Cemetery Dance

"I thought I'd see how the interview goes first."

The elevator doors rolled back on an elegantly furnished lobby. Several sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Serapi rugs. Half a dozen large pieces of African sculpture — warriors with imposing headpieces, large masks with dizzyingly complex traceries — decorated the space.

"It would appear our Mr. Kline has come farther than a 'fair distance,' " D'Agosta said, looking around.

They gave their names to the receptionist and sat down. D'Agosta hunted in vain for a copy of People or Entertainment Weekly among the stacks of Computerworld and Database Journal. Five minutes went by, then ten. Just as D'Agosta was about to get up and make a nuisance of himself, a buzzer sounded on the receptionist's desk.

"Mr. Kline will see you now," she said, standing and leading the way through an unmarked door.

They walked down a long, softly lit hallway that terminated in another door. The receptionist ushered them through an outer office where a gorgeous secretary sat typing at a computer. She gave them a furtive look before returning to her work. She had the tense, cowed ma

Beyond, yet another pair of doors opened onto a sprawling corner office. Two walls of glass offered dizzying views of Sixth Avenue. A man of about forty stood behind a desk covered with four personal computers. He was standing while speaking into a wireless telephone headset, his back to them, looking out the windows.

D'Agosta examined the office: more black leather sofas, more tribal art on the walls: Mr. Kline, it seemed, was a collector. A polished glass case held several dusty artifacts, clay pipes and buckles and twisted pieces of iron, labeled as coming from the original Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. A few recessed bookcases contained books on finance and computer programming languages, in sharp contrast with the leering, slightly unsettling masks.

Finishing the phone call, the man hung up and turned to face them. He had a thin, remarkably youthful face that still bore traces of a struggle with adolescent acne. D'Agosta noticed he was relatively short, no taller than five foot five. His hair stuck up in the back, like a kid's. Only his eyes were old — and very cool.

He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta and back again. "Yes?" he asked in a soft voice.

"I will have a seat, thank you," Pendergast said, taking a chair and throwing one leg over the other. D'Agosta followed suit.

The man smiled slightly but said nothing.

"Mr. Lucas Kline?" D'Agosta said. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD."

"I knew you had to be D'Agosta." Kline looked at Pendergast. "And you must be the special agent. You already know who I am. Now, what is it you want? I happen to be busy."

"Is that so?" D'Agosta asked, lounging back in the leather, making it creak in a most satisfying way. "And just what is it you busy yourself with, Mr. Kline?"

"I'm CEO of DVI."

"That doesn't really tell me anything."

"If you want my rags — to — riches story, read that." Kline pointed to half a dozen identical books sitting together on one of the shelves. "How I went from a lowly DBA to head of my own company. It's required reading for all my employees: a volume of brilliance and insight for which they are privileged to pay forty — five dollars." He bestowed a deprecating smile on them. "My secretary will accept your cash or check on the way out."

"DBA?" D'Agosta asked. "What's that?"

"Database administrator. Once upon a time I massaged databases for a living, kept them healthy. And on the side, I wrote a program to automatically normalize large financial databases."

"Normalize?" D'Agosta echoed.

Kline waved his hand dismissively. "Don't even ask. In any case, my program worked very, very well. It turned out there was a large market for normalizing databases. I put a lot of other DBAs out of jobs. And created all this." His chin tilted slightly upward, the self — satisfied smile still lingering at the edges of his pink, girlish lips.

The man's egghead egotism set D'Agosta's teeth on edge. He was going to enjoy this. He leaned back casually in his seat, to more protesting of expensive leather. "Actually, we're more interested in your extracurricular activities."

Kline looked more closely at him. "Such as?"

"Such as your penchant for hiring pretty secretaries, intimidating them into having sex with you, then bullying them or paying them off to keep quiet about it."

The expression on Kline's face did not change. "Ah. So you're here about the Smithback murder."

"You used your position of power to abuse and dominate those women. They were too afraid of you, too afraid of losing their jobs, to say anything. But Smithback wasn't afraid. He exposed you to the world."

"He exposed nothing," Kline said. "Allegations were made, nothing was proven, and any settlements, if they exist, are sealed forever. Alas for you and Smithback, nobody went officially on the record."

D'Agosta shrugged as if to say,

Doesn't matter, the cat's still out of the bag.

Pendergast stirred in his seat. "How unpleasant it must have been for you that after Smithback's article was published, DVI's stock market capitalization dropped by fifty percent."

Kline's face remained serene. "You know the markets. So fickle. DVI is almost back up to where it was."

Pendergast folded his hands. "You're a CEO now, and nobody's going to kick sand in your face again or take your lunch money. Nobody's going to disrespect you and get away with it these days — am I right, Mr. Kline?" Pendergast smiled mildly and glanced at D'Agosta. "The letter?"

D'Agosta reached into his pocket, slipped out the letter, and began to quote: " I promise that, no matter how much time it takes or how much it costs, you will regret having written that article. You ca