Cemetery Dance

Esteban looked around. Nobody else moved. He could read the disrespect, even scorn, in their eyes. He stood up and walked out.

Chapter 54

As the morning sun streamed in the windows, D'Agosta sat behind his desk, fingers on his computer keyboard, staring at the screen before him. He had been in this position, motionless, for perhaps ten minutes. There were a million things to be done and yet he felt something akin to paralysis. It was as if he were in the eye of a hurricane: all around was frantic activity, but here at the very epicenter of the howling storm there was nothing.

Suddenly the door to his office opened. He turned to see Laura Hayward step quickly in. He immediately rose to his feet.

"Laura," he said.

She closed the door behind her, stepped up to the desk. Seeing the icy look on her face, D'Agosta felt his stomach do an uncomfortable flip — flop.

"Vi

He swallowed. "What is it?"

"What is it? I've had my promotion snatched away from me at the last moment. And it's your fault."

For a moment he looked at her with incomprehension. Then he remembered the conversation he'd had in the corridor of Digital Veracity; the implied threat of the software developer. "Kline," he said, slumping against the desk.

"You're damn right, Kline."

D'Agosta looked at her for a moment. Then he lowered his eyes. "What did he do?"

"He donated five million to the Dyson Fund. On the condition that I be passed over for the task force."

"He can't do that. It's bribery. It's against the law."

"Oh, please. You know how this town works."

D'Agosta sighed. He knew what he should feel — righteous indignation, even rage — but all he felt, suddenly, was weary.

"Rocker's no fool," Hayward said bitterly. "He knows they'd crucify him if he turned down a donation like that — especially for a political hot potato like the Dyson Fund. And I'm the one who gets the shaft."

"Laura… I'm so sorry. You're the last person I wanted to see get victimized by this. But I was only doing my job. What was I supposed to do — give this joker Kline a pass? He's a person of interest. He threatened Smithback."

"What you were supposed to do was act professional. Ever since Smithback's murder, you've been out of control. I heard about that ham — fisted search warrant of yours, how you rubbed Kline's nose in it. You knew the man had a short fuse and you provoked him anyway. And to get revenge, he lashed out at me."

"It's true — I was trying to provoke him, trigger a false move. He's the kind of guy who can't stand to lose face. If I'd known he'd take it out on you I would never have done it." He hung his head, massaging his temples with his fingers. "What can I say?"

"That job meant more to me than anything."

Her words hung in the air. D'Agosta looked up slowly, met her glance. There was a low rap on his office window. D'Agosta looked over to see a desk sergeant standing in the doorway.

"Excuse me, sir," he said. "I think you should turn on cha

Wordlessly, D'Agosta strode to the television mounted high on one wall, pressed the power button. An amateurish video filled the screen, grainy, shaky — but he immediately recognized the woman in the camera frame as Nora Kelly. She was dressed in a flimsy hospital robe, her face ashen, her hair askew. She seemed to be in a dungeon: rough — hewn rock walls, a scattering of straw on a cement floor. He watched as she stepped uncertainly toward the lens.

"Help me," she said.

Abruptly the picture went black.

D'Agosta turned back to the desk sergeant. "What the hell?"

"It came into the network about fifteen minutes ago. They're messengering the original over right now."

"I want our best forensic people on it. Right away — got that? Where was it dropped off?"

"Came in by e — mail."

"Trace it."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant disappeared.

D'Agosta slumped back into his seat, rested his head in his hands, closed his eyes. A minute passed as he collected himself. Then he licked his lips, spoke quietly. "I'm going to find her, Laura — if it's my last act as a law enforcement officer. Whatever it takes—whatever—I'll make it my personal business to see that Nora Kelly doesn't die. And that the people responsible pay dearly for it."

"There you go again," Hayward said. "That's just what I'm talking about. If you want to save Nora Kelly, you're going to have to get your emotions under control. You're going to have to start acting like a professional cop again. Or next time it won't be just me who ends up getting hurt."

And without another word she turned and left the office, closing the door firmly behind her.

Chapter 55

As the morning sun gilded the cream — colored walls and soaring terra — cotta spandrels of the Dakota, a curious processional played itself out before the building's 72nd Street entrance. Two valets emerged from between the black wrought — iron gates, each holding three suitcases. They were followed by a woman in a white nurse's uniform, who stepped out from the gloom of the courtyard tu

The nurse wheeled the invalid up to the waiting Proctor. As she did so, Pendergast emerged from the entranceway and ambled over to the Rolls, hands in pockets.

"I can't persuade you to stay a little longer, maître?" he asked.

The person in the wheelchair sneezed explosively. "I wouldn't stay here a minute longer even if Saint Christopher himself asked me!" came the petulant response.

"Let me help you in, Mr. Bertin," said Proctor.

"One minute." A pale hand, holding a bottle of nasal spray, emerged from beneath the blanket. The bottle was applied to one quivering nostril, squeezed, then tucked away again beneath the blanket. The dark glasses were removed and slipped into the BOAC flight bag that never seemed to leave the little man's side. "You may proceed.Doucement, pour l'amour du ciel — doucement! "

With some effort Proctor and the nurse managed to shift Bertin from the wheelchair and — under a stream of imprecations — slide him into the rear of the vehicle. Pendergast came forward and leaned into the window.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

"No, and I won't until I have returned to the back bayou — if then." Bertin peered out from between his wraps, clutching his huge cudgel — cane, his black eyes glistening like beads. "And you need to have a care, Aloysius — the death conjuring of that hungan is strong: old and strong."

"Indeed."

"How do you feel?"

"Not bad."

"You see!" Bertin declared with something like triumph. The hand reappeared again, rummaged in the battered bag, produced a tiny sealed envelope. "Dissolve this in six ounces of sarsaparilla and add a little flaxseed oil. Twice a day."