bowl back on the mat and closed his eyes a moment. Then, opening them again, he gazed at the other bowl, still full, that sat across from him. He sighed quietly, then spoke.
“Waga tomo yasurakani,” he said. Farewell, my friend.
8 >
Noon. D’Agosta punched the elevator button again with a muttered curse. He checked his watch. “Nine minutes. No shit—nine frigging minutes we been here.”
“You must learn to put your spare time to good use, Vincent,” murmured Pendergast.
“Yeah? It seems to me that you’ve been cooling your heels, too.”
“On the contrary. Over the last nine minutes, I’ve reflected—with great pleasure—on Milton’s invocation in the third book of Paradise Lost; I’ve reviewed the second-declension Latin nouns—certain Latin declensions can be an almost full-time occupation—and I’ve mentally composed a choice letter I plan to deliver to the engineers who designed this elevator.”
A creaking rumble announced the elevator’s arrival. The doors groaned open and the packed interior disgorged its contents of doctors, nurses, and—finally—a corpse on a gurney. They got in and D’Agosta punched the button marked B2.
A long wait and the doors rumbled closed. The elevator began to descend so slowly that there was no perception of movement. After another interminable wait, the doors creaked open to reveal a tiled basement corridor, bathed in greenish fluorescent lighting, the air redolent of formaldehyde and death. A gatekeeper behind a sliding glass partition guarded a pair of locked steel doors.
D’Agosta approached, slipping out his shield. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, NYPD Homicide, Special Agent Pendergast, FBI. We’re here to see Dr. Wayne Heffler.”
“Documents in the tray,” came the laconic voice.
They put their shields in a sliding tray. A moment later, they came back with two passes. The steel doors sprang ajar with a metallic snap. “Down the hall, second corridor, left at the T. Check in with the secretary.”
The secretary was busy, and it took another twenty minutes to see the doctor. By the time the door finally opened and they were ushered into the elegant office, D’Agosta was spoiling for a fight. And as soon as he saw the arrogant, annoyed face of the assistant medical examiner, he knew he was going to get his wish.
The M.E. rose from his desk and pointedly did not offer them seats. He was a handsome older man, lean and spare, dressed in a cardigan with a bow tie and starched white shirt. A tweed jacket hung on the back of his chair. His thinning silver hair was combed back from a high forehead. The Mr. Rogers look stopped at the eyes, which were as blue and cold as ice behind horn-rimmed spectacles. There were hunting prints on the wood-paneled walls, along with a collection of yacht racing pennants in a large glass case. A frigging country gentleman, D’Agosta thought sourly.
“What can I do for you?” the M.E. asked, unsmiling, hands on the desk.
D’Agosta pointedly took a chair, moving it this way and that before sitting down, taking his time about it. Pendergast slipped smoothly into a seat nearby. D’Agosta peeled a document out of his briefcase and slid it over the half-an-acre of desk.
The man didn�
�t even look at it. “Lieutenant—ah, D’Agosta—fill me in on the details. I don’t have time to read reports right now.”
“It’s about the autopsy of Colin Fearing. You were in charge. Remember?”
“Of course. The body found in the Harlem River. Suicide.”
“Yeah,” said D’Agosta. “Well, I got five good witnesses swearing he was the killer on that West End Avenue murder last night.”
“That’s quite impossible.”
“Who identified the body?”
“The sister.” Heffler shuffled impatiently through a file open on his desk. “Carmela Fearing.”
“No other family?”
More impatient shuffling. “Just a mother. Non compos mentis, in a nursing home upstate.”
D’Agosta shot a glance toward Pendergast, but the special agent was studying the sporting prints with evident distaste, seemingly oblivious to the line of questioning.
“Identifying marks?” he continued.
“Fearing had a very unusual tattoo of a hobbit on his left deltoid, and a birthmark on his right ankle. We verified the former with the tattoo parlor—it was very recent. The latter was verified by his birth certificate.”
“Dental records?”
“We couldn’t locate dental records.”
“Why not?”
“Colin Fearing grew up in England. Then, before moving to New York City, he lived in San Antonio, Texas. His sister stated he had all his dental work done in Mexico.”
“So you didn’t call the clinics in Mexico or London? How long does it take to scan and e-mail a set of X-rays?”
The M.E. expelled a long, irritated sigh. “Birthmark, tattoo, sworn and notarized eyewitness identification from reliable next-of-kin—we’ve more than satisfied the law, Lieutenant. I’d never get my work done if we went after international dental records every time a foreigner killed himself in New York City.”
“Did you keep any samples of Fearing’s tissue or blood?”
“We only take X-rays and keep tissue and blood if there’s a question surrounding the death. This was a open-and-shut case of suicide.”
“How do you know?”
“Fearing jumped off the rotating bridge opposite Spuyten Duyvel into the Harlem River. His body was found in the Spuyten Duyvel by a police boat. The jump ruptured his lungs and fractured his skull. And there was a suicide note left on the tracks. But you know all this, Lieutenant.”
“I read it in the file. Not the same as knowing it.”
The doctor had remained standing, and now he pointedly closed the file on his desk. “Thank you, gentlemen, will that be all?” He looked at his watch.
At this, Pendergast at last roused himself. “To whom did you release the body?” His voice was slow, almost sleepy.
“The sister, of course.”
“What kind of ID did you check on the sister? A passport?”
“I seem to recall it was a New York State driver’s license.”
“Did you keep a copy of it?”
“No.”
A small sigh rose from Pendergast. “Any witnesses to this suicide?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Was a forensic examination done to the note, to ascertain it was indeed in Colin Fearing’s handwriting?”
A hesitation. The file opened again. The M.E. scanned it. “It seems not.”
D’Agosta picked up the line of questioning. “Who found the note?”
“The police who recovered the body.”
“And the sister—did you interview her?”
“No.” Heffler turned away from D’Agosta, no doubt in hopes of shutting him up. “Mr. Pendergast, may I ask what the FBI’s interest is in the case?”
“You may not, Dr. Heffler.”
D’Agosta continued. “Look, Doctor. We’ve got Bill Smithback’s body in your morgue, and if we’re to continue our investigation we need it autopsied, fast. We also need DNA tests on the blood and hair samples, equally fast. And a test of Fearing’s mother’s DNA for comparison, since you neglected to keep any samples from the autopsy.”
“How fast would that be?”
“Four days, tops.”
A small smile of contemptuous triumph twitched across the doctor’s lips. “So sorry, Lieutenant, that is impossible. We’re quite backed up here, and even if we weren’t, four days is out of the question. It’ll be at least ten days, perhaps even three weeks, for the autopsy. As for DNA results, that’s not even my jurisdiction. You’ll have to get a court order to take blood from the mother, which could take months. And with the backups at the DNA lab, you’ll be lucky to get final results in less than half a year.”
Pendergast spoke again. “How very inconvenient.” He turned to D’Agosta. “I suppose we’ll just have to wait. Unless Dr. Heffler can manage—how do you term it?—a rush job on that autopsy.”
“If I did a rush job for every FBI agent or homicide detective who asked for it—and they all do—I’d never get anything else done.” He slid the document back across the desk. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. Now if you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course,” said Pendergast. “So sorry to have taken up your valuable time.”
D’Agosta looked over with incredulity as the agent rose to leave. They were just going to accept this bullshit brush-off and walk out?
Pendergast turned and strode to the door, then hesitated. “Odd that you managed to work so efficiently with Fearing’s corpse. How many days did that take?”
“Four. But that was a straightforward suicide. We have a storage problem here.”
“Well, then! Given your storage problem, we would like the autopsy on Smithback completed in four days.”
A short laugh. “Mr. Pendergast, you haven’t been listening. I’ll let you know when we can schedule it. Now if you don’t mind—”
“Make it three days, then, Dr. Heffler.”
The doctor stared at him. “Excuse me?”
Pendergast turned to face him. “I said, three days.”
Heffler narrowed his eyes. “You are insolent, sir.”
“And you suffer from an egregious lack of ethics.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“It would be a shame if it became widely known that your office has been selling the brains of the indigent dead.”
There was a long silence. When the M.E. spoke again, his voice was as cold as ice. “Mr. Pendergast, are you threatening me?”
Pendergast smiled. “How clever of you, Doctor.”
“What I presume you’re referring to is a fully sanctioned and legitimate practice. It is for a worthy cause—medical research. We harvest the unclaimed cadavers for all their organs, not just the brain. Their bodies save lives and are crucial for medical research.”
“The operative word here is selling. Ten thousand dollars for a brain—isn’t that the going price? Who would have thought a brain could be so valuable?”
“For heaven’s sake, we don’t sell them, Mr. Pendergast. We ask for a reimbursement of our expenses. It costs us money to remove and handle organs.”
“A distinction that the readers of the New York Post might not appreciate.”
The man’s face whitened. “The Post? They aren’t writing something?”
“Not yet. But can’t you just see the headline?”
The doctor’s face darkened, and his bow tie quivered with rage. “You know perfectly well this activity does no harm to anyone. The money is strictly accounted for and supports our work here. My predecessor did the same, as did the M.E. before him. The only reason we keep it quiet is because people would be uncomfortable. Really, Mr. Pendergast, this threat is beyond the pale. Beyond the pale.”
“Indeed. Three days, then?”
The M.E. stared at him with hard, glittering eyes. A curt nod. “Two days.”
“Thank you, Dr. Heffler. I’m most obliged.” And Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “And now, we really mustn’t take up any more of Dr. Heffler’s busy, busy day.�
��
As they exited the building onto First Avenue and walked toward the idling Rolls, D’Agosta couldn’t help but chuckle. “How did you pull that rabbit out of your hat?”
“I do not know why it is, Vincent, but there are certain people in positions of power who take pleasure in obstructing others. I’m afraid I take an equally base pleasure in disobliging them. A bad habit, I know, but it is so hard at my age to rid oneself of the minor vices.”
“He was pretty frigging ‘disobliged.’”
“I fear, however, that Dr. Heffler was right about the DNA results. It’s beyond his power, or mine for that matter, to hasten that process, especially given the court order required. An alternative approach is thus necessary. And so this afternoon we’ll be paying a visit to Willoughby Manor, in Kerhonkson, to offer our condolences to one Gladys Fearing.”
“What for? She’s non compos mentis.”
“And yet, my dear Vincent, I have a feeling Mrs. Fearing might prove surprisingly eloquent.”
9
Nora Kelly softly closed the door to her basement anthropology lab and leaned against it, closing her eyes. Her head throbbed steadily, and her throat was rough and dry.
It had been far worse than she imagined, running the gauntlet of her colleagues with their well-meaning condolences, their tragic looks, their offers of help, their suggestions she take a few days off. A few days off? And do what: go back to the apartment where her husband was murdered and sit around with only her thoughts for company? The fact was, she’d come straight to the museum from the hospital. Despite what she’d told D’Agosta, she just couldn’t face going back to the apartment—at least, not right away.
She opened her eyes. The lab was as she had left it, two days ago. And yet it looked so different. Everything since the murder seemed different. It was as if the whole world had changed—utterly.
Angrily, she tried to force away the sterile train of thought. She glanced at her watch: two o’clock. The only thing that would save her now was immersion in her work. Complete, total immersion.
Cemetery Dance Page 4
