Blue Labyrinth

“It’s the lieutenant,” she said.

“Tell him I’m not in.”

With a look of disapproval, Mrs. Trask continued holding out the telephone. “He’s most insistent.”

Constance took the phone and made an effort to be cordial. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I want you and Margo down here, on the double.”

“We’re rather occupied at the present time,” said Constance.

“I’ve got some vital information. There are some really, really bad people involved in this. You and Margo are going to get yourselves killed. I want to help.”

“You can’t help us,” said Constance.

“Why?”

“Because…” She went silent.

“Because you’re pla

No answer.

“Constance, get your ass down here now. Or so help me God I’ll come up there with a posse and bring you down myself.”

58

Let’s go through it,” D’Agosta said. It was late afternoon, and Margo and Constance were seated in the lieutenant’s office. “You say you’ve found a cure for what poisoned Pendergast?”

“An antidote,” said Constance. “Developed by Hezekiah Pendergast to counteract the effects of his own elixir.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“Not positive,” said Margo. “But we’ve got to try.”

D’Agosta sat back. This sounded crazy. “And you’ve got all the ingredients?”

“All but two,” Margo said. “They’re plants, and we know where to get them.”

“Where?”

Silence.

D’Agosta stared at Margo. “Let me guess: you’re going to rob the Museum.”

More silence. Margo’s face looked white and strained, but there was a hard glitter in her eyes.

D’Agosta smoothed a hand over his balding pate and looked back at the two defiant women sitting across the desk. “Look. I’ve been a cop for a long time. I’m not an idiot, and I know you’re pla

Margo finally nodded.

D’Agosta turned to Constance. “You?”

“I understand,” said Constance, but he could tell from her face that she did not agree. “You said you had vital information. What is it?”

“If I’m right, this Barbeaux is a lot more dangerous than anyone imagined. You’re going to need backup. Let me help you get those plants, wherever they are.”

More silence. Finally, Constance rose. “How can you help us? You yourself pointed out that what we’re doing is illegal.”

“Constance is right,” said Margo. “Can you imagine the red tape? Look. Pendergast — your friend — is dying. We are almost out of time.”

D’Agosta felt himself losing his temper. “I’m well aware of that, which is why I’m willing to step over the line. Look, damn it, if you don’t let me help you, I’m going to throw you both in the tank. Right now. For your own protection.”

“If you do that, Pendergast is sure to die,” Constance said.

D’Agosta exhaled. “I’m not going to let you two go ru

“I hope he does,” said Constance. “And now I’m afraid we must be going.”

“I swear I’m going to have you taken in.”

“No, you’re not,” she said quietly.

D’Agosta rose. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”

He left his office, closing the door behind him, and went over to Sergeant Josephus, ma

Josephus glanced back toward D’Agosta’s office. D’Agosta followed his gaze. Through the glass of the door, he could see Constance and Margo talking between themselves.

“Yes, sir,” Josephus said. He pulled out an official form. “Now, if I could have their names—”

D’Agosta thought a moment, waved his hand. “Scratch that. I’ve got another idea.”

“Sure thing, Loo.”

D’Agosta opened the door to his office, stepped inside, and stared at the two women. “If you’re pla

Both of them nodded.

“Get out of here.”

They left.

D’Agosta stared at the empty doorway, full of an impotent anger. Son of a bitch, he had never met two more impossible women in his life. But there was one good way to keep them safe, or at least reduce their chances of tangling with Barbeaux. And that way was to put out a warrant on the man, bring him in for questioning, and keep his ass in the station until the women did what they had to do. But to get the warrant, he would need to work up the evidence he had, put it together, and give it to the DA.

He turned to his computer and began furiously typing.

The departmental offices fell silent. It was a typical late-afternoon lull at the station, while most of the officers were in the field and had yet to return to book perps or file reports. A minute passed, then two. And then steps sounded softly in the hallway outside D’Agosta’s office.

A moment later, Sergeant Slade appeared. He’d come from his office, which — if he stood in just the right spot — commanded an excellent view of D’Agosta’s own doorway. He continued walking past D’Agosta’s office, then stopped at the next door — the door to the empty room in which D’Agosta and others in the department had been keeping overflow files.

Slade glanced casually around. There was nobody in sight. Turning the knob, he opened the door of the empty office, stepped inside, and locked the door behind him. The lights were off, naturally, but he did not turn them on.

Making sure to remain quiet, he walked toward the common wall to D’Agosta’s office, from which the sounds of typing continued without relent. A pile of boxes was stacked against the wall, and he knelt, carefully moving them aside. Placing his fingertips against the wall, he felt along it for a few moments until he found what he was searching for: a tiny wire microphone, embedded into the drywall, with a miniaturized, voice-activated digital tape recorder attached.

Rising to his feet and popping a piece of licorice toffee into his mouth, Slade fixed an earbud to the device, then inserted it into one ear and snapped the recorder on. He listened for a moment, nodding slowly to himself. He heard D’Agosta’s futile arguing; the opening of the door; and then, the two women talking.

“Where is the plant in the Museum, exactly?”

“In the Herbarium Vault. I know where that is, and I have its combination. What about you?”

“The plant I need is in the Aquatic Hall of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Once the garden is closed, and it’s completely dark, I’ll secure it. We don’t dare wait any longer than that.”

Slade smiled. He was going to be well rewarded for this.

Slipping the device into his pocket, he carefully pushed the boxes back in place, moved to the office door, unlocked it, and — checking to make sure he remained unobserved — stepped out and began strolling languidly back down the corridor, the sounds of D’Agosta’s typing ringing in his ears.

59

The Gates of Heaven Cemetery lay atop a thinly wooded bluff overlooking Schroon Lake. In the green distance to the east lay Fort Ticonderoga, guarding the Hudson approaches. Far to the north rose the bulk of Mount Marcy, tallest mountain in New York State.

John Barbeaux moved pensively through the manicured grass, threading a slow course between the gravestones. The ground rose and fell in slow, graceful curves; here and there a graveled walk curved beneath the trees. The leaves scattered the rays of the afternoon sun and threw dappled shadows over the drowsy pastoral landscape.