Dance Of Death

The garage was heated.

"Warm yourself, Vincent, while I get to work."

"How in hell did you avoid going in the water?" D'Agosta said, standing directly on top of the heating vent.

"Perhaps my timing was better." Taking off his coat and jacket and rolling up his crisp white sleeves, Pendergast set the four tires in place, jacked up one end of the car, slipped the tire on and bolted it, then followed the same procedure for the other three wheels.

"Feeling warmer?" he asked as he worked.

"Sort of."

"Then if you don't mind, Vincent, open the hood and co

D'Agosta pulled out a wrench, opened the hood, co

Pendergast kicked away the final block and jacked down the last wheel. "Excellent."

"No one to call the cops about a stolen car."

"We shall see. Although the area seems deserted for the winter, there's always the danger of a nosy neighbor. This 1954 Mark VII saloon is not an inconspicuous vehicle. Now for the moment of truth. Please get in and help me start her."

D'Agosta clambered into the driver's seat and waited for instructions.

"Foot on the accelerator. Choke out. Gear in neutral."

"Check," D'Agosta said.

"When you hear the engine turn, give it a bit of gas."

D'Agosta complied. A moment later, the car roared to life.

"Ease off the choke," Pendergast said. He walked over to the alarm box, glanced around, picked up a long wire, attached it to both metal plates in the alarm, then opened the door. "Take her out."

D'Agosta eased the Jag out. Pendergast shut the garage door and got into the rear of the vehicle.

"Let's get the heat on in this baby," said D'Agosta, fiddling with the unfamiliar controls as he drove onto the street.

"You do that. Pull over and let it run for a few minutes. I am going to lie down, and… ho, what's this?" He held up a loud sports jacket checkered in various shades of light green. "A stroke of luck, Vincent! Now you look the part."

D'Agosta drew off his sodden coat and tossed it on the floor, putting on the sports jacket instead.

"How becoming."

"Yeah, right."

At that moment, Pendergast's cell phone rang. D'Agosta watched as the agent plucked it from his pocket.

"Yes," Pendergast said. "I understand. Yes, excellent. Thank you." And he hung up.

"We have three hours to get to Manhattan," he said, checking his watch. "Do you think you can manage it?"

"You bet." D'Agosta hesitated. "Now, you want to tell me who that was and what the heck you've been up to?"

"That was William Smithback."

"The journalist?"

"Yes. You see, Vincent, at last-at long, long last-we might have been given a break."

"How do you figure that?"

"Diogenes was the person who robbed the Astor Hall last night."

D'Agosta turned to stare at him. "Diogenes? You sure?"

"Undoubtedly. He's always had an obsession with diamonds. All these murders were just a horrible distraction to keep me busy while he pla

"So what makes this a break for us?"

"What Diogenes didn't know-couldn't know-was that the finest gem of all, no doubt the one he most wanted, wasn't on display. He didn't steal Lucifer's Heart: he stole a fake."

"So?"

"So I'm going to steal the real Lucifer's Heart for him and make a trade. Is the motor warmed up? Let's get back to New York-there's no time to waste."

D'Agosta eased the car away from the curb. "I've seen you pull a few rabbits out of your hat, but how in the hell are you going to steal the world's greatest diamond on the spur of the moment? You don't know where it is, you don't know anything about its security."

"Perhaps. But as it happens, Vincent, my plans are already in motion." And Pendergast patted the pocket where his cell phone was.

D'Agosta kept his eyes on the road. "There's a problem," he said in a quiet voice.

"What's that?"

"We're assuming that Diogenes still has something to trade."

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke. "We can only pray that he does."

SIXTY-ONE

Laura Hayward walked briskly up the steps of the Lower Manhattan Federal Building, Captain Singleton at her heels. Singleton was, as usual, dressed nattily: camel's-hair topcoat, Burberry scarf, thin black leather gloves. He hadn't said much on the ride downtown, but that was okay: Hayward hadn't felt much like talking.

It had been barely twenty-four hours since D'Agosta walked out of her office and away from her ultimatum, but it might as well have been a year. Hayward had always been an exceptionally levelheaded person, but as she walked into the Federal Building, she had an almost overpowering sense of unreality. Maybe none of this was happening, maybe she wasn't on her way to an urgent FBI briefing, maybe Pendergast wasn't the most wanted criminal in New York and D'Agosta his accomplice. Maybe she'd just wake up and it would be January 21 again, and her apartment would still smell of Vi

At the security checkpoint, Hayward showed her shield, checked her weapon, signed the clipboard. There wasn't going to be a happy ending. Because if D'Agosta wasn't Pendergast's accomplice, he would be Pendergast's victim.

The conference room was large, paneled in dark wood. Flags of New York and the United States drooped from brass flagpoles on both sides of the entryway, and color photos of various government types lined the walls. A huge oval table dominated the room, surrounded with leather chairs. The coffee urn and the table heaped with donuts and crullers, a staple of NYPD departmental meetings, was absent. Instead, a pint bottle of spring water had been placed before each chair.

Unfamiliar men and women in dark suits were standing around in knots, talking quietly among themselves. As Hayward and Singleton entered, the groups began making their way quickly toward the chairs. Hayward chose the nearest seat and Singleton sat down beside her, removing his gloves and scarf. There was no place to hang their stuff, and as a result they were the only two people in the room wearing coats.

At that moment, a tall, stocky man walked into the conference room. Two shorter men followed on his heels, like obedient hounds. Each of the two carried a brick of red folders under his arm. The tall man stopped for a moment, glancing around the table. Unlike the rest of the faces in the room, pallid from the New York winter, his was sunburned. It wasn't the even, artificial tan you got from a salon: this man had spent long hours working someplace su

He walked to the head of the table, where three seats had been left empty, and took the middle one. His two retainers sat to his right and his left.

"Good morning," the man said in an abrasive Long Island accent at odds with the sunburn. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Spencer Coffey, and with me are Special Agents Brooks and Rabiner. With their assistance, I'll be leading the search for Special Agent Pendergast."

The man seemed to spit out the final word, and as he said it, the anger spread from his eyes to his entire face.

"The facts as we know them so far are these: Pendergast is a primary suspect in four homicides, one in New Orleans, one in D.C., and two here in New York. We have DNA and fiber evidence from all four sites, and we're cooperating with local authorities in an effort to gather more."