Two Graves

26

THE MAN APPEARED SO SUDDENLY IN THE DOORWAY OF Madeleine Teal’s office cubicle that she literally jumped. He was a very strange-looking man, dressed in black, with a pale face and gray eyes, and he radiated a restlessness bordering on agitation.

“My, you gave me a start!” she said, pressing a hand to her ample bosom. “Can I help you?”

“I’ve come for Dr. Heffler.”

Now, that was a strange way of phrasing it—he did look more than a little like the grim reaper—but the man did have a mellifluous voice with a charming southern accent. She herself came from the Midwest, and the various New York accents still grated on her nerves.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“Dr. Heffler and I are old buddies.”

Old buddies. Somehow the way he said it didn’t sound right. Nobody would use the word buddy to describe Dr. Wayne Heffler, who was a pretentious, pseudo-upper-class, condescending twit, as far as Teal was concerned. She had known plenty of Hefflers in her long career, but he was truly the worst: one of those types whose highest pleasure was found in reviewing the work of subordinates, with the sole purpose of finding fault and pointing it out in front of as many people as possible. Meanwhile, he neglected his own work and left others to scramble to cover for him, knowing they would be blamed if something went wrong or fell through the cracks.

“And your name, sir?”

“Special Agent Pendergast.”

“Oh. As in FBI?”

A singularly disturbing smile spread over the face of the special agent as a marble hand slipped inside his suit coat and withdrew a wallet, opened it to display a shield and ID, then gently closed it and reinserted it into the folds of black wool. With a not-displeasing sense of anticipation, Madeleine Teal pressed the intercom button and picked up the phone.

“Dr. Heffler, there’s an FBI agent named Pendergast here to see you, no appointment, says he knows you.”

A short pause. “Pendergast, did you say?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Send him in.”

She hung up. “You may go in.”

But the agent didn’t move. “Dr. Heffler may come out.”

Now, this was different. She got back on the phone. “He wants you to come out.”

“You tell that son of a bitch that if he wants to see me, I’m here, in my office—otherwise send him away.”

She felt a gentle tug. Pendergast’s arm had snaked up and was gently grasping the phone. “May I?”

She released the phone. No one could fault her for not opposing an FBI agent.

“Dr. Heffler? Agent Pendergast.”

She couldn’t hear the reply, but the cricket-like chittering that drifted from the earpiece indicated a raised voice. Heffler was arguing.

This, thought Madeleine Teal, is going to be good.

The FBI agent listened patiently, then responded. “I have come for the mtDNA results on the Hotel Killer.”

More irritated chittering out of the mouthpiece.

“What a shame.” He turned and smiled at her, an apparently genuine smile this time, as he handed her back the telephone. “Thank you. Now—which way is the laboratory where the mtDNA work is performed?”

“It’s down the hall to the right, but… no one’s allowed in there unescorted,” she said, lowering her voice.

“Ah, but I won’t be unescorted. Dr. Heffler will be escorting me. Or at least, he will be shortly.”

“But—”

Pendergast, however, had his cell phone out and was making a call even as he walked out the door, turned right, and headed down the hall. Almost as soon as he’d vanished, Madeleine Teal’s phone rang and she picked it up.

“Dr. Heffler, please,” came the voice. “Mayor Starke.”

“Mayor Starke?” Unbelievable. It really was him, calling personally. “Yes, sir, just a moment.” She put the call through. It lasted less than thirty seconds. Then Heffler came bursting out of his office, face red. “Where’d he go?”

“Down the hall to the lab. I told him—”

But Heffler had already taken off down the hall at an undignified jog. She had never seen the man so put out, so frightened, and—she had to be honest with herself—she enjoyed it immensely.

The Rolls pulled up at the porte cochere of the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive. Agent Pendergast instantly alighted, a slender manila folder under his arm. It was late in the day and a chill wind was coming off the Hudson, tugging at his suit and stirring his pale blond hair. Dry leaves skittered along the pavement and blew around the house as the heavy oaken door opened to swallow his dark figure.

Winding his way swiftly through the dim corridors, Pendergast reached the library. It remained untidy, the refectory table stacked with papers, spilling to the floor. The section of bookcases revealing the flat-panel remained open. He moved briskly to the rear of the library, where a swift flick of his wrist at some invisible mechanism caused another section of shelves to swing open, revealing a small work space with computer and monitor. Without bothering to sit down, Pendergast began typing on the keyboard, the screen leaping to life. He pulled a compact disk out of the manila folder, scattering papers in his haste. He fed the CD into the computer and rapped out additional commands, reaching a log-in screen. When he filled out the password, a stark black-and-white welcome page came into view:

DOCTOR’S TRIAL GROUP

mtDNA DATABASE

Homo sapiens haplogroup mitochondrion

Polymorphisms and mutations

THIS IS A CONFIDENTIAL DATABASE.

UNAUTHORIZED USE STRICTLY FORBIDDEN.

More machine-gun typing followed, and then the screen displayed a rotating wheel. A moment later a single, small result popped into view. Pendergast, still standing, stared at the result for a full five seconds—and then he staggered. Stepping backward, he wobbled for a moment, then dropped unceremoniously to his knees.