Cemetery Dance

"Not face. No blood on face, or maybe just a little. Blood all over hands, clothes. Knife."

Pendergast was silent for a moment, and then said, "What if I were to tell you that Colin Fearing's body was found in the Harlem River ten days ago?"

Mosquea's eyes narrowed. "Then I say you wrong!"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Mosquea. Identified, autopsied, everything."

The man drew himself up to his full five foot three inches, his voice assuming a grave dignity. "If you don't believe, I ask you: look at the tape. The man on that tape is Colin Fearing." He stopped, giving Pendergast a challenging stare. "I don't care about any body in river. The murderer is Colin Fearing. I know. "

"Thank you, Mr. Mosquea," said Pendergast.

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "If we need to speak to you again, I'll let you know."

The man nodded, keeping a suspicious eye on Pendergast. "The killer is Colin Fearing. You find that son bitch."

They stepped out into the street, the crisp October air refreshing after the sickening confines of the apartment. Pendergast gestured toward a '59 Rolls — Royce Silver Wraith idling at the curb, and D'Agosta could see the stolid outline of Proctor, Pendergast's chauffeur, in the driver's seat. "Care to take a ride uptown?"

"Might as well. It's already half past three, I won't be getting any sleep tonight."

D'Agosta climbed into the leather — fragrant confines, Pendergast slipping in beside him. "Let's have a look at the security tape." The agent pressed a button in the armrest, and an LCD screen swung down from the ceiling.

D'Agosta removed a DVD from his briefcase. "Here's a copy. The original already went down to headquarters."

Pendergast slid it into the drive. A moment later, the lobby of 666 West End sprang into wide — angle view on the screen, the fisheye lens covering the area from the elevator to the front door. A time stamp in the corner ran off the seconds. D'Agosta watched — for perhaps the tenth time — as the doorman went outside with one of the tenants, where he presumably flagged down a cab. As he was outside, a figure came pushing in through the doors. There was something ineffably chilling about the way he walked — strangely shambling, almost rudderless, heavy — footed, with no trace of hurry. He glanced up once at the camera, his eyes glazed, seemingly sightless. He was wearing a bizarre outfit, a gaudy, sequined garment over his shirt, multicolored designs on a field of red, with curlicues, hearts, and rattle — shaped bones. His face was bloated, misshapen.

Pendergast fast — forwarded it until a new person entered the camera's field of view: Nora Kelly, carrying a cake box. She walked to the elevator, disappearing again. Another fast — forward, and then Fearing lurched out of the elevator, suddenly wild. His outfit was now torn and smeared with blood, the right hand clutching a massive, ten — inch scuba knife. The doorman came forward, tried to grab him; Fearing slashed at him instead and shambled through the double doors, disappearing into the night.

"The bastard," D'Agosta said. "I'd like to rip his nuts off and feed them back to him on toast."

He glanced at Pendergast. The agent appeared to be deep in thought.

"You have to admit, the tape is pretty damn clear. You sure the body in the Harlem River was Fearing?"

"His sister identified the corpse. There were a couple of birth — marks, tattoos, that confirmed it. The M.E. who handled the case is reliable, if a bit difficult."

"How'd he die?"

"Suicide."

D'Agosta grunted. "No other family?"

"The mother is non compos mentis, in a nursing home. No one else."

"And the sister?"

"She went back to England after identifying the body." He fell silent, and then D'Agosta heard him murmur, sotto voce: "Curious, very curious."

"What?"

"My dear Vincent, in an already puzzling case, there is one thing about that tape that strikes me as especially baffling. Did you notice what he does when he enters the lobby for the first time, on his way in?"

"Yeah, what?"

"He glances up at the camera."

"He knew it was there. He lived in the building." "Precisely." And the FBI agent lapsed once more into contemplative silence.

Chapter 4

Caitlyn Kidd sat in the driver's seat of her RAV4, balancing a breakfast sandwich from Subway in one hand and a large black coffee in the other. Her nose was buried in the issue ofVanity Fair that lay propped against the steering wheel. Outside, the morning rush — hour traffic on West 79th Street hooted and blared in an uncomfortable ostinato.

A police radio set into the dashboard crackled to life, and Caitlyn glanced down at it immediately.

"…Headquarters to 2527, respond to a 10–50 at corner of One Eighteenth and Third…"

As quickly as it had flared up, her interest vanished again. She took another bite of her sandwich, flipped the pages of the magazine with a free fingertip.

As a reporter covering Manhattan's crime beat, Caitlyn found herself spending a lot of her time hanging out in her car. Crimes often occurred in out — of — the — way corners of the island, and if you knew your way around, your own car beat the hell out of riding the subway or hailing a cab. It was a business where the scoop was everything, where minutes counted. And the police — band radio helped make sure she stayed on top of the most interesting stories. One big scoop — that's what she was hoping for. One really big scoop.

On the passenger seat, her cell phone blared. She picked it up and snugged it between chin and shoulder, performing a complex three — way juggle involving sandwich, phone, and coffee. "Kidd."

"Caitlyn. Where are you?"

She recognized the voice: Larry Bassington, an obituary writer with the West Sider, the daily throwaway tabloid where they both worked. He was always hitting on her. She'd agreed to let him buy her lunch, mostly because money was short and payday wasn't until the end of the week.

"In the field," said Kidd.

"This early?"

"I get my best calls around dawn. That's when they find the stiffs."

"I don't know why you bother — the

West Sider

ain't exactly the

Daily News.

Hey, don't forget—"

"Hold a sec." Once again, Kidd turned her attention to the police radio.

"…Headquarters to 3133, reports of a 10–53 at 1579 Broadway, please respond."

"3133 to Headquarters, 10–4…"

She tuned it out, went back to the phone. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"I was saying, don't forget about our date."

"It's not a date. It's lunch."

"Allow me my dreams, okay? Where do you want to go?"

"You're buying, you tell me."

A pause. "How about that Vietnamese place on Thirty — second?"

"Um, no thanks. Ate there yesterday, regretted it all afternoon."

"Okay, what about Alfredo's?"

But once again, Kidd was listening to the police radio.

"…Dispatch, dispatch, this is 7477, on that 10–29 homicide, note that victim Smithback, William, is at present en route M.E.'s office for processing. Supervisor leaving the scene."

"10–4, 7477…"

She almost dropped her coffee. "Holy shit! Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"