Two Graves

Two large, shaped pieces of beeswax, stuck between his upper molars and cheek, rounded out his sharp cheekbones and gave him a broader, friendlier, and perhaps somewhat dumber-looking face. And, of course, he had altered his walk by paring down the heels of his new shoes to make the outside of the heel lower than the inside by three-eighths of an inch—which had the effect of changing the rhythm of his stride. He had been instructed that the way a person walked was one of the key characteristics used by identity specialists.

The tea was excellent, as he knew it would be. He left a couple of fresh, crisp bills on the table, and as he rose he pressed his left hand on the glass tabletop, letting his fingers grip the side, where the waiter was less likely to clean.

He strolled to the elevator, got on, and pressed the sixth-floor button. Exiting, he strolled to the end of the hall—again finding a blind spot beneath an unobtrusive security camera—and settled in to wait. The hall was not as long as that in the Marlborough, and he feared the wait might be a long one. But no: just five minutes later he started back down the hall again, walking fast this time, and then as the maid rounded the corner, carrying a pillow, he slowed his pace, arranging his face into a warm smile. He intercepted her halfway down the hall and held out his hands, eyes twinkling.

“Say, that pillow is for me, isn’t it? Room Six Fourteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” He took the pillow, gave the woman a five-dollar bill, and turned, heading toward Room 614. As he walked, he gave the pillow an inquisitorial squeeze. Firm, shape-retaining foam. It seemed the individual in Room 614 didn’t like the drowning sensation caused by soft, overstuffed goose-down pillows. Something they had in common.

He went to the door of Room 614 and gave a polite double rap. In response to the standard query—delivered in a gruff male voice—he said: “Your pillow, sir.”

The door opened. Alban held out the pillow and, as the man within reached for it, started forward abruptly, giving the surprised man a little push inside and instantly silencing him with a hammerlock around his throat, shutting the door gently with his free hand. This one hardly struggled, not at all like the woman, and when he did it was a sorry, feeble sort of effort. He was older, fatter, softer, yielding. Alban pushed him into the center of the room. The man made a few halfhearted attempts to punch around and behind, but a sharp tightening around his throat soon caused him to stop. Alban could feel the man’s knees starting to tremble, from fear or perhaps lack of oxygen. The man’s thin greasy hairs—combed over a dimpled bald patch, reeking of lime tonic—were right under Alban’s nose, and it angered him. This was not nearly as much fun as the woman. It lacked a certain challenge, perhaps even flair. He would have to remember that.

He loosened his grip, and the man drew in a ragged, gasping, desperate breath. “What do you—?”

Alban tightened his grasp again. He did not want any discussion.

As the man began to struggle once more, Alban said, in a friendly tone, “Shhhh, everything’s going to be all right if you cooperate.” The man stopped. Amazing how they believed you. Nevertheless, he kept his arm around the man’s neck—just in case.

He positioned the man, braced himself, then removed the penknife, keeping it well out of the man’s field of view. He extended his arm far to the right—then swung it in fast, sticking it deep into the throat with a sharp twist, just as he had done a hundred times before, practicing for the most part on pigs; then he heaved the man forward while simultaneously jumping back.

A huge razzing spray of blood and exhaled air erupted forward, but not a drop touched Alban. The fall was louder and heavier this time and gave Alban a certain unease, reminding him that his technique might still need refining. He checked his watch, waited out the man’s death spasms, then took out his tools and quickly went to work.

Yes, he thought, puffing a bit at the effort, he was looking forward to his little personal study of New York City hotels and the individual characters he would mentally fashion of each one.

9

THE WING OF THE HOTEL HAD BEEN CORDONED OFF, ALL the guests moved. The hotel manager, a high-strung young man, had actually been carted away, having had some kind of a nervous breakdown. That was something new in Lieutenant D’Agosta’s experience. The press was barricaded on Fiftieth Street outside and, even up on the sixth floor, D’Agosta could hear the faint commotion below and see the lights of the squad cars shining up into the window through gauzy curtains. Or maybe that was just dawn finally breaking after a long, long night.

D’Agosta stood in the bedroom area, booties over his shoes, watching the last of the forensic unit as they wrapped up the crime scene. More than eight hours had passed since the murder. The body had been removed from the hotel room, along with the extra finger they found with it: the first joint of the right index finger. The carpet held a bloodstain three feet in diameter, and the opposite wall was sprayed crimson, as if from a hose. The room carried the characteristic iron smell of violent death, along with an undercurrent of the various chemicals employed by the forensic unit.

Captain Singleton had arrived half an hour before for the wrap-up. On the one hand, D’Agosta was grateful for the support: when the chief of detectives showed an interest, things really got done. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but feel that the man’s sudden presence might be a vote of no-confidence. This second killing had catapulted the case to the top of every late-night news broadcast in the city, pushing the five-victim gun battle in Central Park completely out of the public consciousness. And, let’s face it, he and Singleton hadn’t always been best of chums: some years ago, in a disastrous case D’Agosta had been involved in with Pendergast, Singleton had been a stickler for the rules when D’Agosta came up before a disciplinary hearing. But in Singleton’s defense, the captain had always tried to give him a fair shake. So why—considering how much he respected the man—did D’Agosta feel a prickling of resentment at Singleton’s appearance now? Maybe it was because the captain had refused a police backup when a worried D’Agosta had approached him, off the record, about the boathouse meeting between Pendergast and Helen. “Nazis here, in New York?” he’d told D’Agosta. “That’s ridiculous—even for Agent Pendergast. I can’t deploy an entire squad on a whim.” D’Agosta—whom Pendergast had sworn to silence anyway—hadn’t pushed it. And now Helen Pendergast was dead.

“Happy Birthday,” Singleton murmured, repeating the message they’d found written in blood on the victim’s corpse. “What do you make of that, Lieutenant?”

“We’ve got a real psycho on our hands.” The messages—and the extra body parts—had been kept back from the press.

“We certainly do,” said Singleton. He was tall and slender and well groomed, in his late forties but still with a swimmer’s physique. His carefully clipped salt-and-pepper hair was rapidly turning to white, but he seemed to retain a certain restless, springy ma