Reliquary

= 19 =

MARGO PUSHED through the revolving door of the 27th Precinct House, made a sharp left, and trotted down the long, steep staircase to the basement. The banister had been removed from the ancient yellow wall decades before, and she had to take care not to slip on the concrete steps. Despite the thickness of the stone foundations around her, she could hear muffled popping sounds below long before she reached the bottom of the staircase.

As she yanked open the heavily soundproofed door on the landing, the muffled pops turned suddenly to roars. Wincing against the noise, she stepped forward to the duty desk. The officer recognized her and waved dismissively as she began to pull the letter of privilege and special permit from her carryall. “Take number seventeen,” he said over the blasts, passing over a dozen target sheets and a set of battered ear cups.

Margo scribbled her name and entry time in the book, then turned and walked down the gallery, putting on the ear cups as she did so. Immediately, the roaring became bearable once more. To her left, the line of police officers in their open-topped booths ran almost unbroken to the far wall of the range: reloading, clipping targets, assessing results. Early evening was a popular time. And of the dozen twenty-five-yard indoor ranges scattered across the NYPD station houses, the 27th Precinct boasted the largest and best-equipped.

Reaching booth seventeen, she removed her weapon, a box of 120-grain FMJ ammunition, and some spare clips from the carryall. Placing the ammunition on a ledge at her side, she inspected the small autoloader. The movements were as habitual now as they had been foreign a year before, when she’d first purchased the gun. Satisfied, she slapped a full clip home, pi

She went through several more clips almost mechanically, settling into the standard firing range routine: reload, reset target, fire. When the ammunition box was half empty, she switched to silhouette targets at twenty-five yards. Emptying the final clip at last, she turned away to clean her weapon and was surprised to see Lieutenant D’Agosta behind her, arms folded, watching.

“Hi,” she said, removing her ear cups and shouting over the din.

D’Agosta nodded toward her target. “Let’s see how you did,” he mouthed, and waited for her to pull the silhouette in. “Nice rosette,” he said approvingly.

Margo laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “I have you to thank for that. Just like I have you to thank for the permit.” She dumped the empty clips into her carryall, thinking about how strange it must have seemed to D’Agosta at the time: her bursting into his office three months after the conclusion of the Museum murders, asking him to arrange for a handgun permit. For protection, she’d told him. How could she have brought herself to explain the lingering fear, the sweat-drenched nightmares, the feeling of vulnerability that plagued her?

“Brad told me you were a good student,” D’Agosta said. “I figured you’d get on well, that’s why I recommended him. But as for the permit, you don’t have me to thank. Pendergast took care of it personally. Now, let’s see what kind of gun Brad set you up with.”

Margo handed it over. “It’s a baby Glock. Model 26, with a factory-modified ‘New York trigger.’ ”

D’Agosta hefted it. “Nice and light. Short sight radius, though.”

“Your friend Brad was very helpful with that. Taught me Kentucky windage, helped me set up the adjustable sight. I’ve done all my training with it. I’d probably be useless with anything else.”

“I doubt it.” D’Agosta handed the subcompact back. “With scores like those, you could probably handle just about anything.” He nodded toward the exit. “Come on, let’s get away from this noise. I’ll walk you out.”

Margo stopped at the desk to sign out and return the ear cups, and was surprised when D’Agosta signed the log as well. “You were shooting?” she asked.

“Why not?” D’Agosta turned to her. “Even old farts like me get rusty.” They stepped out of the range and began climbing the long, steep staircase. “Actually, cases like this get everybody on edge,” he said. “A little practice seemed like a good idea. Especially after that briefing.”

Margo didn’t bother to reply. At the top of the steps, she stopped and waited for the Lieutenant to catch up. He emerged, puffing slightly, and they passed through the revolving door onto 31st Street. It was a cool evening, and traffic was light. Margo looked at her watch: almost eight. She could jog home, fix herself a light di

“I’ll bet those damn stairs have caused more coronaries than all the pastry in New York,” D’Agosta said. “Doesn’t seem to have bothered you any, though.”

Margo shrugged. “I’ve been working out.”

“So I noticed. You’re not the same person I met eighteen months ago. Not on the outside, anyway. What’s your routine?”

“Strength workout, mostly. You know, high weight, low reps.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Couple times a week?”

“I work the upper and lower muscle groups on alternating days. I try to work in some interval training, as well.”

“What are you currently benching? One twenty?”

Margo shook her head. “One thirty-five, actually. It’s nice, because for the first time I don’t have to change all those little weights on the bar. I can just use the forty-fives.”

D’Agosta nodded again. “Not bad.” They started toward Sixth Avenue. “And has it worked?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, has it worked?”

Margo frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, but even as she said the words, she understood.

“No,” she said a moment later, in a lower voice. “Not completely, anyway.”

“Don’t mean to be nosy,” D’Agosta replied, patting his pockets, absently searching for a cigar. “I’m a blunt kind of guy, just in case you didn’t know.” Finding one, he picked off the label with his fingernail and inspected the wrapper. “That shit at the Museum affected all of us, I suppose.”

They reached the avenue, and Margo hesitated a moment, looking northward. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s just hard for me to talk about.”

“I know,” D’Agosta said. “Especially now.” There was a brief silence as he lit up. “Take good care of yourself, Dr. Green.”

Margo smiled slightly. “You too. And thanks again for this.” She patted her carryall, then eased into a jog, moving northward through the traffic, aiming for the West Side and home.

= 20 =

D’AGOSTA LOOKED AT his watch: 10:00 P.M., and they still had jack shit to show for all their work. Details of beat cops had checked the shelters, redemption centers, and soup kitchens, searching fruitlessly for word of anyone who might have an excessive interest in Mbwun. Hayward, whose knowledge of the underground homeless was becoming an ever more valuable resource, had led a number of special rousting details. Unfortunately, the results had also been disappointing: the moles had melted before their sweeps, disappearing into ever darker and more obscure recesses. Besides, as Hayward explained, the sweeps could only scratch the surface of the vast tu

He looked down at his desk, still buried under the half-coordinated results of the sweeps. Then he glanced up at the precinct board for the hundredth time that evening, staring fixedly at the map as if the fierceness of his glare would force it to yield up an answer. What was the pattern? There had to be one; it was the first rule of detective work.