Cemetery Dance Read online

  Repeated attempts. His cell phone was on night and frigging day, and his office number rolled over to it after hours. Now that he thought about it, he had gotten a call or maybe two from that woman, Kidd, but who has time to return every call? Repeated attempts, my ass. Twice, more like it. Well, okay, maybe three times.

  Now he knew exactly why Laura Hayward had called.

  The previous article, about voodoo, had been a joke. But this one had some real meat, and the piteous description of the bleating animal being killed was all too effective. Animal lovers, he knew, could be damn near rabid.

  The theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly rang out in the coffee shop. D’Agosta quickly grabbed his cell phone, flipped it open, and walked out into the lobby.

  The commissioner.

  “We speak again,” said the commissioner.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I assume you’ve seen the West Sider piece?”

  “Yes, sir, I have.” He tried to keep his tone respectful, as if yesterday had never happened.

  “It seems that you might be barking up the wrong tree with Kline—eh, Lieutenant?” The voice had a cold edge to it.

  “I’m keeping all lines open in this investigation.”

  A grunt. “So what do you think? Ville or Kline?”

  “As I said, we’re pursuing both leads.”

  “This thing has really exploded. The mayor’s concerned. I just got calls from the News and the Post. This business about you being unavailable for comment… Look, you need to be out there, reassuring people, giving answers.”

  “I’ll schedule a press conference.”

  “You do that. Two o’clock would be a good time. Focus on the Ville—and leave Kline out of it.” A crackle as the connection was cut.

  D’Agosta headed back into Starbucks. “Give me four shots of espresso,” he said. “To go.”

  30

  At the best of times, D’Agosta hated press conferences. And this was hardly the best of times. There was little to tell—and what there was to tell seemed to beggar belief. As he peered through the doorway into the briefing room—every seat taken, the reporters and cameramen and officials all shouting over each other—Commissioner Rocker came up beside him. “Ready with your statement, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.” D’Agosta glanced at him. Rocker wore his usual dark suit, a small NYPD pin set into one lapel. The commissioner returned the glance, looking even wearier than usual.

  “You remember what I said: no Kline.”

  D’Agosta swallowed. Forget all the coffee—he could use a double bourbon right about now. He hadn’t planned to mention Kline anyway; he didn’t want to get sued for defamation.

  As they walked out into the briefing room and ascended the podium, the volume of noise grew even louder. Explosions of light peppered the room as a dozen flash units went off. The commissioner stepped toward the lectern and put out his hands for silence. It took a good thirty seconds for the crowd to settle down. At last, the commissioner cleared his throat.

  “Detective Lieutenant D’Agosta, who is in charge of the Smith-back homicide, will say a few words about the current state of his investigation. We will then open the floor for questions. Before Lieutenant D’Agosta speaks, I would just ask all of you to please be responsible in how you report this case to the public. This is an exceptionally sensational crime, and the city is already on edge as a result. Causing additional unrest can only lead to further damage. And now, Lieutenant, if you would?”

  “Thank you.” D’Agosta approached the microphone with trepidation. He gazed out over the sea of faces, swallowed painfully. “As you are all aware,” he began, “William Smithback, a resident of the Upper West Side, was the victim of a homicide one week ago. Members of law enforcement, under my direction, have been aggressively investigating the case. As a result, numerous lines of inquiry have been opened. We are pursuing several leads, and we feel confident that those responsible will be identified and apprehended in the very near future. In the meantime, we would ask that if anybody has any information of value to the investigation, they contact the NYPD immediately.” He paused. “I’ll take your questions now.”

  Instantly, the hubbub resumed. D’Agosta held up his hands for order. “Quiet, please!” he said into the microphone. “Quiet!” He stepped back, waiting for a semblance of order to return. “Thank you. You, in front.” He nodded at a middle-aged woman in a yellow blouse.

  “What can you tell us about this Ville? Are they really performing animal sacrifices?”

  “There have been several complaints about animal noise emanating from that location. This is one of the areas under active investigation. I might add that we have found no direct connection between the Ville and the Smithback homicide.”

  “Speaking of the Smithback homicide,” the woman went on, “are the autopsy results back? What was the cause of death?”

  “The cause of death was a stab wound to the heart.”

  He surveyed the crowd: the hands straining in the air, the lights and cameras and digital recorders. It seemed strange not to see Smith-back among the eager faces, shouting and gesticulating, cowlick bobbing.

  “Yes,” he said, pointing to a man in the third row wearing a large, gaudy bow tie.

  “Have you confirmed the identity of Smithback’s killer? Was it Fearing, his neighbor?”

  “Fearing wasn’t a neighbor. He lived in the same building. Tests are still ongoing, but at present all evidence indicates that, yes, Fearing is definitely a person of interest in our investigation. He is currently at large and considered a fugitive from justice.” If a possible stiff can be considered a fugitive, that is.

  “What’s Fearing’s connection to the Ville?”

  “We have not established a connection between Fearing and the Ville.”

  This was going better than he’d hoped: under the circumstances, the press seemed controlled, almost respectful. He nodded at another upraised hand.

  “What about the search of Kline’s office. Is he a suspect?”

  “He’s not a suspect at this time.” D’Agosta avoided glancing at Rocker. Jesus, how did the press always seem to know everything?

  “Then why the search?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t go into that aspect of the investigation.”

  He began to point to another reporter, but suddenly one voice cut over the others. D’Agosta turned toward it, frowning. A man had stood up near the front: tall and preppie looking, with short sandy hair, a repp tie, and a chin cleft you could park a truck in.

  “I want to know what real progress has been made,” he said in a loud, stentorian voice. The question was so vague, yet so aggressive, that for a moment D’Agosta was stunned into silence.

  “Excuse me?” he said.

  “I’m Bryce Harriman,” the man said. “Of the Times. A fellow member of the New York journalist corps—my good friend Bill Smithback—has been brutally murdered. A week has gone by. So let me put it a different way: why has so little real progress been made?”

  A murmur ran through the crowd. A few heads nodded their agreement.

  “We have made real progress. Obviously, I am not at liberty to go into all the details.” D’Agosta knew how lame it sounded, but it was the best he could do.

  But Harriman paid no attention. “This was an attack on a journalist for doing his job,” he said with a flourish. “An attack on us, on our profession.”

  The assenting murmurs increased. D’Agosta began to call on another, but Harriman refused to be silent. “What’s going on at the Ville?” he said, raising his voice.

  “As I said, there is no evidence implicating the Ville in—”

  Harriman cut him off. “Why are they allowed to keep openly torturing and killing animals—and maybe not just animals? Lieutenant, surely you must be aware that a lot of New Yorkers are asking the same question: Why have the police done absolutely nothing?”

  All at once the crowd was in full cry—demanding, gesticulatin
g, their expressions angry. And—as one by one they rose to their feet—Harriman sat back down again, a look of smug satisfaction creasing his patrician face.

  31

  The Rolls passed through a large white gate and continued up a cobbled driveway, which ran among ancient oaks before opening suddenly onto a grand mansion surrounded by outbuildings: a carriage house, a gazebo, a greenhouse, and a vast, shingled red barn built on ancient stone foundations. Beyond, a sweep of manicured lawn led down to the waters of Long Island Sound, sparkling in the morning light.

  D’Agosta whistled. “Jesus, what a spread.”

  “Indeed. And we can’t even see the caretaker’s house, helipad, and trout hatchery from our current vantage point.”

  “Remind me why we’re here again,” D’Agosta said.

  “Mr. Esteban is one of the people who complained most vocally about the Ville. I’m curious to hear his sentiments on the place firsthand.”

  At a word from Pendergast, Proctor brought the vehicle to a stop before the barn. Its doors were wide open, and without a word the agent stepped quickly out of the Rolls and disappeared into the cavernous structure.

  “Hey, the house is that way…” D’Agosta’s voice faltered. He looked around nervously. What on earth was Pendergast up to this time?

  He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.

  The man came over, still holding the ax.

  “Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here,” D’Agosta murmured as the agent rejoined him.

  The man was tall, with a short salt-and-pepper beard, longish hair falling below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as Anglo as they came—in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a walking advertisement for Lands’ End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos, checked shirt, work gloves—lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, his melodious voice bearing no trace of accent.

  Pendergast slipped out his badge. “Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta, NYPD homicide.”

  The eyes narrowed, the lips pursed, as he examined the badge carefully. His eyes finally glanced up and past them at the Rolls. “Nice squad car you’ve got there.”

  “Budget cuts,” Pendergast replied. “One makes do as best one can.”

  “Right.”

  “You are Alexander Esteban?” D’Agosta asked.

  “Correct.”

  “We’d like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “We’re looking for some help with the homicide of William Smithback, the Times journalist,” Pendergast said. “I’d consider it a favor if you would answer our questions.”

  The man nodded, stroked his beard. “I knew Smithback. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “You produce films, is that correct?” Pendergast asked.

  “I used to. These days I spend most of my time in philanthropic pursuits.”

  “I saw the article about you in Mademoiselle. The one that called you the ‘modern DeMille.’”

  “History’s my passion.” Esteban gave a light laugh of false modesty. It didn’t work.

  D’Agosta suddenly remembered: Esteban was that guy who made the splashy, cheesy historical epics. He’d gone to see the most recent with Laura Hayward, Breakout Sing Sing, about the famous breakout of thirty-three inmates back in the early sixties. Neither of them had liked it. There was another he vaguely recollected: The Last Days of Marie Antoinette.

  “But more to our purpose is the organization you run. Humans for Other Animals, is that correct?”

  He nodded. “HOA, right. Although I’m primarily the mouthpiece, as it were. A well-known name assigned to the cause.” He smiled. “Rich Plock is the guy in charge.”

  “I see. And you were in touch with Mr. Smithback about the series he was planning to write on the Ville des Zirondelles, known popularly as the Ville?”

  “Our organization has been concerned about reports of animal sacrifices there. It’s been going on for a long time, and nothing’s been done. I contacted all the papers, including the Times, and finally Mr. Smithback got back to me.”

  “When was that?”

  “Let’s see—it was about a week or so before he published his first article, I believe.”

  Pendergast nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the questioning.

  D’Agosta took over. “Tell us about it.”

  “Smithback called me up and I met with him in the city. We had gathered some information on the Ville—complaints from neighbors, eyewitness reports of live animals being delivered, bills of sale, that sort of thing—and I gave him copies.”

  “Did they contain any proof?”

  “Lots of proof! People in Inwood have heard animals being tortured and killed up there for years. The city hasn’t done a damn thing, because of some politically correct ideas about religious freedom or some such rot. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for religious freedom—but not if it means torturing and killing animals.”

  “Did Smithback make any enemies that you know of by publishing that first article on animal sacrifice?”

  “I’m sure he did—just as I have. Those people at the Ville are fanatics.”

  “Do you have any specific information about that? Something that was said to him, threatening phone calls or e-mails to you or him, anything like that?”

  “I got something in the mail once, some charm or other. I threw it away. I don’t know if it came from the Ville or not—although the package was postmarked from Upper Manhattan. Those people keep to themselves. A very, very strange group. Clannish and insular, to put it mildly. Been there forever, too, on that bit of ground.”

  D’Agosta scuffed his foot on the cobbles, thinking of what else to ask. The man wasn’t telling them much they didn’t already know.

  Pendergast suddenly spoke again. “A lovely estate you have here, Mr. Esteban. Do you keep horses?”

  “Absolutely not. I don’t condone animal slavery.”

  “Dogs?”

  “Animals are meant to live in the wild, not be demeaned in the service of man.”

  “Are you a vegetarian, Mr. Esteban?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Are you married? Children?”

  “Divorced, no children. Now, look—”

  “Why are you a vegetarian?”

  “Killing animals for the gratification of our appetites is unethical. Not to mention bad for the planet, wasteful of energy, and morally atrocious while millions are starving. Like that disgusting car of yours—sorry, I don’t mean to offend you, but there’s no excuse for driving a car like that.” Esteban’s lips pursed in disapproval, and for a moment his face reminded D’Agosta of one of the nuns who used to smack his hand with a ruler for talking in class. He wondered how Pendergast was going to take this, but the agent’s face remained smoothly untroubled.

  “There are quite a number of people in New York City who practice religions in which animals may be sacrificed,” the agent said. “Why focus on the Ville?”

  “It’s the most egregious and longest-lived example. We have to start somewhere.”

  “How many people belong to your organization?”

  Esteban seemed embarrassed. “Well, Rich is the man to give you the definitive number. I think we have a few hundred.”

  “You’ve read the recent stories in the West Sider, Mr. Esteban?”

  “I have.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that reporter is on to something. Like I said, those people are crazy. Voodoo, Obeah… I understand they’re not even there legally, that they’re squatters of some kind. The city should evict them.”

  “Whe
re would they go?”

  Esteban gave a short laugh. “They can go to hell for all I care.”

  “So you think it’s okay to torture humans in hell, but not animals on earth?”

  The laugh died in Esteban’s throat. He looked carefully at the agent. “That’s just an expression, Mister—?”

  “Pendergast.”

  “Mr. Pendergast. Are we through here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  D’Agosta was surprised to hear the sudden edge in Pendergast’s voice.

  “Well, I am.”

  “Do you believe in Vôdou, Mr. Esteban?”

  “Are you asking if I believe people practice voodoo, or do I believe that it actually works?”

  “Both.”

  “I believe those zealots up in the Ville practice voodoo. Do I think they’re bringing people back from the dead? Who knows? I don’t care. I just want them gone.”

  “Who finances your organization?”

  “It’s not my organization. I’m just a member. We get a lot of small donations, but if the truth be told, I’m the major source of support.”

  “Is it a 501(c)(3) tax-exempt organization?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you get your money?”

  “I did well in the movie business—but frankly, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Esteban eased the ax off his shoulder. “Your questions seem rambling and pointless, Mr. Pendergast, and I’m getting tired of answering them. So would you please climb back into your carbon monster and remove yourself from my property?”