Dance Of Death

FORTY-SEVEN

D'Agosta didn't need a day to consider Hayward's offer; he didn't even need ten minutes. He walked straight out of the building, pulled out the cell phone Pendergast had given him, and asked for an emergency meeting.

A quarter of an hour later, as he stepped out of a cab at the corner of Broadway and 72nd, the memory of his encounter with Laura was still raw. But he told himself he couldn't think about that right now. He had to bury his personal feelings until the crisis was over- assuming, that is, it would ever be over.

He walked east down 72nd. Ahead, in the distance, he could see Central Park, the brown trees skeletal in the January chill. At the next intersection, he stopped and pulled out the cell phone again. Call me again once you reach Columbus and 72nd, Pendergast had said. D'Agosta was only a block away from Pendergast's apartment at the Dakota. Could he possibly be at home? It seemed outrageous, given the circumstances.

He flipped open the phone, dialed the number.

"Yes?" came the voice of Pendergast. In the background, D'Agosta could hear the tapping of keys.

"I'm at the corner," he replied.

"Very good. Make your way unobserved to 24 West 72nd. The building is mixed residential and commercial. The entrance is locked during working hours, but the receptionist habitually buzzes in anyone who looks normal. Take the stairs to the basement and locate the door marked B-14. Make sure you are alone. Then knock slowly, seven times. Have you got that?"

"Got it."

The line went dead.

Putting the phone away, D'Agosta crossed the street and continued toward the park. Up ahead, at the far corner, he could see the crenellated, sand-colored bulk of the Dakota. It looked like something out of a Charles Addams cartoon. At its base, beside a huge Gothic entrance, was a doorman's sentry box. Two cops in uniform loitered nearby, and three squad cars were parked along Central Park West.

It seemed the cavalry was already in place.

D'Agosta slowed his pace, keeping as near as he could to the building fronts, a wary eye on the police.

Twenty-four West 72nd Street was a large brownstone structure halfway down the block. He glanced around again, saw nobody suspicious, rang the buzzer, gained admittance, and quickly ducked inside.

The lobby was small and dark, the walls covered with dingy-looking gray marble. D'Agosta nodded to the receptionist, then made his way down the staircase at the rear of the lobby. There was a single basement hallway, with metal doors set into the cinder-block walls at regular intervals. It was the work of sixty seconds to find the door marked B-14. He glanced around once again, then rapped on the door seven times, as instructed.

For a moment, silence. Then, from within, the sound of a bolt being slid back. The door opened and a man wearing the black and white uniform of a doorman appeared. He glanced up and down the hall, then nodded to D'Agosta and ushered him inside.

To his surprise, D'Agosta found himself, not in a room, but in a very narrow hallway-barely more than a crawl space-that ran on ahead into darkness. The doorman switched on a flashlight, then led the way along the corridor.

It seemed to go on forever. The walls changed from cinder block, to brick, to plaster, then back to brick again. At times, the corridor widened; at others, it grew so narrow it almost brushed against D'Agosta's shoulders. It jogged left a few times, then right. At one point, they emerged into a tiny courtyard, little more than an air shaft, and D'Agosta could see a small patch of blue sky far above. It felt like being at the base of a chimney. Then they climbed a short stairway, the doorman opened another door with a large, old-fashioned key, and they entered yet another narrow corridor.

At length, the corridor dead-ended at a small service elevator. The doorman pulled back the brass grillwork, unlocked the elevator door with a different key, and motioned for D'Agosta to step in. The man stepped in behind D'Agosta, closed the grille and the elevator door, then grasped a large, circular handle in one wall. With a protesting chuff, the elevator creaked upward.

The ancient door was windowless, and D'Agosta had no idea how many floors they ascended: he guessed four or five. The elevator stopped of its own accord and the doorman opened its door. As the bronze grille was pulled back, D'Agosta saw a short passageway beyond, leading to a single door. The door was open, and Pendergast stood within it, once again clad in his habitual black suit.

D'Agosta paused, staring at him. Ever since his surprise reappearance, the man had appeared in some disguise or other-his face or clothing, or more usually both, dramatically altered-and it gave D'Agosta a strange chill to see his old friend as he really was.

"Vincent," Pendergast said. "Do come in." And he led the way into a small, almost featureless room. There was an oaken dresser and a leather sofa along one wall, and a worktable along another. Four iMac laptops were lined up on the worktable, along with some NAS devices and what looked to D'Agosta like a network hub. There were two doors in the rear of the room; one was closed, and the other opened onto a small bathroom.

"This is your Dakota apartment?" D'Agosta asked in disbelief.

A wan smile appeared on Pendergast's face, then disappeared again. "Hardly," he said, closing the door. "My apartment is on the floor above this one."

"Then what's this place?"

"Think of it as a bolt-hole. A rather high-tech bolt-hole. It was set up last year on the advice of an Ohio acquaintance of mine, in case his services were temporarily unavailable."

"Well, you can't stay here. The cops are crawling all over the entrance to the Dakota. I've just come from Laura Hayward's office, and she's got a red-hot suspect."

"Me."

"And how in hell did you learn that?"

"I've known it for some time." Pendergast's eyes darted from monitor to monitor as his hands flew over the keys. "When I came upon the murder scene of my friend Michael Decker, I found several strands of hair clutched in his hand. Blond hair. My brother's hair is not blond: it's a gingery red. Immediately, I realized that Diogenes's plan was even more 'interesting' than I'd suspected. Not only did he plan to kill everyone close to me-he planned to frame me for their murders."

"But what about the notes Diogenes wrote you? Don't they indicate he's alive?"

"No. Recall the odd handwriting, the handwriting I said was strangely familiar? That was my handwriting, but altered just enough so it would appear-to a handwriting expert, anyway-that I was trying to disguise it."

D'Agosta took a moment to digest this. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I saw no reason to burden you with all this before it was necessary. When I saw those hairs, it was perfectly clear to me that Diogenes would have salted the other crime scenes with false evidence as well. I'm sure, during my convalescence in Italy, he stocked up on all the physical evidence he needed, taken from my person, including my blood. It was only a matter of time before they connected me to the killings. I had hoped I'd have a little more time than this. Hayward did a commendable job."

"That's not all. Laura asked me to set you up. I walked out on that one. They've sworn out a warrant on you. You can't stay here."

"On the contrary, Vincent, I must stay here. It's the only place with the resources I need on short notice. And it is a bit like Poe's purloined letter-the last place they expect to find me is at home. The police presence is a mere formality."

D'Agosta stared at him. "So that's how you knew Diogenes wouldn't target Laura. She's the one investigating Duchamp's murder. He was banking on her suspecting you."

"Precisely. Now, pull up a chair and let me show you what I'm doing." Pendergast waved his hands toward the four laptops.

"These computers are tapped in parasitically to the city's web of street corner surveillance cameras, along with a couple of major private systems-ATMs and banks, for example." He pointed at one of the screens, which was currently subdivided into a dozen small windows: in each window, black-and-white video feeds of sidewalks, street intersections, and toll plazas were zipping by in accelerated reverse motion.

"Why?"

"I'm convinced Diogenes's final crime is going to take place in or around Manhattan. And you cannot move around a city like New York these days without being photographed, taped, or otherwise surveyed dozens of times every hour."

"But Diogenes is disguised."

"To most, yes. Not to me. You can disguise your appearance, but you can't disguise everything-your mannerisms, the way you walk, even the way you blink your eyes. Diogenes and I are very alike physically. I've videotaped myself, and now I'm running image-recognition and pattern-recognition algorithms against these video-in-various-states-of-motion feeds." He waved at another of the laptops. "As you can see, I'm concentrating particularly on feeds near the Dakota and the intersections around the Riverside Drive mansion. We know Diogenes has been to the mansion, and he has probably been here as well. If I can locate him, acquire an image print, I can track him backwards and forwards visually from that point, try to find a pattern in his movements."

"Wouldn't that need more computing horsepower than you'd find at a small university?"

"Hence the wiring closet." And Pendergast reached over and opened the closed door. Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, were rack-mounted blade servers and RAID arrays.

D'Agosta whistled. "You understand all this shit?"

"No. But I know how to use it."

Pendergast swiveled to look at him. Although his skin was paler than D'Agosta had ever seen it, the agent's eyes glittered with a dangerous brightness. He had the manic energy, the deceptive second wind, of somebody who had not slept in several days.

"Diogenes is out there, Vincent. He's lurking somewhere in this myriad of data streams. To commit his ultimate crime, he's going to have to surface. And that's my chance-my last, my only chance- to stop him. This room is the only place anymore where I have access to the technology that can accomplish that." More clattering of keys. "The acquaintance I spoke of just now, the one in Ohio? He would be far better suited to this job than I. But he has been forced to make himself invisible for… for reasons of his own protection."

"Laura isn't the type to wait around. They're probably already coming after you."

"And no doubt you, too."

D'Agosta said nothing.

"They've searched my apartment, they've probably searched the Riverside Drive house. As for this little warren… well, you saw yourself that I have a private exit from the Dakota. Even the doormen here don't know about it. Only Martyn, who you just met."

He paused in his typing. "Vincent, there is something you must do."

"What's that?"

"You'll go straight to Laura Hayward, say that you'll cooperate in every way, but that I seem to have disappeared and that you've no idea where I am. There's no need for you to damage your career any further over this."

"I already told you, I'm with you all the way."

"Vincent, I am demanding that you leave."

"Hey, Aloysius?"

Pendergast looked at him.

"Up yours."

He saw Pendergast's eyes were upon him. "I won't forget this,

Vincent."

"Never mind."

The agent went back to his work. Ten minutes passed, twenty- and then Pendergast suddenly stiffened.

"A hit?"

"I believe so," Pendergast said. He was staring intently at one of the computers, playing a grainy image over and over, forward and backward.

D'Agosta looked over his shoulder. "Is that him?"

"The computer believes so. And I do, as well. It's odd, though- the image isn't taken from outside the Dakota, as I'd expected. It's about six blocks north, outside of-"

At that moment, a low chime sounded from a box on the table. Pendergast turned toward it quickly.

"What's that?" D'Agosta asked.

"It's Martyn. It seems there's somebody to see me."

D'Agosta tensed. "Police?"

Pendergast shook his head. He leaned toward the box, depressed a switch.

"A bicycle messenger, sir," came the voice. "He has an envelope for you."

"You've asked him to wait?"

"Yes."

"And the police are unaware of his presence?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring him up. Take the usual precautions." Pendergast took his finger from the switch and straightened. "Let's see what this is about." His tone was casual, but his face looked drawn.

They walked down the short hallway to the elevator. A minute passed without a word being exchanged. Then, from below, the elevator gave a clank and began to rise. Shortly, the brass grille was drawn back and two figures emerged: the doorman D'Agosta had met earlier and the bicycle messenger, a slim Hispanic youth wearing a scarf and a heavy jacket. He held an oversize envelope in one hand.

Looking at the package, Pendergast's pale face went gray. Wordlessly, he reached into a pocket of his black jacket, withdrew a pair of medical gloves, and drew them on. Then he took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to the messenger.

"Would you mind waiting here a few moments, please?" he asked.

"I guess," the messenger said, looking suspiciously at the gloves.

Pendergast took the envelope, exchanged a private look with the doorman. Then, nodding to D'Agosta, he strode quickly back into the room.

"Is it from Diogenes?" D'Agosta asked, closing the door behind them.

Pendergast didn't respond. Instead, he spread a sheet of white paper on the desk, laid the envelope on top of it, and examined it carefully. It was unsealed, the rear flap loosely fastened by twisted red thread. Pendergast gave the thread a brief, close scrutiny. Then he unwound it and carefully upended the envelope.

A small sheet of folded paper fell out, followed by a lock of glossy dark hair.

Pendergast drew in his breath sharply. In the room, it sounded explosively loud. Quickly, he knelt and opened the folded sheet.

The paper was a beautiful, hand-pressed linen, with an embossed coat of arms at its top: a lidless eye over two moons, with a lion couchant. Beneath, written in tobacco-colored ink with a fountain pen or quill, was a date: January 28.

D'Agosta realized it was identical to the note Pendergast had received a few months earlier, at the mansion on Riverside Drive. Unlike that note, however, this one had more written upon it than just a date. His eye fell to the words below:

She's very spirited, brother. I can see why you like her.

Savor this token as earnest of my claim: a lock of her lovely hair. Savor it also as a memento of her passing. If you caress it you can almost smell the sweet air of Capraia.

Of course, I could be lying about everything. This lock could belong to someone else. Search your heart for the truth.

Frater, ave atque vale.

"Oh, my…" D'Agosta said. The words were cut off as his throat closed up involuntarily. He glanced over at the agent. He was sitting on the floor, gently stroking the lock of hair. The look on his face was so terrible D'Agosta had to turn away.

"It could be a lie," he said. "Your brother's lied before."

Pendergast did not answer. There was a brief and awful silence.

"I'll go question the messenger," D'Agosta said, not daring to look back.

Exiting the room, he walked down the corridor to the elevator. The messenger was there, waiting, watched over by Martyn.

"NYPD," he said, briefly showing his badge. Everything had slowed down, as in a nightmare. He felt curiously heavy, as if he could barely move his limbs. He wondered if this was what it was like to be in shock.

The youth nodded.

"Who gave you the package to deliver?"

"Somebody in a cab dropped it off at our service."

"What did the passenger look like?"

"It was just the cabbie. There was no passenger."

"What kind of vehicle, exactly?"

"Typical yellow cab. From the city."

"Did you get a name or medallion number?" Even as he asked the question, D'Agosta knew it wouldn't matter whether the kid had gotten one or not; no doubt Diogenes had covered his trail.

The messenger shook his head.

"How were you paid?"

"The driver paid fifty bucks. Said his instructions were to get a messenger to deliver the package to a Dr. Pendergast, 1 West 72nd Street. In person, if possible. And not to talk to anybody but Dr. Pendergast or the doorman."

"Very well." D'Agosta got the youth's name and employer. Then he took Martyn aside, asking him to make sure the cops didn't stop the messenger as he left the building. The strange feeling of heaviness had not left him. He walked back down the corridor to the small room.

Pendergast did not look up at his entrance. He was still sitting on the floor, hunched forward, the lock of hair placed before him. One hand rested on each knee, palm inward, each thumb forming a small circle with the middle finger. The bereft, grief-stricken expression on his face had disappeared, and in its place was utter impassivity. He did not move, did not blink, didn't even seem to breathe. He looked to D'Agosta as if he were a million miles away.

Maybe he is, D'Agosta thought. Maybe he's meditating or something. Or maybe he's just trying to keep himself sane.

"The messenger knew nothing," he said as gently as he could. "The trail's too well covered."

Pendergast did not acknowledge this. He remained motionless. His face had lost none of its pallor.

"How the hell did Diogenes find out about Viola?" D'Agosta burst out.

Pendergast spoke almost robotically. "For the first week, while in Diogenes's care, I was raving. Delirious. It's possible I mentioned her name. Nothing escapes Diogenes-nothing."

D'Agosta sank into a nearby chair. Right now, he didn't think he cared if Laura Hayward, a dozen FBI agents, and an army corps came storming into the apartment. They could lock him up and throw away the key. It wouldn't make any difference. Life was shit.

The two sat in the room, motionless, silent, as half an hour ticked by.

Then, without warning, Pendergast leaped to his feet, so suddenly that D'Agosta's heart turned over in his chest.

"She would have traveled under her own name!" he said, eyes glittering intently.

"What?" D'Agosta said, rising himself.

"She wouldn't have come if he'd asked her to use a pseudonym or arranged for a false passport. And she must have just arrived; he wouldn't delay the note-he wouldn't have had time!"

He raced toward the nearest laptop and began typing furiously. Within twenty seconds, the typing stopped.

"Here she is!" he cried.

D'Agosta raced to look at Pendergast's screen:

Folkestone DataCentre PROPRIETARY

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