Dance Of Death

He turned back again. "Unless it was voluntary. Assisted suicide. After all, there was no sign of struggle-was there?"

"None. But then, what are we to make of the perp picking the lock? Wearing gloves? Assaulting Duchamp before tying him up? The footprints on the desk show none of the false starts, the hesitation, you usually see in suicide attempts. Besides, we've done preliminary interviews of Duchamp's neighbors, some friends, a few clients. Everybody said he was the sweetest, gentlest man they'd ever met. Always a kind word for everyone, always smiling. His doctor backed that up as well. No psychological troubles. Unmarried, but no signs of any recent breakup. Financially stable. Made plenty of money from his paintings." Hayward shrugged. "No stressors of any kind that we know about."

"Any of the neighbors see anything?"

"Nobody. We've impounded the videotapes from building security. They're being gone over now."

Singleton pursed his lips, nodding. Then, putting his hands behind his back, he strolled slowly around the room, looking carefully at the traces of fingerprint powder, the labeled pins, and the evidence markers. At last, he stopped beside the locker. Hayward came over and together they stared at the heavy length of rope within the sealed bag. It was a very unusual material, glossy rather than rough, and the color was equally strange: dark purple verging on black, the color of eggplant. The hangman's noose was wrapped in the requisite thirteen loops, but they were the strangest loops Hayward had ever seen: thick and complex, like a mass of knotted intestine. In another, smaller bag lay the cord used to bind Duchamp's wrists. Hayward had instructed the workers to cut the cord, not the knot, which was almost as exotic and serpentine as the hangman's noose.

"Look at those," Singleton said, whistling. "Big, fat idiot knots."

"I'm not sure about that," Hayward replied. "I'll have the ligature specialist run them through the FBI's knot database." She hesitated. "Here's something unusual. The rope he was hung from was cut partway through with a sharp knife, maybe a razor, at the center of its length."

"You mean-" Singleton stopped.

"Right. The rope was supposed to break the way it did."

They stared a moment longer at the strange coils of rope, shimmering faintly in the incandescent light.

From behind, the evidence custodian cleared her throat. "Excuse me, Captain," she said. "Can I remove that now?"

"Sure." Hayward stepped back as the woman carefully placed the bags into the evidence locker, sealed it, then began wheeling the locker toward the front door.

Singleton watched her go. "Anything taken? Valuables, money, paintings?"

"Not a thing. Duchamp had close to three hundred dollars in his wallet and some really valuable old jewelry on his dresser. Not to mention a studio full of expensive paintings. Nothing was touched."

Singleton's eyes were on her. "And this feeling of uneasiness you spoke about?"

She turned to face him. "I can't really put a finger on it. On the one hand, the whole scene feels a little too clear and cold-almost like it's a setup. This was certainly a carefully, almost masterfully executed crime. And yet nothing makes any sense. Why knock the guy over the head, then doctor the wound? Why tie him up, put a noose around his neck, force him to jump out a window, but then deliberately weaken the rope so he falls to his death after a brief struggle? What could Duchamp possibly have been told that would make him leap to his own death like that? And above all: why go to all this trouble to kill a harmless watercolor artist who never hurt a fly? I get the sense that there's a deep and subtle motive for this crime, and so far we haven't even begun to guess at it. I've already got Psych working on a profile. I can only hope we'll learn what makes him tick. Because unless we find the motive, how the hell are we supposed to find the killer?"

TWELVE

FOR A moment, D'Agosta went rigid in shock and disbelief. The voice was familiar and yet strange. Instinctively, he tried to speak again, but the gloved hand clamped down still harder over his mouth.

"Shhhh."

The elevator doors rolled open with a faint chime. Still holding D'Agosta in a tight restraint, the man peered cautiously out into the dark basement corridor, looking carefully in both directions. Then he gave D'Agosta a gentle shove out into the dingy hall, steering him through a series of narrow, high-ceilinged passages of yellow cinder block. At last, he brought D'Agosta up short before a scuffed metal door, unlabeled and painted the same color as the walls. They were near the building's power plant: the low rumble of furnaces was clearly audible. The man glanced around once again, then stopped to examine a small cobweb that stretched across one edge of the door frame. Only then did he withdraw a key from his pocket, unlock the door, and usher D'Agosta quickly inside, closing the door and carefully locking it.

"Glad to see you looking so well, Vincent."

D'Agosta could not summon a word.

"My sincerest apologies for the brusque behavior," the man said, crossing the room with swift steps and checking the lone basement window. "We may speak freely here."

D'Agosta remained astounded by the disco

"Pendergast?" D'Agosta asked, finally finding his voice.

The man bowed. "The very same, Vincent."

"Pendergast!" And before he realized what he was doing, D'Agosta had crushed the FBI agent in a bear hug.

Pendergast went rigid for a few seconds. Then, gently but firmly, he disengaged himself from the embrace and took a step back. "Vincent, I can't tell you how delighted I am to see you again. I have missed you."

D'Agosta seized his hand and shook it, embarrassment mingling with the surprise, relief, and joy. "I thought you were dead. How-?"

"I must apologize for the deception. I'd intended to remain 'dead' even longer. But circumstances have forced my hand." He turned his back. "Now, if you don't mind…" He slipped out of the doorman's coat, which D'Agosta could now see was cleverly padded around the shoulders and midriff, and hung it on the back of the door.

"What happened to you?" D'Agosta asked. "How did you escape? I turned Fosco's castle upside down looking for you. Where the hell have you been?" As the initial shock began to recede, he felt himself filling with a thousand questions.

Pendergast smiled faintly under this barrage. "You shall know all, I promise. But first, make yourself comfortable-I'll only be a moment." And with that, he turned and vanished into a back room.

For the first time, D'Agosta examined his surroundings. He was in the living room of a small, dingy apartment. A threadbare sofa was shoved against one wall, flanked by two wing chairs, their arms spotted with stains. A cheap coffee table held a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. A battered rolltop desk sat against one wall, its writing surface bare save for a sleek Apple PowerBook: the only thing out of place in the monochromatic room. Some faded Hummel pictures of big-eyed children hung on the nondescript walls. A bookshelf was stuffed with paperbacks, mostly popular novels and cheesy best sellers. D'Agosta was amused to find a personal favorite, Ice Limit III: Return to Cape Horn, among the well-thumbed reads. Beyond the living room, an open door led to a kitchen, small but tidy. The place was about as far removed from Pendergast's digs at the Dakota or his Riverside Drive mansion as you could get.