Dance Of Death

She began circling the voice again, intending to strike a second time. She had him on the defensive now. If she could wound him, preoccupy him, she'd buy herself enough time to run back into the exhibition. If she could do that, put half a dozen rooms between herself and this evil, disembodied voice, he'd never find her in the blackness. She could wait for the guards to make their next set of rounds.

There was a low, breathy chuckle. The person seemed to be circling her at the same time. "Margo, Margo, Margo. You didn't really think you'd cut me?"

She lunged again, her arm sweeping only air.

"Good, good," came the voice with another dry chuckle. The chuckle went on and on, hanging in the blackness, circling slowly.

"Leave me alone or I'll kill you," said Margo, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

"What spunk!"

Instantly, Margo tossed her purse toward his voice, heard it strike, and followed up with a lightning-fast slash that met with just enough resistance to let her know she'd struck home.

"My, my, another good trick. You are far more formidable than I had supposed. And now you have cut me."

As she turned to run, she felt, rather than heard, a sudden movement; she threw herself sideways, but the man seized her wrist and-with one terrible twist that cracked her bones-sent the box cutter flying. She cried out, struggling despite the unbearable pain shooting up her arm. He twisted again and she screamed, lashing out with her foot, landing a punch with her free hand, but the man pulled her up against him in a brusque, horrid movement that almost caused her to faint from the pain to her broken wrist. His hand was like a steel manacle around her arm, and his hot breath, smelling faintly of damp earth, washed over her.

"You cut me," he whispered.

With a hard shove, he released her, stepping back. Margo fell to her knees, close to blacking out from shock and pain, holding her shattered wrist close against herself, trying to gather her wits, to determine where in the darkness the box cutter had fallen.

"Although I am a cruel man," came the voice, "I will not let you suffer."

There was another swift movement, like the rush of a giant bat above her. And then she felt a stu

THIRTY-FOUR

Laura Hayward walked quickly through the museum's Great Hall, the early morning light casting parallel ba

"Mr. Manetti, I'm assuming the exhibition has a security system. Correct?"

"State-of-the-art. We're just completing a full overhaul."

"Overhaul? Wasn't the exhibit alarmed?"

"It was. We've got redundancies built into each zone. Strange thing is, no alarm went off."

"Then how'd the perp get in?"

"At this point, we have no idea. We've compiled a list of everyone who had access to the exhibition space."

"I'll want to talk to them all."

"Here's the list." Manetti pulled a printout from his jacket pocket.

"Good man." Hayward took it, sca

"It's based on magnetic keys. The system keeps track of everyone coming and going after hours. I have a register of that, as well." He handed her another document.

They rounded the corner of the Hall of Ocean Life. Hayward walked past the great blue whale, hanging ominously from the ceiling, without even a glance.

"Any key cards reported missing?"

"No."

"Can they be duplicated?"

"I'm told it's impossible."

"Someone could have borrowed a card, perhaps?"

"That's possible, although as of now all cards except the victim's are accounted for. I'll be looking into that specific question."

"So will we. Of course, the perp might be a museum employee with prior access."

"I doubt it."

Hayward grunted. She doubted it herself, but you never knew- she'd seen more than her share of certifiable lunatics wandering around this old pile. As soon as she'd heard about this case, she'd asked to be assigned, despite still being busy with the Duchamp murder. She had a theory-no, call it more of a premonition-that the two were co

They passed through the Hall of Northwest Coast Indians, then stopped before the oversize portal leading to the Sacred Images exhibition. The door itself was open but taped off, and beyond, Hayward could hear the murmurings of the SOC team working the scene. "You, you, and you"-she jabbed her finger at detectives in turn- "pass the tape with me. The rest wait here and keep back the curious. Mr. Manetti? You come, too."

"When Dr. Collopy arrives-?"

"This is a crime scene. Keep him out. I'm sorry."

Manetti didn't even argue. His face was the color of putty and it was pretty clear he hadn't even had time for his morning cup of coffee.

She ducked under the police tape, nodded to the waiting sergeant, signed his clipboard. Then she entered the foyer of the exhibition, moving slower now, far more deliberate. SOC and forensics would have already gone over ingress and egress, but it was always good to keep an eye open.

The truncated group wound its way through the first room, past almost completed exhibits, stepping over the odd piece of lumber, and then into the exhibition's second room: the scene of the crime itself. Here a chalk outline delineated where the victim had fallen. There was quite a lot of blood. The SOC photographer had already documented the scene and was awaiting any special requests Hayward, as the investigating officer, might have. Two members of the SOC team were still on their hands and knees with tweezers.

She eyed the scene almost fiercely, her eye roving over the central pool of blood, across various splatters, bloody footprints, smears. She gestured to Hank Barris, the senior SOC officer. He rose, put away his tweezers, came over.

"What a damn mess," she said.

"The paramedics worked on the victim for a while."

"The murder weapon?"

"A knife. It went with the victim to the hospital. You know, you can't pull it out-"

"I'm aware of that," snapped Hayward. "Did you see the original scene?"

"No. The EMTs had already messed it up by the time I arrived."

"ID on the victim?"

"Not that I know of, at least not yet. I could call the hospital."

"Any witnesses to the original scene?"

Barris nodded. "One. A technician named Enderby. Larry Enderby."

Hayward turned. "Bring him in."

"In here?"