Cemetery Dance Page 16

  “I would be delighted.” Pendergast half bowed and, with a faint smile on his face, climbed back into the Rolls, D’Agosta following.

  As they were heading back into the city, D’Agosta shifted in his seat and scowled. “What a self-righteous prig. I’ll bet he sinks his teeth into a bloody steak when no one’s around.”

  Pendergast had been gazing out the window, absorbed in some private rumination. At this he turned. “Why, Vincent, I do believe that is one of the most insightful comments I’ve heard you make today.” He pulled a thin Styrofoam tray from his suit pocket, removed the cover, and handed it to D’Agosta. Inside was a bloody absorbent pad, folded twice, along with a label affixed to a torn piece of plastic wrap. It smelled of rancid meat.

  D’Agosta recoiled and handed it back quickly. “What the hell’s that?”

  “I found it in the trash in the barn. According to this label, it once contained a crown roast of lamb, at twelve ninety-nine the pound.”

  “No shit.”

  “Excellent price for that cut. I was tempted to ask Mr. Esteban who his butcher was.” And Pendergast covered the tray, placed it on the leather seat between them, leaned back, and resumed his perusal of the passing scenery.

  32

  Nora Kelly turned the corner of Fifth Avenue and headed down West 53rd Street with a feeling of dread. Ahead of her, brown and yellow leaves swirled past the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art. It was dusk, and in the sharpness of the air there was a portent of the coming winter. She had taken a circuitous route from the museum—first a crosstown bus through the park, then the subway—perversely hoping for a breakdown, a traffic jam, anything that would give her an excuse to avoid what lay ahead. But public transportation had been depressingly efficient.

  And now here she was, mere steps from her destination.

  Of their own accord, her feet slowed, then stopped. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the cream-colored envelope, hand-addressed to WILLIAM SMITHBACK, JR., AND GUEST. Plucking out the card inside, she read it for perhaps the hundredth time.

  You are cordially invited to the

  One Hundred and Twenty Seventh Annual

  Press Awards Ceremony

  Gotham Press Club

  25 West 53rd Street, New York City

  October 15, 7:00 PM

  She’d attended her share of these events—typical Manhattan affairs with lots of drinking, gossip, and the usual journalistic oneupmanship. She’d never learned to like them. And this one would be worse than normal: infinitely worse. The pressed hands, the whispered condolences, the looks of sympathy… she felt herself becoming queasy at the mere thought. She’d done all she could to avoid precisely such things at the museum.

  And yet she had to do it. Bill was getting—would have been getting—an honorable mention for one of the awards. And he loved these elbow-rubbing drink-fests. It seemed a dishonor to his memory to skip it. Taking a deep breath, she stuffed the invitation back into her bag and strode on. She was still shaken up by their visit to the Ville the night before last: the terrible cries of the goat, the thing that had chased them. Had it been Fearing? Nora, unsure, hadn’t mentioned it to D’Agosta. But the memory haunted her, made her jumpy. Maybe this is what she needed: to get out, mingle, put it behind her.

  The Gotham Press Club was a narrow building vexed by a façade of extravagantly rococo marble. Nora ascended the stairs and passed through the cast-bronze doors, surrendering her coat at the check stand and receiving a ticket in return. Ahead, from the direction of the Horace Greeley Banquet Hall, she could hear music, laughter, and the tinkling of glasses. The feeling of dread increased. Adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag, she climbed the plush red carpet and passed into the oak-paneled hall.

  The event had started an hour before, and the vast space was packed. The noise was deafening, everyone talking over one another to ensure no bon mot went unappreciated. At least half a dozen bars were arrayed along the walls: journalistic events like this were notorious bacchanals. Along the right wall, a temporary stage had been erected, supporting a podium festooned with microphones. She threaded her way through the crowds, moving away from the door toward the back of the hall. If she could park herself in an out-of-the-way corner, maybe she could watch the proceedings in peace without having to endure a lot of…

  As if on cue, a nearby man made a point with a broad gesture, sending his elbow into her ribs. He turned, glaring at her briefly before his face broke into recognition. It was Fenton Davies, Bill’s boss at the Times. Standing in a half circle around him were a group of Bill’s co-workers.

  “Nora!” he exclaimed. “How good of you to come. We’re all so terribly, terribly sorry for your loss. Bill was one of the best—a fine reporter and a stellar human being.”

  A chorus of agreement came from the circle of reporters.

  Nora looked from face to sympathetic face. It was all she could do not to bolt. She forced herself to smile. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

  “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. Have you gotten my calls?”

  “I have, sorry. There’ve been so many details to clear up—”

  “Of course, of course! I understand. No rush. It’s just—” Here Davies lowered his voice, put his lips to her ear. “—we’ve been approached by the police. They seem to think it might have had something to do with his work. If that’s the case, then we at the Times must know.”

  “I’ll make it a point to call you when… when I’m a little better able to cope.”

  Davies straightened up, resumed his normal voice. “Also, we’ve been talking about organizing a memorial in Bill’s name. The William Smithback award for excellence, or something along those lines. We’d like to talk to you about that, too, when you have a chance.”

  “Certainly.”

  “We’re getting the word out, soliciting contributions. Maybe it could even become a part of this annual event.”

  “That’s really great. Bill would have appreciated it.”

  Davies touched a hand to his bald pate and nodded, pleased.

  “I’m just going to grab a drink,” Nora said. “I’ll catch up with you all later.”

  “Would you like me to—” several voices began.

  “That’s all right, thanks. I’ll be back.” And with one more smile Nora slipped away into the crowd.

  She managed to gain the back of the room without encountering anyone else. She stood near the bar, trying to get her breathing under control. She never should have come. She was about to order a drink when she felt somebody touch her arm. With a sinking feeling she looked around only to see Caitlyn Kidd.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d be here,” the reporter said.

  “You’ve recovered from the excitement?”

  “Sure.” Caitlyn didn’t exactly look recovered, though—her face was pale and a little drawn.

  “I’m presenting the first award on behalf of the West Sider,” said Caitlyn, “so I’ve got to go up now. Let’s try to hook up before you leave. I have an idea for our next move.”

  Nora nodded, and with a smile and a little wave the reporter disappeared into the milling crowd.

  Turning back to the bartender, Nora ordered a drink, then retreated to a nearby spot against the bookcases lining the rear wall. There, standing between a bust of Washington Irving and an inscribed photograph of Ring Lardner, she watched the raucous gathering, quietly sipping her cocktail.

  She glanced over at the stage. It was interesting that the West Sider was sponsoring one of the awards. No doubt the scrappy tabloid was trying to buy itself some respectability. Interesting, too, that Caitlyn was presenting…

  She heard her name being called over the babel of voices. She scanned the crowd, frowning, searching for the source. There it was: a man of about forty, waving at her. For a moment, she drew a blank. Then, suddenly, she remembered the patrician features and yuppie haberdashery of Bryce Harriman. He had been her husband’s nemesis during Bill’s years at both the Post and
the Times. There were at least a dozen people between them, and it would take a minute or two for him to wade over.

  She was willing to put up with a lot, but this was too much. Placing her half-empty drink on a nearby table, she ducked behind a portly man hovering nearby and then moved away into the crowd, out of Harriman’s sight.

  Just then, the lights dimmed and a man took the stage. The music ceased and the crowd noise died down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” the man cried, hands grasping the podium. “Welcome to the Gotham Press Club’s annual awards ceremony. My name’s McGeorge Oddon and I’m in charge of this year’s nominating committee. I’m delighted to see all of you here. We have a wonderful evening in store for you tonight.”

  Nora braced herself for a rambling introduction, full of self-referential anecdotes and lame jokes.

  “I’d love to stand here, crack bad jokes, and talk about myself,” Oddon said. “But we have a lot of awards to hand out this evening. So let’s get right to it!” He plucked a card from his jacket pocket, scanned it quickly. “Our first award is a new one for this year: the Jack Wilson Donohue Prize for Investigative Journalism, sponsored by the West Sider. And here to present the five-thousand-dollar award on behalf of the West Sider is that paragon of community journalists herself: Caitlyn Kidd!”

  As Nora watched, Caitlyn took the stage to a chorus of applause, raucous cheers, and a few wolf whistles. She shook hands with Oddon, then plucked one of the microphones from its stand. “Thanks, McGeorge,” she said. She looked slightly nervous in front of the large crowd, but her voice was strong and clear. “West Sider is as young as this club is old,” she began. “Some people say too young. But the fact is, our newspaper couldn’t be happier to be a part of this evening. And with this new award, we’re putting our money where our mouth is!”

  A deluge of cheers.

  “There are plenty of awards for journalistic excellence,” she continued. “Most of them concentrate on the quality of the printed word. Or maybe its timeliness. Or—dare I say—political correctness.”

  Jeers, moans, catcalls.

  “But what about an award for sheer guts? For sheer doggedness of doing whatever it takes to get the story, get it right, get it now. For having—oh, all right—a set of brass balls!”

  This time, the yells and applause shook the room itself.

  “Because that’s what West Sider is all about. Sure, we’re a new paper. But that makes us all the hungrier.”

  Even as the last round of cheers died away, there was a fresh commotion at one end of the hall.

  “And so it’s only right that the West Sider is sponsoring this new award!”

  A strange shudder—half gasp, half moan—rippled through the room. Nora frowned, looking over the sea of heads. Over by the entranceway, the crowds were surging backward, clearing an area. There were gasps, scattered cries of dismay.

  What the hell was happening?

  “With that said, I—” Caitlyn stopped in midsentence as she noticed it, too. She glanced toward the entrance. “Um, just a moment…”

  The strange ripple in the crowd grew, parting in the direction of the stage. There was something at its center, a figure that people seemed to be recoiling from. Screams, more incoherent cries. Then—most bizarre of all—the hall fell quiet.

  Caitlyn Kidd spoke into the silence. “Bill? Smithback?”

  The figure had lurched forward and was approaching the foot of the stage. Nora stared—then felt herself physically staggered by disbelief.

  It was Bill. He was dressed in a loose green hospital smock, open at the back. His skin was hideously sallow, and his face and hands were covered with caked blood. He was dreadfully, horribly changed, an apparition from someplace beyond—an apparition horribly similar to the one that had chased her from the Ville. And yet there was no mistaking the cowlick that reared from the mass of matted hair; no mistaking the rangy limbs.

  “God,” Nora heard herself groan. “Oh, God—”

  “Smithback!” Caitlyn cried, voice shrill.

  Nora couldn’t move. Caitlyn screamed—a wail that cut through the air of the hall like a straight razor. “It’s you!” she cried.

  The figure was mounting the stage. His movements were shuffling, erratic. His hands hung loosely at his sides. One of them held a heavy knife, the blade barely visible beneath a heavy accumulation of gore.

  Caitlyn backed up, screaming in sheer terror now.

  As Nora stared, unable to move, the figure of her husband lurched up the last step, shambled across the stage.

  “Bill!” Caitlyn said, shrinking back against the podium, her voice half lost in the rising cry of the crowd. “Wait! My God, no! Not me! NO—!”

  The knife hand hesitated, shaking, in the air. Then it plunged down—into Caitlyn’s chest, rose again, plunged, a sudden fountain of blood spraying across the scabby arm that slashed down, up, down. And then the figure turned and fled behind the stage, and Nora felt her knees give way and a blackness engulf her, blotting out everything, overwhelming her utterly.

  33

  The hallway smelled of cats. D’Agosta walked along it until he found apartment 5D. He rang the buzzer, listened as it echoed loudly inside. There was a shuffling of slippers, then the peephole darkened as an eye pressed against it.

  “Who is it?” came the quavering voice.

  “Lieutenant Vincent D’Agosta.” He held up his shield.

  “Hold it closer, I can’t read it.”

  He held it up to the peephole.

  “Step into view, I want to look at you.”

  D’Agosta centered himself before the peephole.

  “What do you want?”

  “Mrs. Pizzetti, we spoke earlier. I’m investigating the Smithback homicide.”

  “I don’t have anything to do with no murders.”

  “I know, Mrs. Pizzetti. But you agreed to talk to me about Mr. Smithback, who interviewed you for the Times. Remember?”

  A long wait. Then came the unbolting of one, two, three bolts, a chain being pulled back, and a brace being removed. The door opened a crack, held in place by a second chain.

  D’Agosta held up his badge again, and a pair of beady eyes gave it a twice-over.

  With a rattle, the final chain was pulled back and the door opened. The little old lady that D’Agosta had imagined materialized before him, frail as a bone-china teacup, bathrobe clutched tightly in one blue-veined hand, lips compressed. Her eyes, black and bright as a mouse’s, looked him up and down.

  He quickly stepped inside to avoid having the door shut in his face. It was an old-fashioned apartment, heated to equatorial standards, large and cluttered, with overstuffed wing chairs and lace antimacassars, fringed lamps, knickknacks and bric-a-brac. And cats. Naturally.

  “May I?” D’Agosta indicated a chair.

  “Who’s stopping you?”

  D’Agosta chose the least stuffed looking of the chairs, and yet his posterior still sank down alarmingly, as if in quicksand. A cat immediately jumped up on the arm and began purring loudly, arching its back.

  “Get down, Scamp, and leave the man alone.” Mrs. Pizzetti had a heavy Queens accent.

  Naturally, the cat did not listen. D’Agosta did not like cats. He gave it a gentle push with his elbow. The cat only purred louder, thinking it was about to get petted.

  “Mrs. Pizzetti,” said D’Agosta, removing his notebook and trying to ignore the cat, which was shedding hairs all over his brand-new Rothman’s suit, “I understand you spoke to William Smithback on…” He consulted his notes. “October third.”

  “I don’t remember when it was.” She shook her head. “It just gets worse and worse.”

  “Can you tell me what it was you talked about?”

  “I had nothing to do with no murder.”

  “I know that. You certainly aren’t a suspect. Now, your meeting with Mr. Smithback…?”

  “He brought me a little present. Let’s see…” She began poking around in the apartme
nt, her palsied hand finally settling on a small china cat. She brought it over to D’Agosta, tossed it in his lap. “He brought me this. Chinese. You can get them down on Canal Street.”

  D’Agosta turned the knickknack over in his hand. This was a side of Smithback he hadn’t known, bringing presents to little old ladies, even sour ones like Pizzetti. Of course, it was probably to secure an interview.

  “Very nice.” He set it down on a side table. “What did you talk about, Mrs. Pizzetti?”

  “Those horrible animal killers over there.” She gestured toward the nearest window. “There at the Ville.”

  “Tell me what you said to him.”

  “Well! You can hear the screams at night, when the wind is from the river. Horrible sounds, animals getting cut up, getting their throats cut!” Her voice rose and she said the last with a certain relish. “Someone should cut their throats!”

  “Was there anything specific, any incidents in particular?”

  “I told him about the van.”

  At this D’Agosta felt his heart quicken. “The van?”

  “Every Thursday, like clockwork. Out the van goes at five. In it comes at nine at night.”

  “Today is Thursday. Did you see it today?”

  “I certainly did, just like every Thursday evening.”

  D’Agosta stood and went to the window. It looked west, out over the back of the building. He’d walked there himself, doing a quick recon of the area prior to the interview. An old road—apparently leading to the Ville—could be seen below, running along the fields and disappearing into the trees.

  “From this window?” he asked.

  “What other window is there? Of course from that window.”

  “Any markings on the van?”

  “None that I could see. Just a white van.”

  “Model, make?”

  “I don’t know about those things. It’s white, dirty. Old. Piece of junk.”