Dance Of Death

Except that today it was occupied by Bryce Harriman.

Smithback froze in the doorway, hand still raised in midknock.

"Ah, Bill." Davies nodded. "Good timing. Please come in."

Smithback took a step forward, then another. He struggled to keep his eyes from meeting Harriman's.

"Pla

Smithback nodded. He felt dazed, as if somebody had just sucker-punched him in the gut. He hoped to hell it didn't show.

Davies ran his fingertips along the edge of his desk. "What's the angle going to be?"

Smithback was ready with his answer. This was Davies's favorite question, and it was a rhetorical one: his way of letting reporters know he didn't want any grass growing under their feet.

"I was pla

Davies nodded slowly, allowing a meditative hmmmm to escape his lips. As usual, the response communicated nothing about what he was really thinking.

Smithback, his nervousness heightened, elaborated. "You know the drill: u

Davies nodded again, picked up a pen, rolled it slowly between his palms.

"You know, something that could run on the first page of the Metro Section," Smithback said gamely, still pitching.

Davies put down the pen. "Bill, this is bigger than a Metro story, the biggest homicide in Manhattan since the Cutforth murder, which Bryce here covered when he was at the Post."

Bryce here. Smithback kept his face pleasant.

"It's a story with a lot of angles. Not only do we have the sensational ma

"I could make it two, even three. No problem."

"No doubt you could, but then the stretched-out time frame becomes problematic."

Smithback licked his lips. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was standing and Harriman was sitting.

Davies went on. "I personally had no idea that Duchamp was, in his own quiet way, a painter of some renown. He wasn't trendy or popular with the SoHo crowd. More of a Sutton Place style of artist, a Fairfield Porter. Bryce and I were just talking about it last night."

"Bryce," Smithback repeated. The name tasted like bile in his mouth. "Last night?"

Davies waved his hand with studied nonchalance. "Over drinks at the Metropolitan Club."

Smithback felt himself stiffen. So that was how the smarmy prick had managed it. He'd taken Davies for drinks at his father's fancy club. And Davies, it seemed, like any number of editors Smithback had known, was a sucker for that kind of thing. Editors were the worst social climbers, always hanging around the fringes of the rich and famous, hoping to catch a few scraps that dropped from the table. Smithback could just imagine Davies being ushered into the cloistered fastness of the Metropolitan Club; shown to a luxurious chair in some gilded salon; served drinks by deferential men in uniform; all the while exchanging hushed greetings with various Rockefellers, De Menils, Vanderbilts-that was just the thing to turn Davies's Maplewood, New Jersey, head all the way around.

Now, at last, he glanced again in Harriman's direction. The scumbag was sitting there, one leg tucked primly over the other, looking as nonchalant as if he did this every day. He didn't bother returning Smithback's look. He didn't need to.

"We haven't just lost a citizen here," Davies went on. "We've lost an artist. And New York is a poorer place for his loss. See, Bill, you just never know who lives in that apartment next door. It could be a hot dog vendor or a sanitation worker. Or it could be a fine artist whose paintings hang in half the apartments in River House."

Smithback nodded again, frozen smile on his lips.

Davies smoothed his tie. "It's a great angle. My friend Bryce here will handle it."

Oh, God. For a bleak and terrible moment, Smithback thought he was about to be reassigned to the Dangler.

"He'll cover the society aspect of the story. He knows several of Duchamp's important former clients, he's got the family co

His voice trailed off, but Smithback got the message: whereas they won't talk to you.

"In short, Bryce can give us the silk-stocking view that Times readers appreciate. I'm glad to see you have a handle on the cop and street angle. You keep that up."

The cop and street angle. Smithback felt his jaw muscles flex involuntarily.

"It goes without saying that you'll both share information and leads. I'd suggest regular meetings, keeping in touch. This story is certainly big enough for the both of you, and it doesn't look like it's going away any time soon."

Silence descended briefly over the office.

"Was there anything else, Bill?" Davies asked mildly.

"What? Oh, no. Nothing."

"Then don't let me keep you."

"No, of course not," Smithback said. He was practically stammering now with shock, mortification, and fury. "Thanks." And as he turned to leave the office, Harriman finally glanced in his direction. There was a smug half-smile on his shit-eating face. It was a smile that seemed to say: See you around, partner.

And watch your back.

NINETEEN

"SO how was your first day back?" Hayward asked, gamely sawing away at a chicken breast.

"Fine," D'Agosta replied.

"Singleton didn't give you a hard time?"

"Nope."

"Well, you were just out two days, which probably helped matters. He's intense-sometimes too intense-but he's a hell of a cop. So are you. That's why I know you two will get along."

D'Agosta nodded, pushed a piece of plum tomato around his plate, then lifted it to his mouth. Chicken cacciatore was the one recipe he could pull off without thinking-barely.

"This is pretty good, Vi

D'Agosta smiled back. He put down his fork for a moment and just watched her eat.

She'd made a special effort to get home on time. She praised his cooking even though he'd overcooked the chicken. She hadn't even asked about his hasty departure from breakfast that morning. She was clearly making a special effort to give him some space and let him work out whatever he was working out. He realized, with a sudden upwelling of affection, that he really loved this woman.

That made what he was about to do all the harder.

"Sorry I can't do your di

"New developments?"

"Not really. The ligature specialist wants to brief us on the knots. Probably just a way of covering his ass-he hasn't been much help."

"No?"

"He thinks the knots are Asiatic, maybe Chinese, but that isn't narrowing it down very much."