Dance Of Death

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.' Fu

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."

Hayward sighed. "Anyway, I just spoke to Green on the phone. She's incredibly weak, had the closest of calls, but she was very lucid. And what she had to say surprised the hell out of me. She's absolutely insistent that you weren't her attacker, and her description fits the other description we have of your brother quite well. Problem is, it was your blood at the crime scene and on the weapon Green defended herself with, along with fiber, hair, and other physical evidence. So we've got a major evidence conundrum on our hands."

"You certainly do."

"Our interviews with Viola Maskelene corroborate your story about Diogenes, at least what I understand of it. She's insistent it was he who did the kidnapping, not you. She says he basically confessed to the killings and showed her one of the stolen diamonds from the Astor Hall. No proof, of course, just her word, but she helped lead us to the safe house where she was held. We found quite a setup there, including some pretty conclusive evidence linking Diogenes to the Astor Hall theft-evidence he clearly didn't intend to give up."

"Interesting."

"We almost caught someone in the tu

Pendergast nodded. "And what do you believe, Captain?"

Hayward hesitated. "That the case merits further investigation. Trouble is, the FBI are moving full speed ahead bringing capital charges on the murder of a federal agent, and it seems they could care less at present about any inconsistencies in the other three. Or rather, two, since the Green killing wasn't a killing, after all. Which makes my continued investigation of those other homicides somewhat moot."