Cemetery Dance

D'Agosta shook his head. "Can you believe they print this stuff? Now we've got all kinds of jackasses calling in sightings, anonymous letters that have to be followed up, phone calls from psychics and tarot card readers… You know what this town is like whenever a weird story like this breaks. This is just the sort of shit I don't need right now."

A small smile played about Hawyard's lips. "I understand."

"And people believe this trash." He shoved the paper out of the way and took another sip of coffee. "So… what do you make of it?"

"You have four eyewitnesses swearing Fearing is the killer?"

"Five — including the victim's wife."

"Nora Kelly."

"You know her, right?"

"Yes. I knew Bill Smithback, too. A little unorthodox in his methods, but a good reporter. What a tragedy."

D'Agosta took a bite of his sandwich. The pastrami was lean, the dressing warm — just the way he liked it. It always seemed that when a case was pissing him off, he started to overeat.

"Well," she continued, "either it's Fearing or somebody disguised as him. He's dead or he isn't. Simple enough. Got any DNA results?"

"Blood from two people was found at the scene — Smithback's and somebody as yet unidentified. We've obtained samples of DNA from Fearing's mother and we're ru

Hayward took a sip of water. "Good question. What does Pendergast think?"

"Since when does anybody know what that guy thinks? But I'll tell you one thing: he's more interested in that voodoo crap found at the scene than he wants to let on. He's spending an awful lot of time going over it."

"That stuff mentioned in the article?"

"Right. Sequins, a bunch of feathers tied together, a little parchment bag full of dust."

"Gris — gris," Hayward murmured.

"I'm sorry?"

"Voodoo charms used to ward off evil. Or sometimes to inflict it."

"Please. We're dealing with a psychopath. The crime couldn't have been more disorganized and poorly pla

"You want my opinion, Vi

"You know I do."

"Exhume Fearing's body."

"In process."

"I'd also see if any of Smithback's news stories have made somebody mad recently."

"Also in process. It seems all of Smithback's stories made people mad. I got a list of his recent assignments from his editor at the Times, and my men are going through them, following up."

"You're doing well, Vi

"I don't think so."

"Hey — no snap judgments." "Sorry."

"One other thing." Hayward hesitated. "You remember my saying that, before taking the job with the transit police, I worked on the New Orleans PD for eighteen months?"

"Sure."

"Pendergast is from New Orleans."

"So?"

Hayward took another sip of water. "A minute ago, I said that either Fearing's dead or he isn't. Well, there are those on the NOPD who would say otherwise. That there might be a third possibility."

"Laura, don't tell me you buy that zombii crap."

Hayward finished the half of her sandwich, pushed the plate aside. "I'm full. Want some?"

"I'm good, thanks. You didn't answer my question."

"I don't 'buy' anything. Just talk to Pendergast about it. He knows a lot more about that… particular subject than you or I ever will. All I'm saying is, don't make up your mind too fast. It's one of your faults, Vi

D'Agosta sighed; she was right, as usual. He looked around the luncheonette: at the bustling waitresses; at the other diners reading papers, talking on cell phones, or chatting with lunch companions. He was reminded of other meals he'd had with Laura, at other restaurants. In particular, he recalled their first drink together. That had been at a particularly low point in his life — and yet it was also the moment he realized just how much he was attracted to her. They worked well together. She challenged him — in a good way. The irony of the situation was painful: he'd won his disciplinary hearing, kept his job, but it seemed that he'd lost Laura.

He cleared his throat. "So tell me about this promotion you're getting."

"I haven't gotten it yet."

"Come on, I've heard the scuttlebutt. It's just a question of formalities now."

She took a sip of water. "It's a special task force they're setting up. One — year trial period. A few members of the chief's staff will be appointed to interface with the mayor on terror response, quality — of — life issues, that kind of thing. Big public concerns."

"Visibility?"

"Extremely high."

"Wow. Another feather in your cap. Just wait, you'll be chief in a couple of years."

Laura smiled. "Not likely."

D'Agosta hesitated. "Laura. I really miss you." The smile faded. "I miss you, too."

He looked across the table at her. She was so pretty his heart ached: pale skin, hair so black it was almost blue. "So why don't we try again? Start over?"

She paused, then shook her head. "I'm just not ready."

"Why not?"

"Vi

"I know that, and I'm sorry. Really sorry. But I've explained all that. I had no choice, surely you see that now."

"Of course you had a choice. You could have told me the truth. You could have trusted me. As I trusted you."

D'Agosta sighed. "Look — I'm sorry."

There was a loud beep as his cell phone started ringing. When it continued, Laura said, "I think you should answer that."

"But—"

"Go ahead. Take it."

D'Agosta reached into his pocket, flipped the phone open. "Yes?"

"Vincent," drawled the mellifluous southern voice. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

He swallowed. "No, not really."

"Excellent. We have an appointment with a certain Mr. Kline."

"On my way."

"Good. Oh, one other thing — care to take a drive with me tomorrow morning?"

"Where to?"

"Whispering Oaks Mausoleum. The exhumation order came through. We're opening Fearing's crypt tomorrow at noon."

Chapter 13

Digital Veracity Inc. was located in one of the giant glass office towers that lined Avenue of the Americas in the lower fifties. D'Agosta met Pendergast in the main lobby and, after a brief stop at the security station, they made their way to the thirty — seventh floor.

"Did you bring a copy of the letter?" Pendergast asked.

D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. "You got anything on Kline's background I should know?"

"Indeed I do. Our Mr. Lucas Kline grew up in a poor family from Avenue J in Brooklyn, childhood unremarkable, grades excellent, always the last chosen for the team, a 'nice boy.' He matriculated from NYU, began work as a journalist — which, by all accounts, was where his heart lay. But it worked out badly: he got scooped on an important story — unfairly, it seems, but when was journalism a fair field? — and was fired as a result. He drifted a bit, ultimately becoming a computer programmer for a Wall Street bank. Apparently he had a talent for it: he started DVI a few years later and seems to have carried it a fair distance." He glanced at D'Agosta. "Are you considering a search warrant?"