Blue Labyrinth

D’Agosta sighed. Whatever had happened to the man since Marsala’s murder, one fact remained: on June 12, the day of the murder, he’d definitely been in his right mind. He’d been clever enough to lure Marsala into an out-of-the-way location, kill him quickly and efficiently, and disguise the murder as a piece-of-shit robbery gone bad. And most of all, he’d somehow managed to get out of the Museum afterward without being seen by any of the cameras.

Maybe it didn’t matter, but how the hell had he done that?

Mentally, D’Agosta reviewed his tour of the murder scene with Whittaker, the security guard. It had been in the Gastropod Alcove, at the far end of the Hall of Marine Life, near a basement exit and not far from the South American gold hall…

Suddenly D’Agosta sat up in the chair.

Of course.

He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been. He stood up, pacing back and forth, then wheeled toward Jimenez.

“Marsala was murdered on a Saturday night. What time does the Museum open on Sundays?”

Jimenez rooted through some papers on the desk, found a folded guide to the Museum. “Eleven o’clock.”

D’Agosta moved over to one of the security playback workstations and sat down. Beyond and below, the three o’clock planetarium show was starting up, but he paid it no attention. He moused through a series of menus on the workstation screen, consulted a long list of files, then selected the one he was interested in: the video feed of the Great Rotunda, southern perspective, eleven AM to noon, Sunday, June 13.

The familiar bird’s-eye view swam into life on the screen. As Jimenez and Conklin came up behind him, D’Agosta began playing the video stream at normal speed, then — once his eyes had accustomed themselves to the blurry images — at double speed, then four times speed. As the hour progressed at an accelerated pace before them, the streams of people entering the Museum and passing through the security stations thickened and swelled, moving left to right across the little screen.

There. A lone figure, heading right to left, in the opposite direction, like a swimmer fighting the tide. D’Agosta paused the security feed, noted the timestamp: eleven thirty-four AM. Half an hour before D’Agosta had entered the Museum to open the case. He zoomed in on the figure, then began ru

“Damn,” Conklin murmured over D’Agosta’s shoulder.

“There was an exit leading to the basement, just beyond the Gastropod Alcove,” D’Agosta explained. “That basement is a maze of levels and tu

He sat back from the workstation. So they’d tied off this particular loose end, at least. The murderer’s ingress and egress of the Museum were now documented.

D’Agosta’s cell phone began to ring. He plucked it from his pocket and glanced at it. It was a number he didn’t know, Southern California area code. He pressed the ANSWER button.

“Lieutenant D’Agosta,” he said.

“Lieutenant?” came the voice from the other end of the country. “My name’s Dr. Samuels. I’m the pathologist with the Department of Corrections here at Indio. We’ve been doing the autopsy on the recent John Doe suicide, and we’ve come across something of interest. Officer Spandau thought I ought to give you a call.”

“Go on,” he said.

Normally, D’Agosta prided himself on his professionalism as a police officer. He didn’t lose his temper; he kept his weapon holstered; he didn’t use profanity with civilians. But as the coroner continued, D’Agosta forgot this last personal maxim.

“Son of a fucking bitch,” he muttered, phone still pressed to his ear.

41

The Toyota Hilux turned a corner and came to a screeching stop. The guard sitting in the rear seat opened the door and got out — semi-automatic rifle now pointed toward the ground — and gestured for Pendergast to get out as well.

Pendergast eased himself out of the pickup. The guard nodded at the building directly before them. It had, like those around it, once been a narrow three-story building, but now it was little more than a burned-out hulk, roofless, its upper story caved in, heavy streamers of black soot soiling the stucco above the empty windowsills. The charred remains of the front door were studded with several ragged holes, as if would-be rescuers had tried to punch their way in with battering rams.

“Obrigado,” Pendergast said. The guard nodded, got back into the pickup, and the vehicle moved away.

Pendergast stood in the narrow alley for a moment, watching the vehicle recede into the distance. Then he sca

He turned back to the house. While there was no street sign — there were no street signs anywhere in the favela—the ghostly remains of the number 31 could be seen painted over the ruined door. Pendergast pushed the door open — a lock lay on the tiled floor just inside, rusted and covered with soot — stepped slowly in, then closed the door behind him as best he could.

The interior was stifling and, even now, smelled strongly of charred wood and melted plastic. He looked around, giving his eyes time to adjust to the dimness, trying to ignore the pain that washed over him in slow waves. There was a tiny packet of painkillers in a hidden pocket of his jacket — something those who had frisked him had missed — and for a moment he considered chewing and swallowing several, but then rejected the idea. It would not do for what lay ahead.

For now, the pain would have to stay.

He navigated the first floor. The layout of the narrow house resembled the shotgun shacks of the Mississippi Delta. There was a living room, with a table burned to a heap of scorched sticks, a burnt sofa popping open with black springs. A polyester rug had melted into the concrete floor. Beyond lay a small kitchen, with a two-burner enamel stove, a scratched and dented cast-iron sink, some drawers and shelving, all open. The floor was covered with broken crockery, glassware, and cheap, half-melted cutlery. Smoke and fire had left strange, menacing patterns over the walls and ceiling.

Pendergast stood in the doorway of the kitchen. He tried to imagine his son, Alban, entering the house and striding into this room; greeting his wife; engaging in small talk; laughing, discussing their unborn child and plans for the future.

The image refused to form in his head. It was inconceivable. After a moment or two he abandoned the attempt.

There was so much that made no sense. A pity his mind was not clearer. He recalled the details of Fábio’s story. Alban hiding out in a favela, killing some loner and stealing his identity — that he could well believe. Alban, sneaking back into the States, setting in motion some plan of revenge against his father — he could readily believe that, as well. Alban staging a coup and taking over the favela for his own evil purposes. Most believable of all.

You have Alban to thank for this…

But Alban, loving father and family man? Alban, secretly married to the Angel of the Favelas? This he could not see. Nor could he see Alban as benevolent slum leader, ridding it of tyra