Dance Of Death

"What events?"

"The hanging of Charles Duchamp."

"That bizarre murder over by Lincoln Center?"

"Correct. That, and another murder in New Orleans three days ago. Torrance Hamilton, professor emeritus. Poisoned in front of a crowded lecture hall."

"What's the co

"Hamilton was one of my tutors in high school, the man who taught me French, Italian, and Mandarin. We were very close. Duchamp was my dearest-in fact, my only-childhood friend. He's the only person from my youth I've remained in touch with. Both murdered by Diogenes."

"It couldn't be a coincidence?"

"Impossible. Hamilton was poisoned by a rare nerve toxin, placed in his water glass. It's a synthetic toxin, very similar to that produced by a certain spider native to Goa. An ancestor of my father's died of a bite from that same spider when he was a minor functionary in India during the Raj." Pendergast took another sip. "Duchamp was hung from a noose, which then parted, plunging him twenty stories to his death. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same ma

D'Agosta stared at his friend in horror.

"These deaths, and the ma

"You can't mean that he's-"

"Precisely. I had always assumed his crime would be against humanity. But now I know I am his target. My brother's so-called perfect crime is to murder everyone close to me. That's the real reason he rescued me from Fosco's castle. He doesn't want me dead, he wants me alive-alive so he can destroy me in a far more exquisite way, leaving me filled with misery and self-reproach, torturing myself with the knowledge that I was unable to save those few people on earth…" Pendergast paused, took a steadying breath. "Those few people on earth I truly care about."

D'Agosta swallowed. "I can't believe this monster's related to you."

"Now that I know the true nature of his crime, I've been forced to abandon my initial plan and develop a new one. It's not an ideal plan, but it is the best possible under the circumstances."

"Tell me."

"We must prevent Diogenes from killing again. That means locating him. And here's where I'll need your help, Vincent. You must use your access as a law enforcement officer to glean as much as you can from the crime scene evidence."

He handed a cell phone to D'Agosta. "Here's a phone I'll use to keep in contact with you. Because time is of the essence, we'll need to start locally, with Charles Duchamp. Dig up whatever evidence you can find and bring it to me. No crumb is too small. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward-but for God's sake don't tell her what you're up to. Not even Diogenes can leave a totally clean crime scene."

"Good as done." D'Agosta paused. "So what's with the date on the letter? January 28?"

"I no longer have any doubt that is the day he plans to complete his crime. But it is vital you keep in mind that the crime has already begun. Today is the twenty-second. My brother has been pla

THIRTEEN

Smithback took his usual place in the darkest corner of the Bones, the dingy restaurant behind the museum favored as an after-hours hangout by museum employees who-it seemed-never tired of the sight of bones. The official name of the place was the Blarney Stone Tavern; it had acquired its nickname from the owner's penchant for hammering bones of all shapes, sizes, and sources onto the walls and ceiling.

Smithback looked at his watch. Miracle of miracles, he was ten minutes early. Maybe Nora would be early, too, and they could have a few extra minutes to talk. He felt like he hadn't seen his new wife in ages. She had promised to meet him here for a burger and beer before she returned to the museum to work late on the big upcoming show. And he himself had a story of sorts to write up and file before the 2 a.m. deadline.

He shook his head. What a life: two months married and he hadn't been laid in a week. But it wasn't so much making love he missed as Nora's companionship. Talk. Friendship. The truth was, Nora was Smithback's best friend, and right now he needed his best friend. The Duchamp murder story was going badly: he'd gotten nothing more than the same crap as the other papers. The cops were keeping a tight lid on information, and his usual sources could offer nothing. Here he was, Smithback of the Times, and his latest stories were nothing more than the reheated leftovers of a few briefings. Meanwhile, he could almost smell Bryce Harriman's ambition to muscle in on the story, take it away from him, leave him with the damn Dangler assignment he'd managed to slough off so adroitly when the Duchamp case first broke.

"Whence the dark look?"

Smithback looked up, and there was Nora. Nora, her bronze-colored hair spilling over her shoulders, her freckled nose wrinkled by a smile, her green eyes sparkling with life.

"This seat taken?" she asked.

"Are you kidding? Jesus, woman, you're a sight for sore eyes."

She slid her bag to the floor and sat down. The obligatory droopy-eared, hangdog-faced waiter appeared, like a pallbearer at a funeral, and stood silently awaiting their order.

"Bangers and mash, fries, glass of milk," said Nora.

"Nothing stronger?" Smithback asked.

"I'm going back to work."

"So am I, but that never stopped me. I'll take a shot of that fifty-year-old Glen Grant, backed up by a steak and kidney pie."

The waiter gave a mournful dip of his head and was gone.

Smithback took her hand. "Nora, I miss you."

"Likewise. What a crazy life we lead."

"What are we doing here in New York City? We should go back to Angkor Wat and live in some Buddhist temple in the jungle for the rest of our lives."

"And take a vow of celibacy?"

Smithback waved his hand. "Celibacy? We'll be like Tristan and Isolde in our own jeweled cave, making love all day long."

Nora blushed. "It was quite a shock, coming back to reality after that honeymoon."

"Yeah. Especially to find that circus ape Harriman, gri

"Bill, you're too obsessed with Harriman. The world's full of people like that. Ignore him and move on. You should see the people I have to work with at the museum. Some of them should be numbered and put in a glass case."

Their food arrived within minutes, along with Smithback's drink. He picked it up, clinked Nora's glass of milk. "Slainte."

"Chin-chin."

Smithback took a sip. Thirty-six dollars a shot and worth every pe