Blue Labyrinth

13

The Executive Dining Room — or the EDR, as it was commonly known — was located on the second-to-top floor of One Police Plaza. It was where the police commissioner, the deputy commissioner, and other departmental princelings held court during the lunch hour. D’Agosta had been inside only once — for a celebratory luncheon the day he and two dozen others had made lieutenant — and while the room itself looked like a time capsule of cheesy early 1960s interior decor, the views of Lower Manhattan offered by the floor-to-ceiling windows were stunning.

As he waited in the capacious anteroom outside the EDR, however, D’Agosta wasn’t thinking about the view. He was watching the faces filing out, looking for Glen Singleton. It was the third Wednesday of the month — the day when the chief lunched with all departmental captains — and he knew Singleton would be among them.

All at once he spied the well-dressed, well-groomed form of Singleton. Quickly, D’Agosta threaded his way through the throng until he reached the captain’s side.

“Vinnie.” Singleton looked surprised to see him.

“I heard you wanted to see me,” D’Agosta said.

“I did. You didn’t have to hunt me down, though. It could’ve waited.”

D’Agosta had checked with Singleton’s secretary and learned the captain had a full afternoon. “No problem. What’s up?”

They had been walking in the general direction of the elevator, but now Singleton stopped. “I read your report on the Marsala killing.”

“Oh?”

“Fine job, under the circumstances. I’ve decided to put Formosa in charge, and I’m giving you that Seventy-Third Street homicide instead. You know, the jogger who got her throat slashed fighting off a mugger. It looks like a solid case with several eyewitnesses and good forensics. You can handpick your men from the Museum case to transfer over.”

This was basically what D’Agosta had expected to hear. It was also why he had tracked Singleton down to the Executive Dining Room — he wanted to catch the captain before things went too far. Formosa… he was one of the newest lieutenants on the force, still wet behind the ears.

“If it’s just the same to you, sir,” he said, “I’d like to stay on the Museum case.”

Singleton frowned. “But your report. It’s not a good case, really. The lack of hard evidence, lack of witnesses…”

Over Singleton’s shoulder, D’Agosta saw his new bride, Laura Hayward, emerge from the Executive Dining Room, her lovely figure framed through the tall windows by the Woolworth Building. She saw him, smiled instinctively, began to come over, noticed he was talking to Singleton, and satisfied herself with a wink before heading to the elevator bank.

D’Agosta looked back at Singleton. “I know it’s a heartbreaker, sir. But I’d like just another week with it.”

Singleton stared at him curiously. “This reassignment isn’t a slap on the wrist, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m giving you a decent, solvable, high-profile case that will help your clearance.”

“I wasn’t thinking that, Captain. I read about the jogger murder, I know it would be a hell of an assignment.”

“Then why stay with the Marsala homicide?”

The day before, he’d been ready — eager — to slough it off onto some other poor sap. “I’m not sure, sir,” he replied slowly. “Not exactly. It’s just that I hate walking away from a case. And sometimes you get a sixth sense, a hunch, that something’s about to break. You probably know the feeling yourself, Captain.”

It was a hunch, D’Agosta realized, that happened to be named Pendergast.

Singleton looked at him another moment — a long, appraising moment. Then the ghost of a smile appeared on his face and he nodded. “I do indeed,” he said. “And I’m a great believer in hunches. All right, Vinnie — you can stay on the case. I’ll give the jogger homicide to Clayton.”

D’Agosta swallowed just a little painfully. “Thank you, sir.”

“Good luck. Keep me informed.” And with another nod, Singleton turned away.