Cemetery Dance

The secretary glanced up and saw him. "Lieutenant, I keep telling this man he needs to make his report to the sergeant."

The man turned. "There you are!"

It was that movie — producer — with — a — cause, Esteban. With a fresh bandage on his forehead.

"Sir," the secretary said, "you must make an appointment to see the lieutenant—"

D'Agosta waved him over. "Shelley, I'll go ahead and see him. Thanks."

D'Agosta stepped back into his office, and Esteban followed. When he caught sight of Pendergast, sitting silently in the corner, he frowned; the two hadn't exactly become best buddies during their first encounter, out at Esteban's Long Island estate.

D'Agosta sat down wearily behind his desk, and the man took a chair in front. There was something about Esteban that D'Agosta didn't like. Basically, the man was a self — righteous prig.

"What is it?" D'Agosta asked.

"I was attacked," said Esteban. "Look at me! Attacked with a knife!"

"Did you report it to the police?"

"What the hell do you think I'm doing now?"

"Mr. Esteban, I'm a lieutenant in the homicide division. I'll be happy to refer you to an investigating officer—"

"It's an attempted homicide, isn't it? I was attacked by a zombii."

D'Agosta halted. Pendergast slowly raised his head.

"Excuse me… a zombii?" D'Agosta said.

"That's what I said. Or someone acting like a zombii."

D'Agosta held up a hand and pressed down his intercom. "Shelley? I need an investigating officer in here right away, ready to take a statement."

"Sure thing, Lieutenant."

The man tried to speak again but D'Agosta held up his hand. In a minute an officer came in with a digital recorder, and D'Agosta nodded him toward the lone remaining empty chair.

The officer snapped on the recorder and D'Agosta lowered his hand. "All right, Mr. Esteban. Let's hear your story."

"I stayed late in my office working last night."

"Address?"

"Five thirty — three West Thirty — fifth Street, near the Javits Convention Center. I left about one am. That area of town is pretty dead at night, and I was walking east on Thirty — fifth when I realized someone was behind me. I turned and he looked like some kind of bum, drunk or maybe high, dressed in rags, lurching along. He looked out of it, so I didn't pay much attention. Just before I reached the corner of Tenth Avenue, I heard this rush behind me; I spun around and was struck in the head with a knife. It was just a glancing blow, thank God. The man — or man — thing — tried to stab me again with the knife. But I keep myself in good shape and I was a boxer in college, so I parried the strike and hit him back. Hard. He made another swipe at me but by that time I was ready and knocked him down. He got up, grabbed the knife, and went lurching away into the night."

"Can you describe the assailant?" Pendergast asked.

"All too well. His face was all puffy and swollen. His clothes were ragged and covered with splotches, maybe blood. His hair was brown, all matted and sticking up from his head, and he made this sound, like…" Esteban paused, thinking. "Almost like water being sucked down a drain. Tall, angular, thin, gawky. Around thirty — five. His hands were spotted, streaked with what looked like old blood."

Colin Fearing, thought D'Agosta. Or Smithback.

"Can you give a precise time?"

"I checked my watch. It was one eleven A.M."

"Any witnesses?"

"No. Look, Lieutenant, I know who's behind this."

D'Agosta waited.

"The Ville has been out to get me ever since I raised the issue of animal sacrifice. I was interviewed by that reporter, Smithback — then he was murdered. By a zombii or someone dressed like one, according to the papers. Then I was interviewed by that other reporter, Caitlyn Kidd — and thenshe's killed by a so — called zombii. Now they're after me!"

"The zombiis are after you," D'Agosta repeated, in as neutral a tone as possible.

"Look, I don't know if they're real or fake. The point is— they're coming from the Ville.Something's got to be done — right away. Those people are way out of control, cutting the throats of i

Now Pendergast, who had been unusually quiet through this exchange, came forward. "I'm so sorry about your injury," he said as he bent solicitously, examining Esteban's bandage. "May I—" He began detaching the tape.

"I would rather you didn't."

But the bandage was off. Underneath was a two — inch cut with half a dozen stitches. Pendergast nodded. "Lucky for you it was a sharp knife and a clean cut. Rub it with a little Neosporin and it won't even leave a scar."

"Lucky? The thing nearly killed me!"

Pendergast reattached the bandage and stepped back behind the desk. "There's no mystery to why the attack came now, either," Esteban said. "It's well known I've been pla

"I'm aware of that," said D'Agosta.

"Obviously, they're trying to silence me."

D'Agosta leaned forward. "Do you have any specific information co

"Any idiot can see everything points to the Ville! First Smith — back, then Kidd, and now me."

"I'm afraid it's not obvious at all," said Pendergast.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm puzzled why they didn't come for you first."

Esteban gave him a hostile stare. "How so?"

"You've been the instigator from the begi

"Are you trying to be a wise guy?"

"By no means. Just pointing out the obvious."

"Then allow me to point out the obvious — that you've got a bunch of murderous squatters up there in Inwood, and that neither the city nor the cops are doing anything about it. Well, they're going to be sorry they came afterme. Come this afternoon, we're going to raise such a stink that you'll have no choice but to take action." He rose.

"You'll need to read and sign the statement," said D'Agosta.

With an irritated exhalation of breath, Esteban waited while the statement was being printed, read through it fast, scribbled a signature. He stepped to the door, then turned and pointed a finger at them. It was trembling with outrage and anger. "Today, everything changes. I'm sick and tired of this inaction, and so are a lot of other New Yorkers."

Pendergast smiled, touching a finger to his forehead. "Neosporin, once a day. Works wonders."

Chapter 45

D'Agosta and Pendergaststood on the corner of 214th Street and Seaman Avenue, watching the progress of the march. D'Agosta was surprised at the minuscule turnout — he estimated a hundred people, maybe less. Harry Chislett, the deputy chief for this district, had shown up and then, when he saw the size of the crowd, had left. It was proving an orderly affair, sedate, placid, almost somnolent. No angry shouting, no pressing against the police barricades, no rocks or bottles flying out of nowhere.

"Looks like an ad for the L.L. Bean catalog," said D'Agosta, squinting through the sunlight of the crisp fall day.