The Obsidian Chamber

33

Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta plopped the breakfast he’d just prepared — an egg white omelet with tarragon and cracked pepper — down on the kitchen table of the tidy two-bedroom he shared with Laura Hayward. He hated egg whites, but he’d learned that keeping himself slim — or what in his case counted as slim — required constant dieting and vigilance. Across the table, his wife was reading the latest issue of the Journal of Forensic Science and Criminology while enjoying her own meal: the quintessential New York breakfast sandwich of egg, bacon, and cheese on a buttered kaiser roll. No matter what she ate, she didn’t seem to gain even an ounce. It was very depressing. He cut off a slice of his omelet, sighed, pushed it around the plate with his fork.

Hayward laid down her journal. “What’s on your schedule today?”

D’Agosta speared the slice, popped it in his mouth. “Not much,” he said, washing it down with a swallow of coffee. “Some mopping up. Paperwork on the Marten murder.”

“You solved that one in record time. Must have made Singleton happy.”

“He complimented me on my tie yesterday.”

“That clothes horse? Impressive.”

“Probably buttering me up just so he can dump another case on my desk. You watch.”

Hayward smiled, went back to her journal.

D’Agosta went back to pushing the omelet around his plate. He was aware that Hayward, these last few weeks, had been careful to keep the tone of their conversations light. He was grateful for that. She knew how hard the news of Pendergast’s disappearance and death by drowning had hit him. Although almost a month had gone by, he still felt an electric shock every time he thought of Pendergast being gone, which was too often. There had been reports of the FBI agent’s death before, of course, but his friend had always soon reappeared, like the proverbial cat with nine lives. This time, though, it seemed his nine lives had run out. He felt guilty, as if he should have been there in that Massachusetts fishing village; as if his presence could somehow have changed the fateful course of events.

D’Agosta’s cell phone went off, the “Who Let the Dogs Out” opening drowning out the noise of First Avenue traffic that floated up from street level. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and glanced at the screen: UNIDENTIFIED CALLER.

Hayward raised her eyebrows in mute inquiry.

“Anonymous. Probably that damned refinancing company again. They never give up.” He hit the IGNORE button.

“Pretty obnoxious, calling before eight.”

The phone rang again. UNIDENTIFIED CALLER. They looked at each other in silence until the ringing stopped.

D’Agosta put down his fork. “Bite of that sandwich?”

As he reached across the table, his phone rang a third time. UNIDENTIFIED CALLER. With a curse, he plucked it up and hit the ANSWER button. “Yeah?” he said harshly.

The reception was poor and full of static. “Vincent?” came the faint, crackly voice.

“Who is this?”

“Vincent, it is I.”

D’Agosta felt his fingers curl tightly around the phone. The room suddenly felt dim and strange, as if he’d just stepped into a dream. “Pendergast?”

“Yes.”

He tried to make his mouth form words, but all that came out was an incoherent splutter.

“Are you there, Vincent?”

“Pendergast — oh my God, I can’t believe it! They said you were dead!”

Across the table, Hayward had lowered her journal and was staring.

The distorted voice of Pendergast began to speak again, but D’Agosta blurted over it: “What happened? Where have you been? Why didn’t you—”

“Vincent!”

D’Agosta fell silent at the sharp tone.

“I need you to do something for me. It’s of vital importance.”

D’Agosta held the phone closer. “Yes. Anything.”

“I haven’t been able to reach anybody at my Riverside Drive residence: not Proctor, not Constance, not Mrs. Trask. I’ve tried the house phone and Proctor’s cell, several times. Nothing. I am extremely disturbed. Vincent, please go there immediately, this instant, and report back to me. I can’t be back in New York until tonight at the earliest.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have a pen?”

D’Agosta searched his jacket pockets, feeling Hayward’s eyes on him. “Got it.”

“Very good.” Pendergast gave him the number of the cell phone. “Now listen. On the left column outside the front door, five feet above the ground, you’ll find a hidden compartment. Inside is a keyless entry pad. Enter the following code to disable the alarms and unlock the door: 315-514-17-804-18.”

D’Agosta scrawled down the numbers. “Okay.”

“Please hurry, Vincent. I am most concerned.”

“I’ll call you from the house. But I’d really like to know where you’ve been these last weeks—”

He realized he was talking to a dead phone: Pendergast had hung up.

“Vinnie—?” Laura began, then stopped. She said nothing more; she did not need to. D’Agosta could read conflicting emotions in her face; relief that Pendergast was alive, but concern about what it meant — and how the man might, yet again, draw D’Agosta into some fresh and dangerous case.

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I know. I’ll be careful.”

Then D’Agosta rose, gave her a kiss, drained his cup, and hurriedly exited the apartment.