Dance Of Death

D'Agosta jerked back. "Waitress!"

The woman, half a dozen booths away already, turned and walked slowly back.

D'Agosta handed her the plate. "These eggs are ru

"All right, hon, hold your water." The woman took the plate and walked away.

"Ouch," Hayward said in a low voice. "Don't you think you were hard on the poor woman?"

"I hate ru

There was a brief silence. "What's wrong, Vi

"This Diogenes business."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but it's time you dropped this wild-goose chase and got back on the job. It's not going to bring Pendergast back. Singleton's not going to let this go on forever. On top of that, you're not acting like yourself. Nothing like getting back to work as a way of curing the blues."

You're right, he thought. He wasn't acting like himself because he wasn't feeling like himself. It felt bad enough, not telling Hayward the truth. But it went even beyond that: here he was, pumping her for information while withholding the fact Pendergast was still alive.

He arranged his lips into what he hoped was a sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry, Laura. You're right: it's time I got back on the job. And here I am, acting cranky, when you're the one who's had no sleep. What else about the case kept you up all night?"

She glanced at him searchingly for a moment. Then she took another bite of her omelet, pushed it away. "I've never seen such a careful murder. It's not just the fact there are so few clues, but the ones we have are so damn puzzling. The only evidence left behind by the perp, other than the ropes, was some clothing fibers."

"Well, that gives you three clues to work, at least."

"That's right. The fibers, the rope, and the structure of the knots. And so far, we've come up blank on all three. That's what kept me away all night: that, and the usual paperwork. The fibers are of some kind of exotic wool that forensics hasn't seen before. It's in none of the local or federal databases. We've got a textile expert working on it. Same with the ropes. The material is nothing manufactured in America, Europe, Australia, the Middle East."

"And the knots?"

"They're even more bizarre. The ligature specialist-who we dragged out of bed at three, by the way-was fascinated. At first glance, they look random, massive, like some bondage fetishist gone crazy. But they're not that at all. Turns out they're expertly fashioned. Very intricate. The specialist was staggered: he said he'd never seen the knot before, that it seemed to be of a new type entirely. He went into a whole riff on mathematics and knot theory that I couldn't even begin to follow."

"I'd like to see a photograph of the knots, if I could."

She flashed him another questioning gaze.

"Hey, I was in the Boy Scouts," he said with a levity he didn't feel.

She nodded slowly. "I had this instructor at the Academy, Rider-back. Remember him?"

"Nope."

"He was fascinated by knots. He used to say they were a three-dimensional manifestation of a fourth-dimensional problem. Whatever that means." She took another sip of coffee. "Sooner or later, those knots are going to help us crack this case."

The waitress came back, placing D'Agosta's eggs before him with a look of triumph. Now they were wizened-looking, almost desiccated, crisp around the edges.

Hayward glanced at the plate, a smile returning to her lips. "Enjoy," she said with a giggle.

Suddenly, his coat began to vibrate. For a moment, D'Agosta went rigid in surprise. Then, remembering the cell phone Pendergast had given him, he dug a hand into his pocket and pulled it out.

"New phone?" Hayward asked. "When'd you pick that up?"

D'Agosta hesitated. Then, rather abruptly, he decided that he just couldn't tell her one more lie.

"Sorry," he said, standing up. "Gotta go. I'll explain later."

Hayward half rose as well, a look of surprise on her face. "But, Vin-"

"Will you get breakfast?" he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her. "I'll get the next."

"But-"

"See you tonight, sweetheart. Good luck with the case." And- holding her questioning stare with his own for a brief moment-he gave her shoulders a parting squeeze, turned, and hurriedly left the restaurant.

He glanced once more at the message displayed on the tiny cell screen:

SW Corner 77 and York. NOW.

FIFTEEN

The big black limo, tearing southward on York Avenue, appeared seconds after D'Agosta reached the corner. It slewed to a stop; the door flew open. Even before D'Agosta shut the door, the limo was accelerating from the curb, driver leaning on the horn, cars behind them screeching to a halt to let the big car pass.

D'Agosta turned in astonishment. A stranger sat in the seat beside him: tall, slender, well ta

"Don't be alarmed, Vincent," said the familiar voice of Pendergast. "An emergency has forced me to change my spots again. Today I am an investment banker."

"Emergency?"

Pendergast handed D'Agosta a sheet of paper, carefully sealed within layers of glassine. It read:

Nine of Swords: Torrance Hamilton

Ten of Swords: Charles Duchamp

King of Swords, Reversed: Michael Decker

The Five of Swords-?

"Diogenes is telegraphing his move in advance. Baiting me." Disguise or no disguise, Pendergast's face was as grim as D'Agosta had ever seen it.

"What are those-tarot cards?"

"Diogenes always had an interest in tarot. As you may have guessed, those cards involve death and betrayal."

"Who's Michael Decker?"

"He was my mentor when I first moved to the FBI. Before, I'd been in more, ah, exotic forms of government service, and he helped me make a rather difficult transition. Mike's highly placed in Quantico these days, and he's been invaluable in clearing the way for my somewhat unorthodox methods. It was thanks to Mike that I was able to get the FBI involved so quickly on the Jeremy Grove murder last fall, and he helped smooth some ruffled feathers after a small case I handled in the Midwest prior to that."

"So Diogenes is threatening another one of your friends."

"Yes. I can't raise Mike on his cell or at home. His secretary tells me he's on elevated assignment, which means they won't release any details about it-even if I were to reveal myself as a colleague. I must warn him in person, if I can find him."

"As an FBI agent, though, he must be pretty hard to get the jump on."

"He's one of the best field agents in the Bureau. I fear that would deter Diogenes not at all."

D'Agosta glanced back at the letter. "Your brother wrote this?"

"Yes. Curious: it doesn't look like his handwriting-more like a crude attempt to disguise his handwriting, rather. Far too crude, in fact, for him. And yet there's something strangely familiar about it…" Pendergast's voice trailed off.

"How'd you get it?"

"It arrived at my Dakota apartment early this morning. I employ a doorman there, Martyn, to take care of special things for me. He got it to Proctor, and Proctor got it to me through a prior arrangement."