Dance Of Death

"Correct."

"Since all fibers were the same-length, composition, spi

Hayward nodded, forcing herself to pay attention. All day, as she'd gone about her work, she'd felt the strangest sensation: as if she were floating, detached, just outside her own body. She didn't know if it was due to weariness or to the shock of Vincent D'Agosta's abrupt, unexpected departure. She wished she could get mad about it, but somehow anger wouldn't come-just grief. She wondered where he was, what he was doing now. And, more urgently, she wondered how in his mind such a good thing could have suddenly gone so wrong.

"Captain?"

Hayward realized there was a question hanging in the air, unanswered. She looked up quickly. "Excuse me?"

"I said would you like to see a sample?"

Hayward rose. "Sure."

"It's an extremely fine animal fiber, one I've never seen before. We've identified it as an exceptionally rare kind of cashmere, blended with a small percentage of merino. Very, very expensive. As you'll notice, both fiber types were dyed black prior to being spun together. But take a look for yourself." Stepping back, Quince gestured toward the stereoscopic microscope that stood beside the lab table.

Hayward came forward and glanced through the oculars. Half a dozen slender black threads were displayed against a light background, sleek and glossy and very even.

Very, very expensive. Though she was still waiting for Psych to deliver the profile, a few things about the perp were already obvious. He-or perhaps she-was very sophisticated, highly intelligent, and had access to funds.

"The dye has also proven elusive to identification. It's made from a natural vegetative pigmentation, not synthetic chemicals, but we haven't yet been able to track down the coloring agent. It's not in any database we've checked. The closest we've come is a certain rare berry grown on the mountain slopes of Tibet, used by local tribesmen and Sherpas."

Hayward stepped back from the scope. As she listened, she felt afaint frisson of recognition. She had excellent instincts, and normally that little tingle meant two pieces of a puzzle coming together. But at the moment, she couldn't imagine what those pieces might be. She was probably even more tired than she thought. She would go home, have an early di

"Despite their fineness, the fibers are very tightly woven," Quince said. "Do you know what that means?"

"An extremely soft and comfy garment?"

"Yes. But that's not the point. Such a garment doesn't shed easily. It isn't usually a donor garment. Hence the small number of fibers."

"And, perhaps, evidence of a struggle."

"My thought as well." Quince frowned. "Normally, the fact that the fabric is uncommon is important to a fiber examiner. It's helpful in identifying the suspect. But here the fabric is so uncommon it's actually proving to be the opposite. There's nothing exactly like it in any of the textile fiber databases. Then there's another odd thing: the age of the fiber."

"Which is?"

"Our tests have indicated the fabric was spun at least twenty years ago. Yet there is no evidence the clothing itself is old. The fibers aren't worn. There isn't the kind of fading or damage you'd expect from years of usage and dry cleaning. It's as if the fabric came off the store rack yesterday."

At last, Quince shut up. He stretched out his arms, palms up, as if in supplication.

"And?" Hayward asked.

"That's it. As I said, all our searches have come up empty. We've checked with textile mills, clothing manufacturers, everything. Foreign and domestic. It's the same as with the rope. This fabric seems to have been made on the moon, for all we can learn."

For all we can learn? "I'm sorry, but that's just not good enough." Fatigue and impatience gave her tone a sudden edge. "We have only a handful of evidence in this case, Dr. Quince, and these fibers are some of the most important of that evidence. You said yourself the fabric is extremely rare. If you've already checked with the mills and the manufacturers, then you should be checking with individual tailors."

Quince shrank back at this scolding. His large, moist, houndlike eyes blinked back at her, full of hurt. "But, Captain Hayward, with all the tailors in the world, that would be like looking for a needle in-"

"If the fabric's as fine as you say it is, then you'd need to contact only the most exclusive and expensive tailors. And in only three cities: New York, London, and Hong Kong."

Hayward realized she was breathing heavily and that her voice had risen. Calm down, she told herself.

In the uncomfortable silence that settled over the lab, Hayward heard a throat being tactfully cleared. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Captain Singleton standing in the doorway.

"Glen," she said, wondering how long he'd been standing there.

"Laura." Singleton nodded. "Mind if we have a word?"

"Of course." Hayward turned back to Quince. "Give me a follow-up report tomorrow, please." Then she followed Singleton out into the corridor.

"What's up?" she asked as they paused in the bustling hallway. "It's almost time for Rocker's state-of-the-force meeting."

Singleton waited a moment before answering. He was dressed in a dapper chalk-stripe suit, and despite its being late afternoon, his white shirt was still as crisp as if he'd just put it on.

"I got a call from Special Agent in Charge Carlton of the New York field office," he said, motioning her to step to one side, out of the traffic. "He was following up on a request from Quantico."

"What request is that?"

"Have you heard the name Michael Decker?"

Hayward thought a moment, shook her head.

"He was a top FBI honcho, lived in a classy D.C. neighborhood. The man was murdered yesterday. Speared through the mouth with a bayonet. Nasty piece of business, and, as you can imagine, the FBI are on the case hammer and tongs. They're following up with Decker's colleagues, trying to find out if there might be any bad guys in the man's past who had a score to settle." Singleton shrugged. "It seems one of Decker's colleagues, and closest friends, was a man named Pendergast."

Hayward glanced at him abruptly. "Agent Pendergast?"

"That's right. You worked with him on the Cutforth murder, right?"

"He's been involved in a few priors of mine."

Singleton nodded. "Since Agent Pendergast is missing and presumed dead, Carlton asked me to check with any associates of his in the NYPD. See if he ever talked about Decker, maybe mentioned enemies the man might have had. I figured you might know something."

Hayward thought a moment. "No, Pendergast never spoke of Decker to me." She hesitated. "You might talk to Lieutenant D'Agosta, who worked with him on at least three cases going back seven years."

"That so?"

Hayward nodded, hoping that her expression remained professionally neutral.

Singleton shook his head. "The thing is, I can't find D'Agosta. He hasn't reported in since lunch, and nobody else working his case has seen him. And for some reason, we can't raise him on his radio. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?" As Singleton spoke, he kept his voice studiously neutral, his eyes fixed on the people walking past them.