Dance Of Death

NINETEEN

"SO how was your first day back?" Hayward asked, gamely sawing away at a chicken breast.

"Fine," D'Agosta replied.

"Singleton didn't give you a hard time?"

"Nope."

"Well, you were just out two days, which probably helped matters. He's intense-sometimes too intense-but he's a hell of a cop. So are you. That's why I know you two will get along."

D'Agosta nodded, pushed a piece of plum tomato around his plate, then lifted it to his mouth. Chicken cacciatore was the one recipe he could pull off without thinking-barely.

"This is pretty good, Vinnie. Really. I'll have to let you into the kitchen more often." And she smiled across the table.

D'Agosta smiled back. He put down his fork for a moment and just watched her eat.

She'd made a special effort to get home on time. She praised his cooking even though he'd overcooked the chicken. She hadn't even asked about his hasty departure from breakfast that morning. She was clearly making a special effort to give him some space and let him work out whatever he was working out. He realized, with a sudden upwelling of affection, that he really loved this woman.

That made what he was about to do all the harder.

"Sorry I can't do your dinner justice," she said. "It deserves to be lingered over. But I've got to rush out again."

"New developments?"

"Not really. The ligature specialist wants to brief us on the knots. Probably just a way of covering his ass-he hasn't been much help."

"No?"

"He thinks the knots are Asiatic, maybe Chinese, but that isn't narrowing it down very much."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. "Have you looked into the possibility I mentioned at the diner? That Pendergast's brother might be behind these murders?"

Hayward paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "There's so little evidence to support that theory that it verges on crank. You know I'm a professional. You have to trust me to conduct this case in the best way possible. I'll look into it when I have time."

There was nothing D'Agosta could say to this. They ate for a moment in silence.

"Vinnie," she said, and something in her tone made him look up at her again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's all right."

She was smiling again, and her dark eyes shone in the artificial light. "Because the fact is, I'm really happy you're back on the job."

D'Agosta swallowed. "Thanks."

"This crazy posthumous case of Pendergast's has just been a distraction for you at the worst possible time. He may have been a productive agent, but he wasn't-well, normal. I know you were a friend of his, but I think-" She paused. "I think he had an unhealthy influence on you. And then, this request from beyond the grave, all this stuff about his brother… I have to tell you, I resent that."

Despite everything, D'Agosta felt a stab of irritation. "I know you never liked the guy. But he got results."

"I know, I know. I shouldn't criticize the dead. Sorry."

The irritation was swept away by a sudden flood of guilt. D'Agosta said nothing.

"Anyway, all that's past. The Dangler case is high-profile, a great starter case. You're going to shine, Vinnie, I know you are. It'll be just like old times."

D'Agosta cut into a chicken thigh, then dropped his knife on the plate with a clatter. This was agony. He couldn't put it off any longer.

"Laura," he began. "There's no easy way to say this."

"Say what?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm moving out."

She froze, as if uncomprehending. Then a look slowly crept over her face: a look of disbelief and pain, like a child who had just been unexpectedly struck by a beloved parent. Seeing that expression, D'Agosta felt just about as bad as he'd ever felt in his life.

"Vinnie?" she asked, dazed.

D'Agosta lowered his eyes. There was a long, excruciating silence.

"Why?"

He didn't know what to say. He knew only that the one thing he could not do was tell her the truth. Laura, honey, I may be in danger. You're not a target, but I definitely am. And by staying here, I could put you in danger, as well.

"Is it something I've done? Something I haven't done?"

"No," he said immediately. He had to make up something, and with Laura Hayward, that something had better be good.

"No," he said again, more slowly. "You've been great. It has nothing to do with you. I really care about you. It has to do with me. Our relationship… maybe we started off just a little too fast."

Hayward did not reply.

D'Agosta felt like he was walking himself off a cliff. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to stay with this woman- this beautiful, caring, supportive woman. He'd rather hurt himself than her. And yet he was hurting her, hurting her deeply, with every word. It was an awful thing to do, but he had no choice. Vincent, you must take every precaution possible. D'Agosta knew that the only way to save this relationship-and, perhaps, Laura Hayward's life-was by interrupting it.

"I just need a little space, that's all," he went on. "To think things through. Get some perspective on my life." The platitudes sounded hollow, and rather than continue, he stopped short.

He sat there, waiting for Hayward to blow up, curse him out, order him to leave. Yet there was only another long, awful silence. Finally, he looked up. Laura was sitting there, hands in her lap, dinner growing cold, her face pale and her eyes cast downward. Her beautiful blue-black hair had fallen forward, covering one eye. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected. This surprise, this hurt, was even worse than anger.

At last, she sniffed, rubbed a finger beneath her nose, pushed away her plate. Then she rose.

"I've got to get back to work," she said, so quietly D'Agosta barely heard her. He sat motionless as she brushed her hair away from her face. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door. It wasn't until her hand was on the doorknob that she stopped, realizing she'd forgotten her coat and her briefcase. She turned, walked slowly to the closet, shrugged into her coat, picked up the case. And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not look back.

D'Agosta sat at the dinner table for a long time, listening to the tick of the clock, to the faint street noises filtering up from below. Finally, he stood, brought the dishes into the little kitchen, threw the half-eaten dinners into the garbage, and washed up.

Then he turned and-feeling very old-headed for the bedroom to pack.