Dance Of Death

"That's not all. Laura asked me to set you up. I walked out on that one. They've sworn out a warrant on you. You can't stay here."

"On the contrary, Vincent, I must stay here. It's the only place with the resources I need on short notice. And it is a bit like Poe's purloined letter-the last place they expect to find me is at home. The police presence is a mere formality."

D'Agosta stared at him. "So that's how you knew Diogenes wouldn't target Laura. She's the one investigating Duchamp's murder. He was banking on her suspecting you."

"Precisely. Now, pull up a chair and let me show you what I'm doing." Pendergast waved his hands toward the four laptops.

"These computers are tapped in parasitically to the city's web of street corner surveillance cameras, along with a couple of major private systems-ATMs and banks, for example." He pointed at one of the screens, which was currently subdivided into a dozen small windows: in each window, black-and-white video feeds of sidewalks, street intersections, and toll plazas were zipping by in accelerated reverse motion.

"Why?"

"I'm convinced Diogenes's final crime is going to take place in or around Manhattan. And you ca

"But Diogenes is disguised."

"To most, yes. Not to me. You can disguise your appearance, but you can't disguise everything-your ma

"Wouldn't that need more computing horsepower than you'd find at a small university?"

"Hence the wiring closet." And Pendergast reached over and opened the closed door. Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, were rack-mounted blade servers and RAID arrays.

D'Agosta whistled. "You understand all this shit?"

"No. But I know how to use it."

Pendergast swiveled to look at him. Although his skin was paler than D'Agosta had ever seen it, the agent's eyes glittered with a dangerous brightness. He had the manic energy, the deceptive second wind, of somebody who had not slept in several days.

"Diogenes is out there, Vincent. He's lurking somewhere in this myriad of data streams. To commit his ultimate crime, he's going to have to surface. And that's my chance-my last, my only chance- to stop him. This room is the only place anymore where I have access to the technology that can accomplish that." More clattering of keys. "The acquaintance I spoke of just now, the one in Ohio? He would be far better suited to this job than I. But he has been forced to make himself invisible for… for reasons of his own protection."

"Laura isn't the type to wait around. They're probably already coming after you."

"And no doubt you, too."

D'Agosta said nothing.

"They've searched my apartment, they've probably searched the Riverside Drive house. As for this little warren… well, you saw yourself that I have a private exit from the Dakota. Even the doormen here don't know about it. Only Martyn, who you just met."

He paused in his typing. "Vincent, there is something you must do."

"What's that?"

"You'll go straight to Laura Hayward, say that you'll cooperate in every way, but that I seem to have disappeared and that you've no idea where I am. There's no need for you to damage your career any further over this."

"I already told you, I'm with you all the way."

"Vincent, I am demanding that you leave."

"Hey, Aloysius?"

Pendergast looked at him.

"Up yours."

He saw Pendergast's eyes were upon him. "I won't forget this,

Vincent."

"Never mind."

The agent went back to his work. Ten minutes passed, twenty- and then Pendergast suddenly stiffened.

"A hit?"

"I believe so," Pendergast said. He was staring intently at one of the computers, playing a grainy image over and over, forward and backward.

D'Agosta looked over his shoulder. "Is that him?"

"The computer believes so. And I do, as well. It's odd, though- the image isn't taken from outside the Dakota, as I'd expected. It's about six blocks north, outside of-"

At that moment, a low chime sounded from a box on the table. Pendergast turned toward it quickly.

"What's that?" D'Agosta asked.

"It's Martyn. It seems there's somebody to see me."

D'Agosta tensed. "Police?"

Pendergast shook his head. He leaned toward the box, depressed a switch.

"A bicycle messenger, sir," came the voice. "He has an envelope for you."

"You've asked him to wait?"

"Yes."

"And the police are unaware of his presence?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring him up. Take the usual precautions." Pendergast took his finger from the switch and straightened. "Let's see what this is about." His tone was casual, but his face looked drawn.

They walked down the short hallway to the elevator. A minute passed without a word being exchanged. Then, from below, the elevator gave a clank and began to rise. Shortly, the brass grille was drawn back and two figures emerged: the doorman D'Agosta had met earlier and the bicycle messenger, a slim Hispanic youth wearing a scarf and a heavy jacket. He held an oversize envelope in one hand.

Looking at the package, Pendergast's pale face went gray. Wordlessly, he reached into a pocket of his black jacket, withdrew a pair of medical gloves, and drew them on. Then he took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to the messenger.

"Would you mind waiting here a few moments, please?" he asked.

"I guess," the messenger said, looking suspiciously at the gloves.

Pendergast took the envelope, exchanged a private look with the doorman. Then, nodding to D'Agosta, he strode quickly back into the room.

"Is it from Diogenes?" D'Agosta asked, closing the door behind them.

Pendergast didn't respond. Instead, he spread a sheet of white paper on the desk, laid the envelope on top of it, and examined it carefully. It was unsealed, the rear flap loosely fastened by twisted red thread. Pendergast gave the thread a brief, close scrutiny. Then he unwound it and carefully upended the envelope.

A small sheet of folded paper fell out, followed by a lock of glossy dark hair.

Pendergast drew in his breath sharply. In the room, it sounded explosively loud. Quickly, he knelt and opened the folded sheet.

The paper was a beautiful, hand-pressed linen, with an embossed coat of arms at its top: a lidless eye over two moons, with a lion couchant. Beneath, written in tobacco-colored ink with a fountain pen or quill, was a date: January 28.

D'Agosta realized it was identical to the note Pendergast had received a few months earlier, at the mansion on Riverside Drive. Unlike that note, however, this one had more written upon it than just a date. His eye fell to the words below: