Dance Of Death

"Let's go."

In a moment, they reached the shore and hid themselves behind a raised dock. The buggies were just arriving, their yellow headlights piercing the bitter gray air. The story that met their eyes was evident enough: a long, broken path of heaving ice that led most of the way across the lake to a gaping hole, littered with broken chunks of ice. A slick of gasoline was slowly rising and spreading in rainbow patterns.

Pendergast peered across the lake from between the slats of the dock. "That, Vincent, was a most ingenious maneuver."

"Thanks," D'Agosta said through chattering teeth.

"It will take them a while to determine that we're still alive. Meanwhile, shall we see what the neighborhood has to offer in the way of transportation?"

D'Agosta nodded. He had never been so cold in his life. His hair and clothes were freezing, and his hands burned with the cold.

They crept up along the hedges of one of the great houses-all summer "cottages," currently shut up for the winter. The driveway was empty, and they moved around the side of the house and looked in the garage window.

There sat a vintage Jaguar on blocks, the wheels stacked in the gloom of one corner.

"That should do," Pendergast murmured.

"Garage's alarmed," D'Agosta managed to say.

"Naturally." Pendergast glanced around, found a wire tucked behind a drainpipe, followed it to the garage door, and in a few minutes had found the alarm plate coupling.

"Very crude," he said, jamming a stray nail behind the plate and prying it loose, being careful not to cut the co

The garage was heated.

"Warm yourself, Vincent, while I get to work."

"How in hell did you avoid going in the water?" D'Agosta said, standing directly on top of the heating vent.

"Perhaps my timing was better." Taking off his coat and jacket and rolling up his crisp white sleeves, Pendergast set the four tires in place, jacked up one end of the car, slipped the tire on and bolted it, then followed the same procedure for the other three wheels.

"Feeling warmer?" he asked as he worked.

"Sort of."

"Then if you don't mind, Vincent, open the hood and co

D'Agosta pulled out a wrench, opened the hood, co

Pendergast kicked away the final block and jacked down the last wheel. "Excellent."

"No one to call the cops about a stolen car."

"We shall see. Although the area seems deserted for the winter, there's always the danger of a nosy neighbor. This 1954 Mark VII saloon is not an inconspicuous vehicle. Now for the moment of truth. Please get in and help me start her."

D'Agosta clambered into the driver's seat and waited for instructions.

"Foot on the accelerator. Choke out. Gear in neutral."

"Check," D'Agosta said.

"When you hear the engine turn, give it a bit of gas."

D'Agosta complied. A moment later, the car roared to life.

"Ease off the choke," Pendergast said. He walked over to the alarm box, glanced around, picked up a long wire, attached it to both metal plates in the alarm, then opened the door. "Take her out."

D'Agosta eased the Jag out. Pendergast shut the garage door and got into the rear of the vehicle.

"Let's get the heat on in this baby," said D'Agosta, fiddling with the unfamiliar controls as he drove onto the street.

"You do that. Pull over and let it run for a few minutes. I am going to lie down, and… ho, what's this?" He held up a loud sports jacket checkered in various shades of light green. "A stroke of luck, Vincent! Now you look the part."

D'Agosta drew off his sodden coat and tossed it on the floor, putting on the sports jacket instead.

"How becoming."

"Yeah, right."

At that moment, Pendergast's cell phone rang. D'Agosta watched as the agent plucked it from his pocket.

"Yes," Pendergast said. "I understand. Yes, excellent. Thank you." And he hung up.

"We have three hours to get to Manhattan," he said, checking his watch. "Do you think you can manage it?"

"You bet." D'Agosta hesitated. "Now, you want to tell me who that was and what the heck you've been up to?"

"That was William Smithback."

"The journalist?"

"Yes. You see, Vincent, at last-at long, long last-we might have been given a break."

"How do you figure that?"

"Diogenes was the person who robbed the Astor Hall last night."

D'Agosta turned to stare at him. "Diogenes? You sure?"

"Undoubtedly. He's always had an obsession with diamonds. All these murders were just a horrible distraction to keep me busy while he pla

"So what makes this a break for us?"

"What Diogenes didn't know-couldn't know-was that the finest gem of all, no doubt the one he most wanted, wasn't on display. He didn't steal Lucifer's Heart: he stole a fake."

"So?"

"So I'm going to steal the real Lucifer's Heart for him and make a trade. Is the motor warmed up? Let's get back to New York-there's no time to waste."

D'Agosta eased the car away from the curb. "I've seen you pull a few rabbits out of your hat, but how in the hell are you going to steal the world's greatest diamond on the spur of the moment? You don't know where it is, you don't know anything about its security."

"Perhaps. But as it happens, Vincent, my plans are already in motion." And Pendergast patted the pocket where his cell phone was.

D'Agosta kept his eyes on the road. "There's a problem," he said in a quiet voice.

"What's that?"

"We're assuming that Diogenes still has something to trade."

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke. "We can only pray that he does."

SIXTY-ONE

Laura Hayward walked briskly up the steps of the Lower Manhattan Federal Building, Captain Singleton at her heels. Singleton was, as usual, dressed nattily: camel's-hair topcoat, Burberry scarf, thin black leather gloves. He hadn't said much on the ride downtown, but that was okay: Hayward hadn't felt much like talking.

It had been barely twenty-four hours since D'Agosta walked out of her office and away from her ultimatum, but it might as well have been a year. Hayward had always been an exceptionally levelheaded person, but as she walked into the Federal Building, she had an almost overpowering sense of unreality. Maybe none of this was happening, maybe she wasn't on her way to an urgent FBI briefing, maybe Pendergast wasn't the most wanted criminal in New York and D'Agosta his accomplice. Maybe she'd just wake up and it would be January 21 again, and her apartment would still smell of Vi

At the security checkpoint, Hayward showed her shield, checked her weapon, signed the clipboard. There wasn't going to be a happy ending. Because if D'Agosta wasn't Pendergast's accomplice, he would be Pendergast's victim.