Dance Of Death

TWENTY-FIVE

D'Agosta walked slowly through the cavernous open space of the Homicide Division, feeling self-conscious. Even though he was a lieutenant in the NYPD, and had more or less carte blanche to wander the halls of One Police Plaza as he chose, he nonetheless felt as if he were a spy within enemy territory.

I must know more, Pendergast had said. Even the smallest, least significant detail could be critical. It was crystal clear what he meant: he needed the file on Charles Duchamp. And it was just as clear he expected D'Agosta to get it for him.

Only it hadn't been as easy as D'Agosta initially anticipated. He'd been back on the job just two days, and he'd been forced to spend more time than expected catching up on the Dangler case. The wack-job seemed to be getting more brazen with each crime: already he'd robbed three more ATMs in the two days D'Agosta was away. And now, with the Duchamp murder, there was less manpower available for stakeouts. Coordinating the two-man teams, talking with the branch managers at the affected banks, had eaten up a lot of time. The fact was, he'd been allocating more of the work than he should have, and he was way behind on interviewing potential eyewitnesses. But always, he remembered the urgency in Pendergast's voice. Therewas a message in that urgency: We have to work fast, Vincent. Before he kills again.

And yet, though he'd wasted precious work hours poring through online records of the Duchamp murder, there was little in the wide-access database he didn't already know-or that Pendergast himself didn't have access to with his laptop. There was nothing else for it: he'd have to go get the case file.

In his left hand, he carried a small sheaf of papers: yesterday's interviews with a possible Dangler eyewitness, brought along merely as camouflage, something to hold. He glanced at his watch as he walked. Ten minutes to six. The huge room was still buzzing with activity-police officers talking together in small groups, on the phone, or, more commonly, typing at computers. Divisional offices always had 24/7 coverage, and in any precinct house, you were guaranteed to find-at any hour of the day or night-somebody at their desk, doing paperwork. Most of a cop's life was spent doing paperwork, it seemed, and nowhere was there more paperwork than in Homicide.

But D'Agosta didn't mind all the activity. In fact, he welcomed it. If anything, it helped him blend in. The important thing was that Laura Hayward would be away from her office. It was Thursday, and Commissioner Rocker would be holding one of his state-of-the-force meetings. Thanks to the Duchamp case, she was sure to be there.

He glanced a little guiltily toward the far end of the room. Her office was there, door wide open, desk covered with paperwork. At the sight of the desk, an electric current ran briefly through his loins. It wasn't many months ago that Laura's desk had been used for something quite different from paperwork. He sighed. But, of course, her office then had been on the floor above. And a hell of a lot had happened since-most of it bad.

He pulled his gaze away and glanced around. To his right was a series of empty desks, nameplates at their fronts and computer terminals to one side. Ahead and along the left wall were at least a dozen horizontal file cabinets, stacked from floor to ceiling. These held the files of all active homicide cases.

The good news was that Duchamp was an active case. All closed cases were kept in storage, which meant signing in and out and a host of related security problems. The bad news was that, because it was an active case, he had to examine the evidence right here, in front of the entire Homicide Division.

He glanced around again, still feeling ridiculously exposed. Hesitation is what's going to do you in here, pal, he told himself. Forcing himself to move as slowly and casually as possible, he approached the cabinets. Unlike other divisions, which sorted their cases by case number, Homicide sorted active files by victim's last name. He slowed further, eyeing the labels covertly: DA-DE. DE-DO. DO-EB.

Here we go. D'Agosta stopped at the appropriate cabinet, pulled out the drawer. Dozens of green hanging folders met his eye. My God, how many active homicides are they investigating here?

Now was the time to move quickly. Turning away from the rows of desks, he began flipping the files from left to right, pushing the name tabs with an index finger. Donatelli, Donato, Donazzi… what, was it Mafia Week here in Homicide? Dowson. Dubliawitz.

Duggins.

Oh, shit.

D'Agosta paused, finger on the case file of a Randall Duggins. The one thing he hadn't wanted to consider was the possibility that the Duchamp case file wouldn't be in the cabinet.

Could Laura have it? Would she have left it on her desk when she went to meet with Rocker? Or was it perhaps with one of her detectives?

Whatever the case, he was screwed. He'd have to come back again, some other time-some other shift, so as not to arouse suspicion with the same group. But when else could he come back and still be sure Laura wouldn't be here? She was a workaholic; she could be here at almost any hour. Especially now, when she didn't have a reason to be home.

D'Agosta felt his shoulders sag. He fetched a sigh, then dropped his hand from the file to the cabinet, preparing to close it.

As he did so, he got a glimpse of the file behind Randall Duggins's. It was labeled Charles Duchamp.

Now, there's a break. Somebody in a hurry must have misfiled it.

D'Agosta plucked it from the cabinet and began leafing through it. The case file was much heavier than he expected. Laura had complained about the paucity of evidence. But there had to be a dozen thick documents here: fingerprint analyses and comparisons, reports of investigation, debriefing reports, interview summaries, evidence acquisition reports, toxicology and lab reports. Leave it to Hayward to somehow document even a shitty case well.

He'd been hoping to give everything a quick once-over, return the case file, then find Pendergast and give him an oral report. But there was way too much here for that. No choice: he'd have to photocopy everything, and fast.

Once again moving as casually as possible, he slid the cabinet closed, looking left and right as he did so. A large photocopier stood in the middle of the room, but it was surrounded by desks, and, as he watched, an officer went over to use it. Taking the case file off the floor and copying it elsewhere was out of the question: too risky. But large divisions like Homicide usually had several copiers. There had to be another one close by. Where the hell was it?

There. On the far wall, close to Hayward's office, a copier sat between a bulletin board and a watercooler.

Quickly, D'Agosta approached. It was working, and it didn't require an access code to use: his luck, such as it was, still held. But he'd have to hurry: it was getting close to six, and Rocker's meeting wouldn't last much longer.

He dumped the case file on the edge of the copier, placed the Dangler paperwork on top. Just in case he was interrupted, he decided to start with the most important-the case officer's report- and work his way from there. He pulled the report from the folder and started copying.

The minutes crawled slowly by. Maybe it was the fact he had a tall stack of papers, or maybe it was because this machine was far from the desks of the homicide squad, but nobody else came up to use the machine. He made his way through the lab results, toxicology reports, fingerprint analyses, and interviews, working as fast as he could, stuffing each completed sheet beneath the Dangler paperwork.

He glanced again at his watch. It was past 6:15 now, almost 6:20. He had to get the hell out: Laura could come back at any time…

At that moment, a homicide lieutenant-somebody D'Agosta recognized as one of Hayward's most trusted associates-appeared at the far end of the division. That was it: his cue to leave. Finishing up the last interview report, he rearranged the files, stacked the photocopies into a crisp pile, and returned the hanging folder to the file cabinet. He hadn't copied everything, but he'd gotten the most important documents. This, along with what evidence Pendergast had obtained from New Orleans, should be a huge help. Closing the cabinet, he began making his way to the exit, once again careful to maintain an air of casualness.

The walk seemed to take forever, and at any moment he expected to see Laura appear in the doorway ahead. But at last, he gained the relative safety of the central corridor. Now it was just a question of gaining the elevator that lay directly ahead.

The corridor was relatively empty, and nobody was waiting at the elevator bank. He stepped forward, pressed the down button. Within moments, a descending elevator chimed, and he walked toward it just as the doors opened.

The elevator compartment beyond was empty except for one person: Glen Singleton.

For a moment, D'Agosta stood motionless, rooted in place with surprise. This had to be a nightmare, he decided: this kind of thing just didn't happen in real life.

Singleton gazed back at him, cool and level. "You're holding up the elevator, Vincent," he said.

Quickly, D'Agosta stepped in. Singleton punched a button and the doors whispered closed.

Singleton waited until the elevator was descending again before speaking. "I'm just coming from Rocker's state-of-the-force meeting," he said.

D'Agosta silently cursed himself. He should have known Singleton might have attended the meeting; he wasn't thinking straight.

Singleton glanced toward D'Agosta again. He didn't say anything further; he didn't need to. And just what are you doing here yourself? the gaze clearly said.

D'Agosta thought fast. He'd spent the last two days doing his best to avoid Singleton and this very question. Whatever he said, it had to sound believable.

"I'd heard a homicide detective might have been an inadvertent witness, post-fact, to the most recent Dangler job," he said. "I thought I'd take a minute to check it out." And he raised his sheaf of Dangler paperwork as if to underscore the point.

Singleton nodded slowly. It sounded credible, yet was just amorphous enough to allow D'Agosta some wiggle room.

"What was the detective's name again?" Singleton asked in his mild voice.

D'Agosta held his expression, careful not to betray any surprise or doubt. He thought back to the rows of empty desks he'd just passed, tried to recall the names on the nameplates. "Detective Conte," he said. "Michael Conte."

Singleton nodded again.

"He wasn't around," D'Agosta said. "Next time I'll just call."

There was a moment of silence as the elevator descended.

"You haven't heard of an FBI agent named Decker, have you?" Singleton asked.

Once again, D'Agosta had to work to keep the surprise from showing on his face. "Decker? I don't think so. Why?"

"The man was killed in his house in D.C. the other day. Seems he was good friends with Special Agent Pendergast, who I know you worked with before his disappearance. Did Pendergast ever mention Decker-any enemies he might have had, for example?"

D'Agosta pretended to think. "No, I don't think he ever did."

Another brief silence.

"I'm glad to see you're at work," Singleton went on. "Because I've been getting a few reports of items left unattended these last two days. Tasks half done, or not done at all. Jobs delegated unnecessarily."

"Sir," D'Agosta said. This was all true, but he tried to let a little righteous indignation trickle into his voice. "I'm playing catch-up as quickly as I can. There's a lot to do."

"I've also heard that, instead of working the angles on the Dangler case, you've been asking a lot of questions about the Duchamp murder."

"Duchamp?" D'Agosta repeated. "It's an unusual case, Captain. I guess I'm as curious as the next man."

Singleton nodded again, more slowly. He had a unique way of letting his expression telegraph his thoughts for him, and right now that expression was saying, You mean a lot more curious than the next man. But once again, he changed tack. "Something wrong with your radio, Lieutenant?"

Hell. D'Agosta had intentionally left it off that afternoon, in hopes of avoiding just such a cross-examination. He should have known this would excite even more suspicion.

"As a matter of fact, it seems to be acting kind of wonky today," he said, patting his jacket pocket.

"Better have it checked out. Or get yourself issued a new one."

"Right away."

"Is there something the matter, Lieutenant?"

The question was asked so quickly on the heels of the last one that D'Agosta was momentarily taken aback. "Sir?"

"I mean, with your mother. Is everything all right?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. The prognosis is better than I'd hoped. Thank you for asking."

"And you're okay with being back on the job?"

"Completely okay, Captain."

The elevator slowed, but Singleton still held D'Agosta's gaze. "That's good," he said. "That's good to hear. Because the truth is, Vincent, I'd rather have somebody not here at all than have him only half here. You know what I mean?"

D'Agosta nodded. "Yes, I do."

Singleton smiled faintly as the doors opened. Then he extended one hand. "After you, Lieutenant."