Dance Of Death

TWENTY-SEVEN

A light rap sounded on the glass of the office door. Laura Hayward, who'd been peering intently at her computer screen, sat up in surprise. For a ridiculous moment, she thought it might be D'Agosta, suitcase in hand, offering to take her home. But it was just the Guatemalan cleaning lady, armed with mop and pail, smiling and nodding her head.

"Is okay I clean?" she asked.

"Sure." Hayward wheeled away from her desk to allow the woman access to her wastebasket. She glanced up at the clock: almost 2:30 in the morning. So much for getting to bed early. But all of a sudden, she found she had a lot to do-anything to avoid going back to her empty apartment.

She waited until the woman had gone, then wheeled back to the terminal, scrolling through the federal database once again. But it was really just a perfunctory check: she had what she needed, for now.

After a few more moments, she turned to her desk. Messy on the best of days, it was now awash in computer printouts, manila folders, SOC photographs, CD-ROMs, faxes, and index cards-the results of her search of recent unsolved homicides meeting certain criteria. The papers formed a vague sort of pile. On a far corner of the desk, neater and very much smaller, sat another pile containing only three folders. Each had been labeled with a name: Duchamp. Decker. Hamilton. All acquaintances of Pendergast. And now all dead.

Duchamp and Decker: one a friend of Pendergast, the other a colleague. Was it really a coincidence they were murdered within days of each other?

Pendergast had disappeared in Italy-under strange and almost unbelievable circumstances, as related by D'Agosta. There were no witnesses to his death, no body, no proof. Seven weeks later, three acquaintances of his were brutally murdered, one after the other. She glanced at the pile. For all she knew, there might be other victims whose connections to Pendergast she had not yet uncovered. Three was troubling enough.

What the hell was going on here?

She sat for a moment, tapping the small pile of folders restlessly. Then she pulled out the one marked Hamilton, opened it, reached for her phone, and dialed a long-distance number.

The phone rang seven, eight, nine times. At last, someone picked up. There was a silence so long Hayward thought she'd been disconnected. Then, heavy breathing and a slurred, sleep-heavy voice came on.

"Somebody'd better be dying."

"Lieutenant Casson? I'm Captain Hayward of the NYPD."

"I don't care if you're Captain Kangaroo. You know what time it is in New Orleans?"

"It's an hour later in New York, sir. I apologize for the late call, but it's important. I need to ask you a few questions about one of your cases."

"Damn it all, can't it wait until morning?"

"It's the Hamilton murder. Torrance Hamilton, the professor."

There was a long, exasperated sigh. "What about it?"

"Do you have any suspects?"

"No."

"Any leads?"

"No."

"Evidence?"

"Precious little."

"What, exactly?"

"We have the poison that killed him."

Hayward sat up. "Tell me about it."

"It's as nasty as they come-a neurotoxin similar to what you find in certain spiders. Only this stuff was synthetic and highly concentrated. A designer poison. It gave our chemists quite a thrill."

Hayward tucked the phone under her chin and began to type. "And the effects?"

"Leads to brain hemorrhaging, encephalitic shock, sudden dementia, psychosis, grand mal seizures, and death. I've had a medical education from this case you wouldn't believe. Happened right in front of his class at Louisiana State University."

"Must've been quite a scene."

"You're not kidding."

"How'd you isolate the poison?"

"We didn't need to. The killer thoughtfully left us a sample. On Hamilton's desk."

Hayward stopped typing. "What?"

"Seems he walked, bold as brass, into Hamilton's temporary office and left it on the desk. Right while the old guy was delivering the last lecture of his life. He'd spiked Hamilton's coffee with it half an hour earlier, which means he'd been on the premises for a while. The perp left it there in plain sight, like he was sending some kind of message. Or maybe it was just a taunt to the police."

"Any suspects?"

"None. Nobody noticed anybody going in or out of Hamilton's office that morning."

"Is this information public? About the poison, I mean."

"That it was poison, yes. As to what kind, no."

"Any other evidence? Latents, footprints, anything?"

"You know how it is, the SOC team picks up a shitload of crap that has to be analyzed, hardly any of it relevant. With one possible exception: a recently shed human hair with root, enough to get a DNA reading. Doesn't match Hamilton's DNA, or his secretary's, or anyone else's who frequented the office. Kind of an unusual color-secretary said she couldn't recall any recent visitors with that hair color."

"Which was?"

"Light blond. Ultra-light blond."

Hayward felt her heart suddenly pounding in her chest.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"I'm here," said Hayward. "Can you fax me the evidence list and the DNA data?"

"Sure can."

"I'll call your office first thing, leave my fax number."

"No problem."

"One other thing. I assume you're investigating Hamilton's past, his acquaintances, that sort of business."

"Naturally."

"Run across the name Pendergast?"

"Can't say I have. Is this a lead?"

"Take it for what you will."

"All right, then. But do me a favor-next time, call me during the day. I'm a lot more charming awake."

"You were charming enough, Lieutenant."

"I'm from the South-I suppose it's genetic."

Hayward replaced the phone in its cradle. For a long time, perhaps ten minutes, she remained motionless, staring at it. Then, slowly and deliberately, she replaced the file marked Hamilton, picked up the one marked Decker, lifted the phone again, and began to dial.