City of Endless Night

24

At five o’clock in the morning of December 24, about an hour before dawn, Special Agent Pendergast appeared at the door of apartment 5B in the building at 355 West 14th Street. He found the lone cop guarding the scene of the crime — the CSU had already finished — who was almost, but not quite, dozing in his chair.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you,” Pendergast began as the man leapt to his feet, the cell phone he’d been holding in his hand dropping to the floor.

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m—”

“Please,” said Pendergast in a soothing voice, sliding out his FBI shield and letting it fall open. “Just going to have a peek — if that’s all right with you, of course.”

“Oh sure,” said the cop, “of course, but do you have the authorization…?” His face fell slightly as Pendergast shook his head gravely.

“At five in the morning, my good friend, it is hard to get a signature. However, if you think you should call Lieutenant D’Agosta, naturally I’d understand.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” he said hastily. “But you are already authorized on the case—?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, I guess you can go ahead.”

“Good man.” Pendergast sliced the crime scene tape from the door, broke the seal, and slipped into the apartment, turning on his light and easing the door shut behind him. He did not want to be disturbed.

He shone the light around the miserable space, pivoting as he did so, taking everything in. The light lingered on each poster, then moved to the scatter of guns on a piece of dirty carpet on the floor, the heap of computer equipment, circuit boards and old CRTs, now spattered with blood. His gaze roved over a crude workbench hammered together out of deal lumber, its top scarred and burned; the wall behind it hung with tools. It moved to the rumpled bed, across the kitchen nook, unexpectedly tidy — and all the way back around to where it had started.

Now he moved toward the workbench. This was his focus of interest. He inspected it from left to right, examining every last thing with the flashlight and occasionally a loupe, now and then picking up something with a pair of jeweler’s tweezers and slipping it into a test tube. His pale visage, illuminated by the reflected flashlight, floated like a disembodied face, silvery eyes glittering in the darkness.

For fifteen minutes he performed his examinations until suddenly he froze. In the corner where the rough deal table had been pushed up against the wall, his light had illuminated what appeared to be two grains of yellowish salt. The first one he picked up in his fingers; he rubbed it, examined the resulting whitish dust on his fingertips, sniffed at it, and finally tasted it with the tip of his tongue. The second grain he picked up with the tweezers and dropped into a tiny ziplock bag, sealing it and slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

He turned and left the apartment. The policeman on duty, waiting with rigid attention, rose. Pendergast took his hand warmly. “I thank you, Officer, for your help and attention to duty. I shall certainly mention it to the lieutenant when I see him next.”

And then he slipped down the stairs as silently and smoothly as a cat.