Two Graves

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Singleton, with the tone D’Agosta knew meant a difficult or controversial piece of advice was coming up. “The psychological aspects of this case are extraordinary. We’re outside the bell curve of the usual deviant pathology here. Don’t you think, Lieutenant?”

“I agree.” D’Agosta remained noncommittal. He wanted to see where Singleton was going with this.

“We know the earlobe was removed several hours before the first killing. Now the M.E. tells us the fingertip was also removed several hours before this killing. We’ve got the first security tapes showing a bandage on his earlobe, and now the new tapes show he’s wearing that peculiar cap and a bandage on his finger. What kind of a killer would cut himself up like that? And what do these messages mean? Whose birthday is it, and who’s supposed to be proud of him? And finally: Why is a so obviously organized and intelligent killer so sloppy about his identity?”

“I’m not sure he is sloppy,” D’Agosta said. “Notice how different he looked in the security feeds this time.”

“And yet he left fingerprints behind. He doesn’t mind us knowing it was him, post facto. In fact, the body parts would seem to imply he wanted us to know.”

“What bothers me is the way he stopped the maid,” D’Agosta said. “In the interview, she insisted that he knew about the pillow and the room number that requested it. How could he know that?”

“He might have an inside contact,” Singleton said. “Someone working the front desk or the switchboard. These are all angles you’ll have to look into.”

D’Agosta nodded glumly. He really wished Pendergast were here. These were exactly the kind of questions he might be able to answer.

“Do you know what this suggests to me, Lieutenant?”

D’Agosta braced himself. Something was coming. “What, sir?”

“I never like having to say this. But right now, we’re out of our depth. We need to bring in the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit.”

D’Agosta was surprised. And then he wasn’t surprised. It was a logical step with a serial killer like this, who presented an extreme and perhaps unique pathology.

He found Singleton gazing at him earnestly, looking for agreement. This was also new to D’Agosta. Since when did Singleton ask for his opinion?

“Chief,” he said, “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Singleton seemed relieved. “You realize, of course, that the men and women aren’t going to like it. For one thing, there’s no element in these crimes requiring FBI involvement—no evidence of terrorism or interstate links. And you know how obnoxious the FBI can be—will be. But in all my career, I’ve never seen a killer quite like this. The BSU has access to databases and research far beyond what we’ve got. Still, it’s going to be tricky getting our people with the program.”

D’Agosta was well aware of how poorly the NYPD worked with the FBI. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll talk to the squad about it. As you know, I’ve worked with the FBI before. I don’t have any personal issues with them.”

Hearing this, Singleton’s eyes flashed. For a minute, D’Agosta feared he might bring up Pendergast. But no—Singleton was too tactful for that. Instead, he simply nodded.

“As chief, I’ll make the initial contact with Quantico and then pass things along to you. That’s the best way to proceed, especially with the FBI, who are sticklers about rank.”

D’Agosta nodded. Now he really wished Pendergast was here.

For a while, they watched in silence as the fiber guy moved slowly across the floor on his hands and knees, tweezers in one hand, going over square after square of the grid laid down with strings. What a job.

“I almost forgot,” Singleton said. “What were the results of the DNA test on the earlobe?”

“We still haven’t gotten them back.”

Singleton slowly turned toward D’Agosta. “It’s been sixty hours.”

D’Agosta felt the blood rushing to his face. Ever since the forensic DNA unit had been shifted out of the M.E.’s office and made into its own department—with Dr. Wayne Heffler as director—they had been impossible to deal with. A few years ago, he and Pendergast had had a run-in with Heffler. Ever since, D’Agosta suspected that Heffler had made a point of holding up his lab results just long enough to piss off D’Agosta but not so long that he himself got into hot water.

“I’ll get on it,” said D’Agosta evenly. “I’ll get on it immediately.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Singleton. “One of your responsibilities as squad commander is to kick ass. And in this case, you may have to, ah, put the toe of your boot right up inside, if you get my meaning.”

He gave D’Agosta a friendly pat on the back and turned to leave.

10

THE TAXICAB PULLED UP TO THE SEVENTY-SECOND STREET entrance of the Dakota, stopping opposite the doorman’s pillbox. A uniformed man emerged and, with the gravitas of doormen the world over, approached the cab and opened the rear door.

A woman stepped out into the early-morning sunlight. She was tall and sleek and beautifully dressed. The white, broad-brimmed hat she wore set off her freckled face, deeply ta

“I’ll need to use your house phone, if you please,” she said in a brisk English accent.

“This way, ma’am.” And the doorman led her down a long, dark passage beneath a portcullis to a small room facing the building’s interior courtyard.

She picked up the phone, dialed an apartment number. The phone rang twenty times without answer. The doorman waited, eyeing her. “There’s no answer, miss.”

Viola eyed the doorman. This was someone who could not be pushed around. She offered a sweet smile. “As you know, the housekeeper is deaf. I’ll try again.”

A reluctant nod.

Another twenty rings.

“Miss, I think that’s enough. Allow me to take your name.”

She rang again. The doorman was now frowning, and she could see he was getting ready to reach over and press the ENGAGED button.

“Please, just a moment,” she said, with another brilliant smile.

Even as the doorman’s hand was reaching over to cut her off, the phone was finally answered.

“Hello?” she said quickly. The hand withdrew.

“May I know the reason for this damnable persistence?” came the monotonal, almost sepulchral voice.

“Aloysius?” the woman asked.

A silence.

“It’s me. Viola. Viola Maskelene.”

There was a long pause. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve come all the way from Rome to speak to you. It’s a matter of life and death.”

No response.

“Aloysius, I appeal to you on… on the strength of our past relationship. Please.”

A slow, quiet exhalation of breath. “I suppose you must come up, then.”

The elevator whispered open to a small landing, with maroon carpeting and walls of dark, polished wood. The single door opposite was standing open. Lady Maskelene walked through the doorway and then stopped, shocked. Pendergast was standing inside, wearing a silk dressing gown of muted paisley. His face was gaunt, his hair limp. Without bothering to shut the door, he turned away wordlessly and walked over to one of the room’s leather sofas. His movements, normally brisk and economical, were sluggish, as if he were moving underwater.

Lady Maskelene closed the door and followed him into the room, which was rose-colored with the sparse decoration of a few ancient, gnarled bonsai trees. Three of the walls held a scattering of impressionist paintings. The fourth was a sheet of water, falling over a slab of black marble. Pendergast took a seat on the sofa, and she sat down beside him.

“Aloysius,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers, “my heart breaks for you. What an awful, awful thing. I’m so terribly sorry.”