Blue Labyrinth

65

Shaking his head, the man bent down and plucked something from the back of Frisby’s neck.

“Interesting collection you’ve got down here,” he said, holding up the object, dripping with Frisby’s blood. Margo recognized it as a giant Sumatran buckthorn: six inches long, recurved, razor-sharp — notorious as a weapon in certain parts of Indonesia.

“I’d better introduce myself,” the man said. “I’m Sergeant Slade of the NYPD.” He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and produced an ID, illuminating it with his flashlight.

Margo peered at it. The shield and identification looked real enough. But who was this man, and what was he doing down here? And hadn’t he just… stabbed Frisby? She felt a growing sense of confusion and terror.

“I guess I arrived in the nick of time,” said Slade. “This old curator — you called him Frisby, right? — seemed to be getting off on calling the cops on you. Little did he know the cop was already here. And he was all wrong about the rap they’d have hung on you. Take it from me: you’d have pled down to Class E and received nothing more than community service. In New York City, no jury cares about a few moldy plant specimens stolen from a museum.”

He bent to examine the body of Frisby, gingerly stepping around the spreading pool of blood under the neck as he did so, and then rose again.

“Well, we’d better get on with it,” he said. “Now that I’m here, you don’t have much to worry about. Please give me the bag.” And he held out his hand.

But Margo just stood there, frozen. Frisby was dead. This man had stabbed him — with a buckthorn, no less. This was nothing less than murder. She remembered D’Agosta’s warning and she suddenly understood: cop or no, this man was working for Barbeaux.

Sergeant Slade took a step forward, buckthorn in hand.

“Give me the bag, Dr. Green,” he said.

Margo stepped back.

“Don’t make things more difficult for yourself than they have to be. Give me the bag and you’ll get no more than a slap on the wrist.”

Tightening her hand on the bag, Margo took another step back.

Slade sighed. “You’re forcing my hand,” he said. “If that’s the way you want to play it, I’m afraid what’s in store for you will be far more extreme than community service.” He shifted the thorn into his right hand and gripped it hard, advancing on her. Margo turned and realized she was backed into a cul-de-sac of the botanical collections, with shelving on either side and the vault behind her.

She stared at Sergeant Slade. He may have been short, but he moved with the grace of a lean and powerful man. In addition to the giant thorn in his hand, Margo could see a service belt beneath his suit jacket that held a gun, pepper spray, and cuffs.

She took another step backward and felt her spine contact the metal door of the vault.

“It’ll be quick,” Slade said, with a note in his voice that sounded almost like regret. “I don’t enjoy this — I really don’t.” The hand with the buckthorn rose into striking position and he loomed forward, bracing himself to swipe the weapon across her throat.