Cemetery Dance

Roybal took another hit, passed it back, then exhaled noisily. He waited while Martinelli took a hit, the joint crackling and popping, the tip brightening momentarily, Martinelli's long, dopey face illuminated a dull orange. Roybal took back the joint, carefully tipped off the ash and reshaped the end. He was about to light it again when he saw, through the gathering dusk, a squad car oozing into the far parking lot like a cruising shark.

"Five — O. Heads up." He dropped down behind the bleachers, Martinelli following. They peered out through the metal and wooden supports. The cop car stopped and a headlamp swiveled around, playing across the diamonds. "What's he doing?"

"Who the fuck knows?"

They waited, crouching, while the light slowly slid over the bleachers. It seemed to hesitate as it passed by them.

"Don't move," came Roybal's low voice.

"I'm not moving."

The light continued on, then came slowly back. It was blinding, shining through the bleachers. Could the cops see them crouching here in the back? Roybal doubted it, but they seemed uncommonly interested in the bleachers.

He heard a grunt and there was fucking Martinelli ru

"Shit!" Roybal took off after Martinelli. Now the light fixed on him. It felt as if he were ru

They ran and ran until they could run no more. At last Martinelli began to flag, then dropped, flopping heavily onto a log, his sides heaving. Roybal fell down beside him, gulping for air.

"They coming?" Martinelli finally gasped.

"You didn't need to flake out on me, man," Roybal replied. "That cop wouldn't have seen us if you hadn't jumped up."

"He'd already seen us."

Roybal stared into the wall of trees but could see nothing. Martinelli had run a long way. He felt in his shirt pocket. It was empty.

"You made me drop the blunt."

"I'm telling you, we were made, man."

Roybal spat. It wasn't worth arguing about. He fished out the Zig — Zag papers from his pocket, along with the rest of the lid. He stuck two papers together, sealed them, and poured a little pot into the groove. "I can't see a freaking thing."

Nevertheless, there was enough faint moonlight filtering through the trees to allow him to tease out a couple of seeds, roll up the blunt, light it, and take a toke. He bogarted it for a moment, exhaled, took another hit, held the smoke in hard, exhaled again, then passed it along. He began to laugh, wheezing. "Man, you took off like a rabbit chased by a hound dog."

"Dude, the fuzz saw us." Martinelli took the joint and looked around. "You know what? That weird — ass place, the Ville, is around here somewhere."

"It's way over by the mudflats."

"Naw, man. It's straight down by the river."

"So? You go

"Shut the fuck up."

They passed the joint back and forth in silence, until at last Roybal carefully trimmed the roach and put it in a tin lozenge box. Suddenly the muffled sounds of "Smack My Bitch Up" floated into the darkness.

"I bet it's your mom," said Roybal.

Martinelli fished the ringing cell phone out of his pocket.

"Don't answer."

"She gets mad if I don't answer."

"That blows."

"Hello? Yeah. Hey."

Roybal listened sourly to the conversation. He had already left home, had his own crib. Martinelli still lived with his mother.

"No, I'm at the library a

He snapped the phone shut. "Gotta go home."

"It's, like, not even midnight. Uncool, man."

Martinelli rose and Roybal followed. His legs were already getting stiff from their stupid run. Martinelli started back through the trees, walking fast, his gangly legs barely visible in the dark. He soon stopped.

"I don't remember this fallen tree," he said.

"How could you remember anything? You were shagging ass." Roybal wheezed again.

"I'd have remembered jumping it or something."

"Keep going." Roybal prodded him in the back.

They came to another fallen tree. Martinelli stopped again. "Now I know we didn't come this way."

"Just keep going." But Martinelli didn't move. "What's that smell? Dude, did you just blast the butt trumpet?"

Roybal sniffed loudly. He looked around, but it was too dark to see the ground well.

"I'll lead." He stepped over the log and his foot sank into something firm yet yielding. "What the hell?" He withdrew his foot and bent down to look.

"Fuck!" he screamed, stumbling backward. "A body! Holy shit! I just stepped on a body!"

Now they both looked down. A bar of moonlight illuminated a face — pale, ruined, bloody, sightless eyes staring glassily.

Martinelli coughed. "Oh, my God!"

"Call nine — one — one!"

Martinelli, staggering back, fumbled his cell phone out, stabbed at it maniacally.

"I can't believe it, it's a body!"

"Hello? Hell—" Martinelli suddenly bent double and vomited all over the phone.

"Oh fuck, man—"

Martinelli continued puking, the cell phone dropping to the ground now, slick with vomit.

"Get back on the phone!"

More puking.

Roybal took another step back. Incredibly, he could hear a voice coming from the cell phone. "Who is this?" the tiny voice demanded. "Is that you, Rocky? Rocky! Are you all right?"

Still more puking. Roybal's eyes turned once more to the body, lying on its side, twisted, one arm thrown up, pale and ragged in the moonlight. This was messed up. Then he turned and ran through the trees: away, away, away, away…

Chapter 52

It was four o'clock in the morning when D'Agosta and Pendergast arrived at the waiting room of the morgue a

And yet that was the very last thing he could do. Things were happening almost faster than he could process them. Of all the recent events, by far the worst — to him, anyway — was the kidnapping of Nora Kelly, not a clue to her whereabouts, the officer assigned to protect her drugged with spiked coffee and his body locked in Nora's bathroom. Once again, he'd failed her.

And now, this.

"Well, well, gentlemen," Beckstein said, snapping on a pair of gloves. "The mystery deepens. Please, help yourselves." And he nodded toward a nearby bin.

D'Agosta tied on scrubs, do