Страница 21 из 103
"But the issue of editorial freedom…"
"I'm with you one hundred percent on that one. Publish your editorial. But don't ask me to back your arguments. And don't ask the department to endorse your private opinions."
With that, Margo stared first at Nora, then at Smithback.
Smithback gri
Margo rose. "Thank you for your directness."
"You're welcome."
She turned to Smithback. "It's great to see you again, Bill."
"Sure thing," he mumbled.
He watched Margo walk away. Then he realized Nora's gaze was on him.
" 'Lotus Blossom'?" she said tartly.
"It was just a joke."
"Former girlfriend of yours?"
"No, never," he replied hastily.
"You're sure about that?"
"Not even a kiss."
"I'm glad to hear it. I can't stand that woman." She turned to stare at Margo's departing figure. Then she looked back. "And to think she hasn't read Thunderhead. I mean, that's much better than some of the earlier stuff you wrote. I'm sorry, Bill, but that book Relic-well, let's just say you've matured a lot as a writer."
"Hey, what was wrong with Relic?"
She picked up her fork and finished her meal in silence.
FOURTEEN
When D'Agosta arrived at the Omeleteria, Hayward had already taken their usual booth by the window. He hadn't seen her for twenty-four hours-she'd pulled an all-nighter at the office. He paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking at her. The morning sunlight had turned her glossy black hair almost blue, given her pale skin the sheen of fine marble. She was industriously making notes on a Pocket PC, chewing her lower lip, brow knitted in concentration. Just seeing her sent a throb of affection through him so sharp it was almost painful.
He didn't know if he was going to be able to do this.
She looked up suddenly, as if aware of his gaze. The look of concentration vanished and a smile broke over her beautiful features.
"Vi
He kissed her, then took a seat opposite. "It's okay. Lasagna's lasagna. I'm worried you're working too hard."
"Nature of the business."
Just then a ski
"Just leave the pot, please," Hayward said.
The waitress nodded, turned to D'Agosta. "Need a menu, hon?"
"No. Give me two fried eggs, over well, with rye toast."
"I went ahead and ordered," Hayward said, taking a gulp of her coffee. "Hope you don't mind. I've got to get back to the office and-"
"You're going back?"
Hayward frowned, gave her head a single vigorous shake. "I'll rest tonight."
"Pressure from on high?"
"There's always pressure from on high. No, it's the case itself. I just can't get a handle on it."
D'Agosta watched as she tucked into her omelet, feeling the dismay grow inside him. Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me may die, Pendergast had told him the night before. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward. He glanced around the coffee shop, looking at the faces, looking for one bluish-white, one hazel eye. But, of course, Diogenes would be wearing contacts, disguising his most striking characteristic.
"Why don't you tell me about the case?" he asked as easily as he could.
She took another bite, dabbed at her mouth. "The autopsy results came back. No surprise there. Duchamp died of massive internal injuries resulting from his fall. Several pharyngeal bones were fractured, but the hanging itself didn't cause death: the spinal cord had not been severed and asphyxiation hadn't yet occurred. And here's the first of many weird things. The rope had been cut almost through beforehand with a very sharp blade. The killer wanted it to part during the hanging."
D'Agosta felt himself go cold. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same ma
"Duchamp was initially subdued in his apartment, then tied up. There was a contusion on the left temple, but the head itself was so badly crushed in the fall we can't be certain that's what caused all the blood in the apartment. But get this: the contusion had been doctored and bandaged, apparently by the killer."
"I see." The case made sense to D'Agosta… too much sense. And he could say nothing to Hayward.
"Then the perp pushed a long desk up against the window, convinced Duchamp to climb on it, and take a ru
"Unassisted?"
Hayward nodded. "With his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck."
"Anyone see the perp?" D'Agosta felt a constriction in his chest; he knew who the perp was, yet he couldn't tell her directly. It was an unexpectedly difficult feeling.
"Nobody in the apartment building remembers seeing anybody unusual. There's only one possible sighting, by a basement security camera. Just a rear view of a man in a trench coat. Tall, thin. Light hair. We're having the image digitally enhanced, but the techs aren't hopeful we'll get enough to be useful. He knew the camera was there and took care passing through its field of view." She finished her coffee and poured herself another.
"We went through the victim's papers, his studio, looking for any motive," she went on. "None. Then we used his Rolodex to call up friends and acquaintances. Nobody we spoke with could believe it. A real Mister Rogers, this guy Duchamp. Oh, and here's a bizarre coincidence. Duchamp knew Agent Pendergast."
D'Agosta froze. He didn't know what to say, how to act. Somehow, he just couldn't be phony with Laura Hayward. He felt a flush spread across his face.
"Seems they were friends. Pendergast's Dakota address was on the Rolodex. According to Duchamp's appointment book, the two had lunch three times last year, always at '21.' Too bad we can't get Pendergast's take on this from beyond the grave. Right about now I think I'd welcome even his help."
Suddenly, she stopped, catching sight of D'Agosta's expression. "Oh, Vi
This made D'Agosta feel ten times worse. "Maybe this is the crime Pendergast warned me about in his note."
Slowly, Hayward withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry?"
"Well…" D'Agosta stammered. "Diogenes hated his brother.
Maybe he plans to revenge himself on Pendergast by killing off Pendergast's friends."
Hayward looked at him, her eyes narrowing.
"I heard there was another friend of Pendergast's killed recently. A professor in New Orleans."
"But, Vi
"Who knows how crazy people think? All I'm saying is that, if it were my case, I'd consider it a suspicious coincidence."
"How'd you hear about this New Orleans murder?"
D'Agosta looked down, arranged his napkin on his lap. "I can't recall. I think maybe his-his secretary, Constance, mentioned it to me."
"Well, there are lots of strange aspects to the case, I'll give you that." Hayward sighed. "It's far-fetched, but I'll look into it."
The waitress reappeared with his breakfast order.
D'Agosta hardly dared meet Laura's eyes. Instead, he lifted his fork and knife and sliced into the glistening egg. A jet of yellow spurted across the plate.