Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child - P 09 - Cemetery Dance - v5.1

by Cemetery Dance (v5. 0) (mobi)

  “We can take you in,” D’Agosta said. “We could do it right now.”

  “Of course you could. And I will sit silently where you take me until my lawyer arrives, and then I will leave.”

  “We could book you for probable cause.”

  “You’re bloviating, Lieutenant.”

  “The letter is a clear threat.”

  “All my movements at the time of the killing can be accounted for. The finest legal minds in the country vetted that letter. There’s nothing in there that is actionable on your part.”

  D’Agosta grinned. “Why, hell, Kline, we could have a little fun, perp–walking you out the lobby downstairs — after we tip off the press.”

  “Actually, it would be excellent publicity. I would be back in my office within the hour, you would be embarrassed, and my enemies would see that I am untouchable.” Kline smiled again. “Remember, Lieutenant: I was trained as a programmer. It was my job to write long, complicated routines in which faultless logic was of paramount importance. That’s the first thing you learn as a programmer, the most vital thing. Think everything through, forward and backward. Make sure you’ve made provisions for any unexpected output. And don’t leave any holes. Not a one.”

  D’Agosta could feel himself doing a slow burn. A silence settled over the large office. Kline sat there, arms folded, looking back at D’Agosta.

  “Dysfunctional,” D’Agosta said. At least he’d wipe that smug smile off this little bastard’s face.

  “Excuse me?” Kline asked.

  “If I wasn’t so disgusted, I could almost feel sorry for you. The only way you can get laid is to brandish money and power, to harass and force. That doesn’t sound dysfunctional to you? No? How about another word, then: pathetic. That girl in the outer office — when are you planning to rotate her out for this year’s model?”

  “Kick your fucking ass” came the response.

  D’Agosta rose. “That’s a threat of violence, Kline. Made against a police officer.” He put his hands on his cuffs. “You think you’re so smart, but you just crossed the line.”

  “Kick your fucking ass, D’Agosta,” came the voice again.

  D’Agosta realized it wasn’t Kline who had spoken. The voice was slightly different. And it hadn’t come from behind the desk: it had come from beyond a door set into the opposite wall.

  “Who’s that?” D’Agosta said. He had grown so angry, so quickly, that he could feel himself shaking.

  “That?” Kline replied. “Oh, that’s Chauncy.”

  “Get him out here. Now.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What?” D’Agosta said through clenched teeth.

  “He’s busy.”

  “Kick your fucking ass,” came the voice of Chauncy.

  “Busy?”

  “Yes. Eating his lunch.”

  Without another word, D’Agosta strode to the door, flung it open.

  Beyond lay a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It held nothing but a wooden T–bar about chest high — and sitting on it was a huge, salmon–colored parrot. A Brazil nut was in one claw. It regarded him mildly, massive beak coyly hidden by cheek feathers, the crest atop its head raised slightly in inquiry.

  “Lieutenant D’Agosta, meet Chauncy,” Kline said.

  “Kick your fucking ass, D’Agosta,” said the parrot.

  D’Agosta took a step forward. The parrot gave out an ear–piercing shriek and dropped the nut, flapping its wide wings and showering D’Agosta with feathers and dander, its crest flaring wildly.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Kline in a tone of mild reproof. “You’ve disturbed his lunch.”

  D’Agosta stepped back again, breathing heavily. Abruptly, he realized there was nothing — absolutely nothing — he could do. Kline had broken no law. What was he going to do, cuff a Moluccan cockatoo and haul it downtown? He’d be laughed out of Police Plaza. The little prick really had thought everything through. His hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. The frustration was agonizing.

  “How does it know my name?” he muttered, flicking a feather off his jacket.

  “Oh, that,” said Kline. “You see, Chauncy and I were, um, discussing you before you came in.”

  As they stepped into the elevator for the ride back down to the lobby, D’Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The special agent was shaking with what appeared to be silent mirth. D’Agosta looked away, frowning. At length Pendergast composed himself and cleared his throat.

  “I think, my dear Vincent,” he said, “you might consider obtaining that search warrant with all possible haste.”

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  Caitlyn Kidd nosed her car into a bus–only zone across the street from the New York Museum of Natural History. Before getting out, she draped a copy of yesterday’s West Sider — with the headline and her byline prominently displayed — on the dash. That, along with her press plates, just might help her avoid a second parking ticket in as many days.

  She walked briskly across Museum Drive, inhaling the frosty fall air. It was quarter to five, and as she suspected a number of people were exiting purposefully from an unmarked door set into the ground floor of the vast structure. They carried bags and briefcases — employees, not visitors. She threaded her way through them toward the door.

  Beyond the door lay a narrow corridor, leading to a security station. A few people were showing their museum IDs and being waved past the station by a pair of bored–looking guards. Caitlyn rummaged in her bag, plucked out her press ID.

  She stepped up and showed the pass to the guard. “Staff only,” he said.

  “I’m with the West Sider,” she replied. “I’m doing a story on the museum.”

  “Got an appointment?”

  “I’ve got an interview set up with…” She glanced at the badge of a curator just passing the little guard station. It would be at least a few minutes before he reached his office. “Dr. Prine.”

  “Moment.” The guard checked a phone book, lifted the phone, dialed a number, let it ring a few times. Then he raised his sleepy eyes to her. “He ain’t in. You’ll have to wait here.”

  “May I sit down?” She indicated a bench a dozen yards off.

  The guard hesitated.

  “I’m pregnant. I’m not supposed to be on my feet.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She sat down, crossed her legs, opened a book, keeping an eye on the guard station. A knot of employees arrived and began piling up around the entrance — janitors by the look of them, arriving for the night shift. As the guards became fully engrossed in checking IDs and ticking off names, Caitlyn quickly rose and joined the stream of employees already through the security checkpoint.

  The room she was looking for was in the basement — a five–minute search on the Internet had secured an employee directory and layout of the museum — but the place was a rabbit warren of intersecting passages and endless, unmarked corridors. Nobody challenged her access or even seemed to notice her, however, and a few well–placed queries finally led her to a long, dimly lit hallway, opposing walls punctuated every twenty feet by doors with frosted windows set into them. Caitlyn made her way slowly down the corridor, glancing at the names on the doors. A smell lingered in the air, faintly unpleasant, that she couldn’t identify. Some of the doors were open, and beyond she could see laboratory setups, cluttered offices, and — bizarrely — jars of pickled animals and fierce–looking beasts, stuffed and mounted.

  She paused outside a door labeled kelly, n. The door was ajar, and Caitlyn heard voices within. One voice, she realized: Nora Kelly was on the phone.

  She edged forward, listening.

  “Skip, I can’t,” the voice was saying. “I just can’t come home now.”

  There was a pause. “No, it’s not that. If I went back to Santa Fe right now, I might never return to New York. Don’t you understand? Besides, it’s vital for me to find out what really happened, track down Bill’s killer. That’s
the only thing keeping me going right now.”

  This was too personal. Caitlyn pushed the door wider, clearing her throat as she did so. The lab beyond was cramped yet orderly. Half a dozen pottery fragments lay on a worktable beside a laptop computer. In one corner, a woman on the telephone looked up at her. She was slim, attractive, with bronze–colored hair spilling down over her shoulders, a haunted look in her hazel eyes.

  “Skip,” the woman said. “I’m going to have to call you back. Yes. Okay, tonight.” She hung up, stood up from the desk. “Can I help you?”

  Caitlyn took a deep breath. “Nora Kelly?”

  “That’s right.”

  Caitlyn pulled the press ID from her bag, held it open. “I’m Caitlyn Kidd, from the West Sider.”

  Nora Kelly abruptly flushed. “The author of that piece of garbage?” Her voice was sharp with anger and grief.

  “Ms. Kelly—”

  “That was quite a piece of work. Another one like that and you might get an offer from the Weekly World News. I suggest you leave before I call security.”

  “Did you actually read my story?” Caitlyn blurted out hastily.

  A look of uncertainty crossed Nora’s face. Caitlyn had guessed right: the woman hadn’t read it.

  “It was a good story, factual and unbiased. I don’t write the headlines, I just report the news.”

  Nora took a step forward, and Caitlyn instinctively moved back. For a moment, Nora stared at her, eyes flashing. Then she turned back toward the desk, picking up the phone.

  “What are you doing?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Calling security.”

  “Ms. Kelly, please don’t do that.”

  She finished dialing and waited while it rang.

  “You’re only hurting yourself. Because I can help you find your husband’s murderer.”

  “Yes?” Nora spoke into the phone. “This is Nora Kelly, in the anthro lab.”

  “We both want the same thing,” Caitlyn hissed. “Please let me show you how I can help you. Please.”

  A silence. Nora stared at her, and then said into the phone, “I’m sorry, I dialed the wrong number.” She slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Two minutes,” she said.

  “Okay. Nora — can I call you Nora? I knew your husband. Did he ever mention that? We used to run into each other at journalistic events, press conferences, crime scenes. Sometimes we were after the same story but, well… it was kind of hard for me, a cub reporter with a throwaway tabloid like the West Sider, to compete with the Times.”

  Nora said nothing.

  “Bill was a good guy. It’s like I said: you and I have a common goal — find his murderer. We each have unique resources at our disposal; we should use them. You know him better than anyone. And I’ve got a paper. We could pool our talents, help each other.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear how.”

  “You know that story Bill was working on, the animal rights piece? He mentioned it to me a few weeks ago.”

  Nora nodded. “I already told the police about that.” She hesitated. “You think it’s connected?”

  “That’s what my gut tells me. But I don’t have enough information yet. Tell me more about it.”

  “It was that business of animal sacrifice up in Inwood. There was a flurry of stories and then it got dropped. But it held Bill’s interest. He kept it on the back burner, kept looking for new angles.”

  “Did he tell you much about it?”

  “I just got the sense that some people weren’t thrilled about his interest in the subject, but what else is new? He was never happier than when he was pissing off people. Unpleasant people in particular. And there was no one he hated more than an animal abuser.” She glanced at her watch. “Thirty seconds left. You still haven’t told me how you can help me.”

  “I’m a tireless researcher. Ask any of my colleagues. I know how to work the police, the hospitals, the libraries, the morgue — I mean, the newspaper’s morgue. My press card gets me in places you can’t go. I can devote my nights and my days to this, twenty–four/seven. It’s true, I want a story. But I also want to do right by Bill.”

  “Your two minutes are up.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave now. I want you to do something — for yourself as much as for me.” Caitlyn tapped her head. “Get out his notes on that piece. The animal rights piece. Share them with me. Remember: we reporters look after our own. I want to get to the bottom of this almost as much as you do. Help me do that, Nora.”

  And with that, she smiled briefly, gave Nora her card, then turned and let herself out of the lab.

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  The Rolls passed through a pair of gates set into a faux–brick wall, decorated with plastic ivy stapled haphazardly across its front. A sign amid the ivy informed visitors that they had arrived at Whispering Oaks Cemetery and Mausoleum. Beyond the wall lay an expanse of green lawn, bordered by freshly planted oak trees kept vertical by guy wires. Everything was new and raw. The graveyard itself was virtually empty, and D’Agosta could still see the seams where the turf had been rolled down. Half a dozen gigantic, polished granite gravestones were clustered in one corner. Ahead, a mausoleum rose up from the center of the greensward, bone white, stark, and charmless.

  Proctor guided the Rolls up the asphalt drive and came to a halt in front of the building. A strip of flower bed before the mausoleum was bursting with flowers, despite the fall season, and as he emerged from the car D’Agosta prodded one with his foot.

  Plastic.

  They stood in the parking lot, looking around. “Where is everybody?” D’Agosta asked, looking at his watch. “The guy was supposed to be here at noon.”

  “Gentlemen?” A man had emerged, ghost–like, from the rear of the mausoleum. D’Agosta was startled by his appearance: slender, wearing a well–cut black suit, his skin unnaturally white. The man hurried over, hands clasped obsequiously in front of him, and went straight up to Pendergast. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “We are here with regard to the remains of Colin Fearing.”

  “Ah, yes, the poor fellow we interred, what, almost two weeks ago?” The man beamed, looking Pendergast up and down. “You must be in the business. I can always tell a man in the business!”

  Pendergast slowly dipped a hand into his pocket.

  “Yes, yes,” the man went on, “I remember the interment well. Poor fellow, there was just his sister and the priest. I was surprised — the young ones usually draw a crowd. Well! What mortuary are you gentlemen from, and how can I be of service?”

  Pendergast’s hand had finally withdrawn a leather case from his pocket, which he held up, allowing it to drop open.

  The man stared. “What — what’s this?”

  “Alas, we are not ‘in the business,’ as you so charmingly put it.”

  The man paled even further, saying nothing.

  D’Agosta stepped up and handed him an envelope. “We’re here about the court–ordered exhumation of Colin Fearing. The papers are all in there.”

  “Exhumation? I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “I talked to a Mr. Radcliffe about it last night,” said D’Agosta.

  “Mr. Radcliffe didn’t tell me anything. He never tells me anything.” The man’s voice rose in querulous complaint.

  “That’s too bad,” said D’Agosta, the foul mood he had been in since the murder surfacing again. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The man was clearly frightened. He seemed to sway in place. “We’ve… we’ve never had this sort of thing happen before.”

  “Always a first time, Mr.—”

  “Lille. Maurice Lille.”

  Now the M.E.’s much–abused van came rattling down the drive, laying down a cloud of blue smoke. It swung around the curve too fast — D’Agosta wondered why they always drove like maniacs — and came to a halt with a little screech, the vehicle rocking back and forth on a bad suspension. A couple of med techs in white overalls got
out, walked to the back, threw open the doors, and slid out a gurney on which lay an empty body bag. Then they approached across the parking lot, pushing the gurney in front.

  “Where’s the mort?” bawled the thinner of the two, a freckle–faced kid with carroty hair.

  Silence.

  “Mr. Lille?” D’Agosta asked after a moment.

  “The… mort?”

  “You know,” said the tech. “The stiff. We don’t got all day.”

  Lille shook himself out of his shock. “Yes. Yes, of course. Please, follow me into the mausoleum.”

  He led the way to the front door, punched a code into a keypad, and the faux–bronze door clicked open, revealing a high, white space with crypts rising from floor to ceiling on all four walls. Two enormous bunches of plastic flowers spilled out of a pair of gigantic Italianate plaster urns. Only a few of the crypts were marked with black, incised lettering giving names and dates. D’Agosta couldn’t help but test the air for that smell he knew so well, but it was clean, fresh, perfumed. Definitely perfumed. Place like this, he thought, must have one hell of a forced–air system.

  “I’m sorry. You did say it was Colin Fearing?” Despite the excessive air–conditioning, Lille was sweating.

  “That’s right.” D’Agosta glanced with irritation at Pendergast, who had gone off on a stroll, hands behind his back, lips pursed, looking around the place. He always seemed to disappear at the wrong time.

  “Just a moment, please.” Lille went through a glass door that led to his office and came back out clutching a clipboard, looking up at the vast wall of crypts, his lips moving as if counting. After a moment, he stopped.

  “There it is. Colin Fearing.” He pointed at one of the marked crypts, then stepped back, the grimace of an attempted smile on his face.

  “Mr. Lille?” said D’Agosta. “The key?”

  “Key?” A look of panic took hold. “You want me to open it?”

  “That’s what an exhumation is all about, right?” said D’Agosta.