Dance Of Death

FIVE

There were no secretaries, receptionists, or low-echelon flunkies seated outside the entrance to Glen Singleton's office. The room itself was no larger than any of the other few dozen offices scattered around the cramped and dusty confines of the precinct house. There was no sign on the door announcing the exalted status of its tenant. Unless you were a cop yourself, there would be no way of knowing this was the office of the head honcho.

But that, D'Agosta reflected as he approached, was the captain's style. Captain Singleton was that rarest of police brass, a guy who'd worked his way up honorably through the ranks, built a reputation not from kissing ass, but by solving tough cases with solid police work. He lived and breathed for one reason: to get criminals off the streets. He was perhaps the hardest-working cop D'Agosta had ever known, save Laura Hayward. D'Agosta had worked for more than his fair share of incompetent desk jockeys, and that made him respect Singleton's professionalism all the more. He sensed that Singleton respected him, too, and to D'Agosta that meant a great deal.

All this made what he was about to do even harder.

Singleton's door was wide open, as usual. It wasn't his style to limit access-any cop who wanted to see him could do so at any time. D'Agosta knocked, half leaning into the doorway. Singleton was there, standing behind the desk, talking into the phone. Even at his desk, the man never seemed to sit down. He was in his late forties, tall and lean, with a swimmer's physique-he swam laps every morning at six, without fail. He had a long face and an aquiline profile. Every other week he had his salt-and-pepper hair cut by the ridiculously expensive barber in the basement of the Carlyle, and he always looked as well groomed as a presidential candidate.

Singleton flashed a smile at D'Agosta and gestured for him to come in.

D'Agosta stepped inside. Singleton pointed to a seat, but D'Agosta shook his head: something about the captain's restless energy made him feel more comfortable on his feet.

Singleton was clearly talking to somebody in NYPD public relations. His voice was polite, but D'Agosta knew that, inside, Singleton was doing a slow boil: his interest lay in police work, not P.R. He hated the very concept, telling D'Agosta, "Either you catch the perp or you don't. So what's there to spin?"

D'Agosta glanced around. The office was decorated so minimally it was almost anonymous. No photos of family; no obligatory picture of the captain shaking hands with the mayor or commissioner. Singleton was one of the most decorated cops on active duty, but there were no commendations for bravery, no plaques or citations framed on the walls. Instead, there was just some paperwork sitting on a corner of his desk, fifteen or twenty manila folders on a nearby shelf. On a second shelf, D'Agosta could see handbooks on forensic technique and crime scene investigation, half a dozen well-thumbed books on jurisprudence.

Singleton hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. "Hell," he said. "I feel like I spend more time juggling community action groups than I do catching bad guys. It's enough to make me wish I was on foot patrol again." He turned toward D'Agosta with another short smile. "Vinnie, how's it going?"

"Okay," D'Agosta replied, not feeling okay at all. Singleton's friendliness and approachability made this little visit all the more difficult.

The captain hadn't requested D'Agosta: he'd been assigned to the division by the commissioner's office. This would have guaranteed D'Agosta a suspicious, hostile reception from other brass he'd known-Jack Waxie, for instance. Waxie would have felt threatened, kept D'Agosta at arm's length, made sure he got the low-profile cases. But Singleton was just the opposite. He'd welcomed D'Agosta, personally brought him up to speed on the details and procedures unique to his office, even put him in charge of the Dangler investigation-and, at the moment, cases didn't get any higher-profile than that.

The Dangler hadn't killed anybody. He hadn't even used a gun. But he'd done something almost as bad: he'd subjected the NYPD to public ridicule. A thief who emptied ATMs of cash, then whipped out his dong for the benefit of their security cameras, was perfect fodder for the daily tabloids. So far, the Dangler had paid visits to eleven ATMs. Each new robbery meant more front-page headlines, smirking, full of innuendo. Each time, the NYPD had its face rubbed in it afresh. Dangler's streak grows longer, the Post had trumpeted after the last robbery, three days before. Police find themselves short.

"How's our witness?" Singleton asked. "She panning out?" He stood behind his desk, looking at D'Agosta. The captain had piercing blue eyes, and when they looked at you, it was like you were the center of the universe: for that brief moment, at least, you had his complete and undivided attention. It was unnerving.

"Her story checks out against the security cam."

"Good, good. Hell, you'd think in this digital age the banks would be able to manage better coverage with their security cams. The guy seems to know their sweep, their range-you think he worked in security once?"

"We're looking into that."

"Eleven hits and all we still know for sure is he's Caucasian."

And circumcised, D'Agosta thought mirthlessly. "I had our detectives call all the branch managers on the hot list. They're installing additional hidden cameras."

"The perp might be working for the security firm that provides the cameras."

"Looking into that, too."

"One step ahead of me. That's what I like to hear." Singleton moved toward the pile of paperwork, began riffling through it. "This guy's pretty territorial. All his jobs have been within a twenty-square-block area. So the next step is to stake out the choicest machines he hasn't hit yet. Unless we can narrow down the list of potentials, we'll be spread too thin. Thank God we aren't working any active homicides at the moment. Vinnie, I'll leave it to you to interface with the task force, draw up a list of most likely ATMs based on the earlier hits, and allocate manpower for the stakeouts. Who knows? We might just get lucky."

Here it comes, D'Agosta thought. He licked his lips. "Actually, that's what I came in to talk to you about."

Singleton stopped, fixed him once again with his intense gaze. Wrapped up in his work the way he was, it hadn't occurred to the captain that D'Agosta might have come in about anything else. "What's on your mind?"

"I don't really know how to say this, but… sir, I wish to request a leave of absence."

Singleton's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "A leave of absence?"

"Yes, sir." D'Agosta knew how it sounded. But no matter how he'd rehearsed in his mind, it never seemed to come out right.

Singleton held his gaze a moment longer. He didn't say anything; he didn't need to. A leave of absence. You've been here six weeks, and you want a leave of absence?

"Anything I should know, Vinnie?" he asked in a low voice.

"It's a family matter," D'Agosta replied after a brief pause. He hated himself for stammering under Singleton's gaze, and hated himself even more for lying. But just what the hell was he supposed to say? Sorry, Cap, but I'm taking unlimited time off to go chase a man who's officially dead, whose whereabouts are unknown, for a crime that hasn't yet been committed? There was no question in his mind, no question at all, this was something he had to do. It was so important to Pendergast that he'd left instructions from beyond the grave. That was more than enough. But that didn't make this any easier or feel any more right.

Singleton held him in a look that was both concerned and speculative.

"Vinnie, you know I can't do that."

With a sinking sensation, D'Agosta realized it was going to be even harder than he anticipated. Even if he had to quit, he would- but that would be the end of his career. A cop could quit once, but not twice.

"It's my mother," he said. "She's got cancer. They think it's terminal."

Singleton stood quite still for a moment, taking this in. Then he rocked slightly on his heels. "I'm very, very sorry to hear that."

There was another silence. D'Agosta wished somebody would knock on the door, or the phone would ring, or a meteor would strike the precinct house-anything to deflect Singleton's attention.

"We just found out," he went on. "It was a shock, a real shock." He paused, sick at heart. He'd just blurted out the first excuse he could think of, but already it seemed an appalling choice. His own mother, cancer… shit, he'd have to go to confession after this, big-time. And call his mom in Vero Beach, send her two dozen roses.

Singleton was nodding slowly. "How much time do you need?"

"The doctors don't know. A week, maybe two."

Singleton nodded again, even more slowly. D'Agosta felt himself flushing all over. He wondered what the captain was thinking.

"She doesn't have much time left," he went on. "You know how it is. I haven't exactly been a model son. I just feel I need to be with her, right now, through this… Just like any son would," he concluded lamely. "You could rack it up against future vacation and sick leave."

Singleton listened closely, but this time he didn't nod. "Of course," he said.

He gazed at D'Agosta a long time. His look seemed to say: A lot of people have sick parents, personal tragedies. But they're professionals. What's so different about you? Breaking eye contact at last, he turned away, picking up the sheaf of papers that lay on his desk.

"I'll have Mercer and Sabriskie coordinate the stakeouts," he said crisply over his shoulder. "Take whatever time you need, Lieutenant."