Dance Of Death

Menzies steered Margo to an armchair, then took his own seat behind the desk. He clasped his hands together and leaned forward. "Thank you for coming at such short notice, Margo."

"No problem."

"Working late, I see?"

"I've got to put Museology to bed this evening."

"Of course." He unclasped his hands and leaned back into the sun, his unruly white hair suddenly haloed in gold. "As you may have guessed, I asked you here because I received an answer from the board of trustees in relation to the Tano masks."

Margo adjusted herself in the armchair, tried to look confident and assertive.

He issued a long sigh. "I won't beat around the bush. We lost. The board voted to keep the masks."

Margo felt herself go rigid. "I can't tell you how sorry I am to hear that."

"I'm sorry, too. Lord knows I gave it my best shot. Collopy was not unsympathetic, but the issue hit a wall with the trustees. Most of them are lawyers and bankers who have as much knowledge of anthropology as I have of writs or currency futures. Unfortunately, the world is such that they can presume to tell us what to do, and not vice versa. Frankly, I don't find the outcome surprising in the least."

Margo could see that the usually even-tempered curator was nettled. She had been hoping that the trustees, despite all indications to the contrary, would do the right thing. It seemed so obvious to her. But then again, it wasn't even obvious to other members of her department, so how could she expect a bunch of Wall Street lawyers to understand?

Menzies leaned on the table, looking at her intently. "This puts you rather more in the hot seat than before."

"I realize that."

"There's going to be a lot of pressure on you not to publish this editorial. They'll say the decision's been made, it's done-why stir up trouble?"

"I'm publishing, anyway."

"That's what I thought you'd say. Margo, I want you to know that I'm behind you one hundred percent. But you must be realistic and expect some fallout."

"I'm ready. Museology's been an independent voice in museum affairs for more than a century, and I'm not about to knuckle under- not with my first issue."

Menzies smiled. "I admire your spirit. But there's another complication I must share with you."

"And what's that?"

"The Tanos are pla

Margo frowned. "The press is going to eat it up."

"Indeed."

"The administration's going to be embarrassed."

"Undoubtably."

"The opening's going to be total chaos."

"Without question."

"God, what a mess."

"My sentiments exactly."

There was a long pause. Finally, Menzies spoke. "You do what you have to do. Academic freedom is a critical issue in these parlous times. May I venture a piece of advice?"

"Please."

"Don't speak to the press-at all. When they come calling, politely refer them to the editorial you wrote and tell them that's all you have to say on the matter. The museum can't fire you over the editorial, but you can bet they'll be looking for another reason. Lie low, keep your mouth shut, and don't give it to them."

Margo rose. "Dr. Menzies, I thank you more than I can say."

The man smoothed down his unruly mane and rose as well, taking Margo's hand. "You're a brave woman," he said with a smile of admiration.

TWENTY-SEVEN

A light rap sounded on the glass of the office door. Laura Hayward, who'd been peering intently at her computer screen, sat up in surprise. For a ridiculous moment, she thought it might be D'Agosta, suitcase in hand, offering to take her home. But it was just the Guatemalan cleaning lady, armed with mop and pail, smiling and nodding her head.

"Is okay I clean?" she asked.

"Sure." Hayward wheeled away from her desk to allow the woman access to her wastebasket. She glanced up at the clock: almost 2:30 in the morning. So much for getting to bed early. But all of a sudden, she found she had a lot to do-anything to avoid going back to her empty apartment.

She waited until the woman had gone, then wheeled back to the terminal, scrolling through the federal database once again. But it was really just a perfunctory check: she had what she needed, for now.

After a few more moments, she turned to her desk. Messy on the best of days, it was now awash in computer printouts, manila folders, SOC photographs, CD-ROMs, faxes, and index cards-the results of her search of recent unsolved homicides meeting certain criteria. The papers formed a vague sort of pile. On a far corner of the desk, neater and very much smaller, sat another pile containing only three folders. Each had been labeled with a name: Duchamp. Decker. Hamilton. All acquaintances of Pendergast. And now all dead.

Duchamp and Decker: one a friend of Pendergast, the other a colleague. Was it really a coincidence they were murdered within days of each other?

Pendergast had disappeared in Italy-under strange and almost unbelievable circumstances, as related by D'Agosta. There were no witnesses to his death, no body, no proof. Seven weeks later, three acquaintances of his were brutally murdered, one after the other. She glanced at the pile. For all she knew, there might be other victims whose co

What the hell was going on here?

She sat for a moment, tapping the small pile of folders restlessly. Then she pulled out the one marked Hamilton, opened it, reached for her phone, and dialed a long-distance number.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. At last, someone picked up. There was a silence so long Hayward thought she'd been disco

"Somebody'd better be dying."

"Lieutenant Casson? I'm Captain Hayward of the NYPD."

"I don't care if you're Captain Kangaroo. You know what time it is in New Orleans?"

"It's an hour later in New York, sir. I apologize for the late call, but it's important. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your cases."

"Damn it all, can't it wait until morning?"

"It's the Hamilton murder. Torrance Hamilton, the professor."

There was a long, exasperated sigh. "What about it?"

"Do you have any suspects?"

"No."

"Any leads?"

"No."

"Evidence?"

"Precious little."

"What, exactly?"

"We have the poison that killed him."

Hayward sat up. "Tell me about it."

"It's as nasty as they come-a neurotoxin similar to what you find in certain spiders. Only this stuff was synthetic and highly concentrated. A designer poison. It gave our chemists quite a thrill."

Hayward tucked the phone under her chin and began to type. "And the effects?"

"Leads to brain hemorrhaging, encephalitic shock, sudden dementia, psychosis, grand mal seizures, and death. I've had a medical education from this case you wouldn't believe. Happened right in front of his class at Louisiana State University."