Two Graves

40

THE ALARM BELLS HAD BEEN GOING OFF EVER SINCE D’Agosta got the message that Glen Singleton wanted to see him. And now, as he entered the captain’s outer office, the alarms rang even louder. Midge Rawley, Singleton’s secretary—normally so gossipy—barely looked up from her computer terminal as he approached. “Go right in, Lieutenant,” she said without making eye contact.

D’Agosta walked past her into Singleton’s private office. Immediately, his fears were confirmed. Sure enough—there was Singleton, behind his desk, nattily dressed as usual. But it was the expression on the captain’s face that made D’Agosta’s heart sink. Singleton was perhaps the most straightforward, honest man D’Agosta had ever met. He hadn’t the least hint of guile or duplicity—what you saw was what you got. And what D’Agosta saw was a man struggling with a very thorny problem.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?” D’Agosta asked.

“Yes.” Singleton glanced down at a document that lay on his desk. He scanned it, turned a page. “We’re in the midst of a situation, Lieutenant—or at least, you’re in the midst of it.”

D’Agosta raised his eyebrows.

“As squad commander for the Hotel Killer murders, you appear to be caught in a turf war. Between two FBI agents.” He glanced down again at the papers on his desk. “I’ve gotten my hands on a formal complaint Agent Gibbs has just made against Agent Pendergast. In it, he cites lack of cooperation, freelancing, failure to coordinate—among other grievances.” He paused. “Your name comes up in the complaint. Comes up more than once, in fact.”

D’Agosta did not reply.

“I called you in here, privately, for two reasons. First—to advise you to stay out of the crossfire. This is an FBI matter, and, believe me, we don’t want to get involved.”

D’Agosta felt himself stiffening, as if at a cadet review.

Singleton glanced back down at the document, turned yet another page. “The second reason I called you in was to learn anything special about this case that you might know. I need you to share with me the relevant information—all the relevant information. You see, Lieutenant, if the shit hits the fan and this thing escalates into World War Three, I don’t want to be the one who gets blindsided.”

“It’s all in the report, sir,” D’Agosta said carefully.

“Is it? This is no time to take sides, Lieutenant.”

A silence settled over the office. At last, Singleton sighed. “Vincent, we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye. But I’ve always believed you were a good cop.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“But this is not the first time your association with Pendergast has become a problem. And jeopardized my good opinion.”

“Sir?”

“Let me be frank. Based on his report, Agent Gibbs seems to believe Pendergast is withholding information. That he isn’t sharing everything he knows.” Singleton paused. “The fact is, Gibbs is deeply suspicious about Pendergast’s actions regarding this latest murder. And I don’t blame him. From what I’ve seen in this document, there’s not even a hint of standard law enforcement protocols being followed here. And there seems to be a lot of unexplained, ah, activity going on.”

D’Agosta couldn’t meet Singleton’s disappointed gaze. He looked down at his shoes.

“I know that you and Pendergast have a history. That you’re friends. But this is one of the biggest serial murder cases in years. You are the squad commander. This is yours to lose. So think a minute before you answer. Is there anything else I should know?”

D’Agosta remained silent.

“Look, Lieutenant. You went down in flames once before, almost destroyed your career, thanks to Pendergast. I don’t want to see that happen again. It’s obvious Gibbs is bound and determined to crucify Pendergast. He doesn’t care who gets caught up in the collateral damage.”

Still D’Agosta said nothing. He found himself recalling all the times he’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Pendergast: against that terrible creature in the natural history museum; against the Wrinklers, deep beneath the streets of Manhattan; against Count Fosco and that bastard Bullard in Italy; and, more recently, against Judson Esterhazy and the mysterious Bund. And yet, at the same time, he could not deny his own doubts over Pendergast’s recent behavior and motives, even his concern for the man’s sanity. And he couldn’t help but recall Laura Hayward’s words: It’s your duty to turn over all evidence, all information, even the crazy stuff. This isn’t about friendship. This is about catching a dangerous killer who’s likely to kill again. You have to do the right thing.

He took a deep breath, looked up. And then, as if from far away, he heard himself say: “Pendergast believes his son is the murderer.”

Singleton’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“I know it sounds crazy. But Pendergast told me that he thinks his own son is responsible for these killings.”

“And… you believe this?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Pendergast’s wife just died under terrible circumstances. The man’s come as near to cracking up as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

Singleton shook his head. “Lieutenant, when I asked you for information about this case, I wanted real information.” He sat back. “I mean, this sounds ridiculous. I didn’t even know Agent Pendergast had a son.”

“Neither did I, sir.”

“There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

“There is nothing else I can tell you. It’s like I said—everything else is in my report.”

Singleton looked at him. “So Pendergast withheld information. And you’ve known about this for how long?”

D’Agosta winced inwardly. “Long enough.”

Singleton sat back in his chair. For a moment, neither man spoke.

“Very well, Lieutenant,” Singleton said at last. “I’ll have to think about how best to address that.”

Miserably, D’Agosta nodded his understanding.

“Before you go, let me give you one last piece of advice. A minute ago, I told you not to get involved in this. Not to take sides. And that’s good advice. But the time may come—and, based on what you’ve just told me, it may come sooner than I expected—that all of us will be forced to take a side. If that happens, you will come down on the side of Gibbs and the BSU. Not on the side of Pendergast. Frankly, I don’t like the man, I don’t like his methods—and this business about his son makes me think he’s finally gone off the deep end. Is that clear, Lieutenant?”

“Extremely clear, sir.”

“Good.” Singleton looked down and turned the report over on his desk, signaling that the meeting was at an end.