Dance Of Death

"Must've been quite a scene."

"You're not kidding."

"How'd you isolate the poison?"

"We didn't need to. The killer thoughtfully left us a sample. On Hamilton's desk."

Hayward stopped typing. "What?"

"Seems he walked, bold as brass, into Hamilton's temporary office and left it on the desk. Right while the old guy was delivering the last lecture of his life. He'd spiked Hamilton's coffee with it half an hour earlier, which means he'd been on the premises for a while. The perp left it there in plain sight, like he was sending some kind of message. Or maybe it was just a taunt to the police."

"Any suspects?"

"None. Nobody noticed anybody going in or out of Hamilton's office that morning."

"Is this information public? About the poison, I mean."

"That it was poison, yes. As to what kind, no."

"Any other evidence? Latents, footprints, anything?"

"You know how it is, the SOC team picks up a shitload of crap that has to be analyzed, hardly any of it relevant. With one possible exception: a recently shed human hair with root, enough to get a DNA reading. Doesn't match Hamilton's DNA, or his secretary's, or anyone else's who frequented the office. Kind of an unusual color-secretary said she couldn't recall any recent visitors with that hair color."

"Which was?"

"Light blond. Ultra-light blond."

Hayward felt her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"I'm here," said Hayward. "Can you fax me the evidence list and the DNA data?"

"Sure can."

"I'll call your office first thing, leave my fax number."

"No problem."

"One other thing. I assume you're investigating Hamilton's past, his acquaintances, that sort of business."

"Naturally."

"Run across the name Pendergast?"

"Can't say I have. Is this a lead?"

"Take it for what you will."

"All right, then. But do me a favor-next time, call me during the day. I'm a lot more charming awake."

"You were charming enough, Lieutenant."

"I'm from the South-I suppose it's genetic."

Hayward replaced the phone in its cradle. For a long time, perhaps ten minutes, she remained motionless, staring at it. Then, slowly and deliberately, she replaced the file marked Hamilton, picked up the one marked Decker, lifted the phone again, and began to dial.

TWENTY-EIGHT

a nurse-tall, slender, wizened, dressed in black with white shoes and stockings, a real Addams Family creation-stuck her head out from behind a mahogany door. "The director will see you now, Mr. Jones."

Smithback, who'd been cooling his heels in a long hallway on the second floor of River Oaks, jumped so fast he sent the antimacassar flying. "Thanks," he said hastily as he patted it back on the chair.

"This way." And ushering Smithback through the doorway, she began leading him down another one of the mansion's dim, ornate, and seemingly endless corridors.

It had been surprisingly difficult to secure an audience with the director. It seemed "guests" often demanded to see Dr. Tisander, usually to a

Smithback had worked it all out. He'd get a hotel room in Jersey City, take the PATH train to work, stay well away from Nora until all this blew over. He could take care of himself. He'd explain it all to the director. They couldn't very well keep him here against his will.

He followed the tiny figure of the nurse down the endless corridor, passing rows of closed doors bearing gold-leaf numbers. At some point, two burly orderlies had slipped into step behind him. At last, the corridor ended in a particularly grand door bearing the single word Director. The nurse knocked on it, then stepped aside, gesturing for Smithback to enter.

Smithback thanked her and stepped through. Beyond lay an elegant suite of rooms dressed in dark wood, illuminated by sconces. A fire flickered in an ornate marble fireplace. Sporting prints decorated the walls. The rear wall of the main room was dominated by a bow window, which afforded a view of the wintry landscape beyond. There were no bookshelves or anything else to suggest this was the office of a hospital director, although through one of the two side doors of the suite, Smithback made out what looked like a medical library.

In the center of the room was a huge desk, surfaced in glass, with heavy, eagle-claw feet. Behind the desk sat Dr. Tisander, writing busily with a fountain pen. He looked up briefly, gave Smithback a warm smile.

"How nice to see you, Edward. Have a seat."

Smithback seated himself. For a minute or so, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire, the scratch of the pen. Then Tisander placed the pen back into its desk set, blotted the paper, and set it aside. He leaned back in his heavy leather chair and smiled confidentially, giving Smithback his utmost attention.

"There, that's finished. Tell me what's on your mind, Edward. How's the adjustment to life at River Oaks?" His voice was low and mellifluous, and the kindly lines of his face were smoothed by age. He had a domed forehead, from which white hair arose in a gravity-defying leonine shock not unlike Einstein's.

Smithback noticed that the two orderlies were standing against the wall behind him.

"Can I offer you any refreshment? Seltzer? Diet soda?"

"Nothing, thanks." Smithback gestured at the orderlies. "Do they have to be here?"

Tisander gave a sympathetic smile. "One of the house rules, alas. Just because I'm the director of River Oaks doesn't mean I'm above its rules."

"Well, if you're sure they can be trusted to keep quiet."

"I have absolute confidence in them." Tisander nodded encouragingly, gestured for Smithback to proceed.

Smithback leaned forward. "You know all about me, why I'm here, I assume."

"Naturally." A warm, concerned smile lit up the director's wise features.

"I agreed to come here for protection, for my own safety. But I have to tell you, Dr. Tisander, that I've changed my mind. I don't know how much you know about this killer who's supposedly after me, but bottom line, I can take care of myself. I don't need to be here any longer."

"I see."

"I've got to get back to my job in New York at the Times."

"And why is that?"

Smithback was encouraged by Dr. Tisander's receptiveness. "I was working on a very important story, and if I don't get back there, I'll lose it to another reporter. I can't afford that. This is my career. A lot's at stake here."

"Tell me about this story you're working on."

"It's about the Duchamp murder-you know it?"

"Tell me about it."