Two Graves

She took another sip, then set the glass down. “Um.” She hesitated. “I wish I could say that I liked it.”

“You don’t?”

“It tastes like bitter almonds.” She laughed. “I feel like Socrates here. Sorry. You went to a lot of trouble.” She took his hand, gave it a squeeze.

“This is a popular drink.”

She picked up the glass again and held it out at arm’s length, examining the gauzy orange liquid. “It reminds me of Campari. You know it?”

“You kidding? My parents drank it back in the day, when they lived in Queens and were hoping to pass for Manhattan.”

“Thanks anyway, Vi

“Sure.” He took a sip of his own glass, decided he’d take his usual, as well. Stepping through the open door and heading into the kitchen, he put the glasses in the sink and got two more drinks: for himself, a frosty Michelob; for her, a glass of the flinty but inexpensive Pouilly-Fumé they always kept in the fridge. Carrying them back out to the balcony, he sat down again.

For several minutes, they remained in silence, taking in the heartbeat of New York City, quietly savoring each other’s company. D’Agosta shot a covert glance at Hayward. For the past ten days or so, he’d been pla

But then things had sort of come undone. This bizarre murder, which was guaranteed to suck up all his time. And especially the freakish news about Pendergast.

He’d gone ahead with the di

Hayward glanced again at the report, flipped through the pages. “How did the big meeting go this afternoon?”

“Good. Singleton seemed to like it.”

“Are the DNA results back yet?”

“No. That’s the slowest goddamn lab in town.”

“Interesting how the killer made no attempt to disguise himself or to avoid the security cameras. It’s almost like he’s daring you to find him, isn’t it?”

D’Agosta took a sip of his beer.

Hayward peered at him. “What is it, Vi

D’Agosta sighed. “It’s Pendergast. I finally reached him this afternoon on the phone. He told me his wife was dead.”

Laura put down her drink and looked at him in shock. “Dead? How?”

“The people who kidnapped her. They shot her in Mexico—apparently to distract Pendergast, to allow themselves to get away.”

“Oh, my God…” Laura sighed, shook her head.

“It’s just a horrible tragedy. And I’d never heard him like that before. He sounded like—” D’Agosta paused. “I don’t know. Like he didn’t care. Like he was dead. And then he hung up on me.”

Hayward nodded sympathetically.

“I’m worried about his state of mind. I mean, to lose her like that…” He took a deep breath, looked down at his beer. “I’m bracing myself for a reaction.”

“What kind of reaction?”

“I don’t know. If the past is any guide, maybe an explosion of violence. The guy’s so unpredictable. Anything could happen. I feel like I’m witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.”

“Maybe you should do something.”

“He made it obvious he doesn’t want any sympathy, any help. And you know what? For once, I’m going to honor his wishes and not interfere.”

He lapsed into silence.

For a moment, Hayward did not answer. Then she cleared her throat. “Vi

He glanced up at her.

“Here’s how I see it. Pendergast has never failed before. Not like this. I mean, he was so completely, utterly intent on discovering the truth about what really happened to his wife. It was a quest that almost got you killed. It almost got me gang-raped. And then, when he started to believe she was still alive after all…” Hayward paused for a moment. “Here’s the thing: deep down, I don’t think he ever believed he would fail. You know Pendergast, you know how he works. This is the thing he wanted more than anything, more than any of those cases of his—and now it’s finished. Done. He’s failed. I can hardly imagine what he’s feeling.” She paused. “You say he’s going to erupt into violence. But if that’s the case, why isn’t he out there, on fire to catch her killers? Why isn’t he breaking down our door, enlisting your aid?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “Good questions.”

“I think he’s in total despair,” said Hayward. “I’m sure of it.”

They settled into silence. D’Agosta sipped his beer moodily.

Finally, Hayward stirred again. “Vi

D’Agosta sighed. “I appreciate what you’re saying. I really do. But this time… I’m not going there. It’s just not my place, butting in.” And he glanced over the table at her, smiled a little wistfully, then let his gaze settle on the façades across First Avenue, burnished pink and gold by the setting sun.

8

ALBAN LORIMER WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED BY THE lobby of the Vanderbilt Hotel. It was quite different from the Marlborough: a smaller, quieter, more intimate space. A huge urn of fresh flowers dominated the hushed confines of the lobby, which was arranged more like an elegant living room. There were plush carpets, deep comfortable sofas and chairs arranged around ebony tables topped with glass. The walls were of dark oak paneling and the fixtures of handblown glass, Victorian perhaps.

He took a seat at a small table in the lobby. A waiter came by and asked him if he would care for tea. Alban thought a moment, looked over the evening tea menu, and said yes, he would very much care for a pot of tea, preferably an Assam or some such mild blend, prepared English-style in the pot, with whole milk and sugar. He was very particular with his order and made sure the waiter paid attention to it, and to him, while he gave it.

The waiter went off while Alban made himself comfortable, absorbing the feel of the place. The first thing that struck him was that the clientele here seemed different. Whereas the Marlborough Grand had been just that—grand—this hotel felt more like a quiet, upper-class club of wealth and privilege, catering to locals and their guests.

The differences intrigued him. Did each hotel have its own personality? The Marlborough Grand was like a young blonde with flash and style, a bit loud, maybe even vulgar, but pretty, sexy, and fun. The Vanderbilt appeared in his mind’s eye like a distinguished, gray-haired gentleman of taste and breeding: handsome, charming, but a trifle dull. He wondered which one he preferred. It was hard to say. He didn’t have enough experience.

He was looking forward to visiting other hotels in New York City and making a study. He would create a complete character, a person, for each hotel. It would be fun.

As he waited for his tea, he smoothed one hand over his suit front. The bandage on his right index finger bothered him. It itched. But there was nothing he could do about that now. At least he felt secure, knowing he looked different enough from the person whose crisp, clear picture had been in all the papers. The clearer the picture, of course, the less he had to change his appearance. Fu

Now he was Mr. Brown. His hair was brown. His eyes were brown. His skin, while not exactly brown, was olive. Only his clothing was not brown—he didn’t care for brown suits—but rather gray, and it was Brooks Brothers from shoes to tie. He had never heard of Brooks Brothers until today: it was a New York clothier whose suits were banal enough to help him fit in even better. Although it had turned somewhat colder overnight, the cashmere cap he wore, pulled down over his ears, might still look a little strange. Perhaps some people thought he was a cancer victim, covering up his loss of hair.