Two Graves

44

IN THE APARTMENT OVERLOOKING FIRST AVENUE, LIEUTENANT Vincent D’Agosta paced restlessly. He threw himself down on the living room couch, turned on the television, ran aimlessly through the channels, then turned it off again. He got up, walked to the sliding door, and looked out over the darkened balcony. He went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door, took out a beer, thought better of it, replaced it and closed the door.

Every few minutes he glanced toward the phone, then glanced away again.

He knew he should join Laura in bed, get some sleep, but he also knew sleep just wouldn’t come. In the fallout that followed his meeting with Singleton, he’d been given a so-called command discipline and relieved of the squad commander post on the hotel killings—as Singleton had pointed out, he was damn lucky not to have fared worse, no thanks to Pendergast. The thought of getting up in the morning and going back to his desk and picking up the pieces of half a dozen piece-of-shit crimes was almost more than he could stand.

He looked over at the phone again. He might as well get it over with—he’d never feel easy until he got it off his chest.

He sighed, then picked up the phone and dialed Pendergast’s cell.

It was answered on the third ring. “Yes?” came the cool southern drawl.

“Pendergast? It’s me. Vinnie.”

There was a pause. When the voice sounded again, it had dropped several dozen degrees in temperature. “Yes?”

“Where are you?”

“In my car. Driving home.”

“Good. I thought you’d still be awake. Listen, I just wanted to say… well, how sorry I am about what happened.”

When there was no answer, D’Agosta struggled on. “I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I was squad commander, it was my duty to report any and all possible evidence. Singleton was coming down hard on me—I was backed into a corner.”

Still no reply. D’Agosta licked his lips. “Look, I know you’ve gone through a lot these past several weeks. I’m your friend, I want to help any way I can. But this… this is my job. I had no choice. You’ve got to understand.”

When it came, Pendergast’s voice was as brittle, yet as steely, as he’d ever heard it. “Even one with the meanest comprehension would understand. You betrayed a confidence.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “You can’t take it like that. I mean, we’re not talking about the sanctity of the confessional here. Withholding the identity of a serial killer, even if it is your own flesh and blood—that’s illegal. Trust me, better it came out now than later.”

No response.

“They took me off the case. And you—let’s face it—you were never on it to begin with. Let’s put that all behind us now.”

“My son—as you so kindly pointed out—is a serial killer. How, precisely, am I supposed to put that behind me?”

“Then let me help you. On the side. I’ll still have access and I can pass developments on to you. We’ve worked that way before—we can do it again.”

Once again, Pendergast was silent.

“Well? What do you say?”

“What do I say? What I say is this: exactly how much longer am I to be burdened with self-serving justifications and unwanted offers of assistance?”

D’Agosta felt the full force of this, and the unfairness of it all, coming suddenly to a boil. “You know what I say?” he shouted. “Fuck you!” And he slammed down the phone.