Cemetery Dance Page 7

  “Normalize?” D’Agosta echoed.

  Kline waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t even ask. In any case, my program worked very, very well. It turned out there was a large market for normalizing databases. I put a lot of other DBAs out of jobs. And created all this.” His chin tilted slightly upward, the self-satisfied smile still lingering at the edges of his pink, girlish lips.

  The man’s egghead egotism set D’Agosta’s teeth on edge. He was going to enjoy this. He leaned back casually in his seat, to more protesting of expensive leather. “Actually, we’re more interested in your extracurricular activities.”

  Kline looked more closely at him. “Such as?”

  “Such as your penchant for hiring pretty secretaries, intimidating them into having sex with you, then bullying them or paying them off to keep quiet about it.”

  The expression on Kline’s face did not change. “Ah. So you’re here about the Smithback murder.”

  “You used your position of power to abuse and dominate those women. They were too afraid of you, too afraid of losing their jobs, to say anything. But Smithback wasn’t afraid. He exposed you to the world.”

  “He exposed nothing,” Kline said. “Allegations were made, nothing was proven, and any settlements, if they exist, are sealed forever. Alas for you and Smithback, nobody went officially on the record.”

  D’Agosta shrugged as if to say, Doesn’t matter, the cat’s still out of the bag.

  Pendergast stirred in his seat. “How unpleasant it must have been for you that after Smithback’s article was published, DVI’s stock market capitalization dropped by fifty percent.”

  Kline’s face remained serene. “You know the markets. So fickle. DVI is almost back up to where it was.”

  Pendergast folded his hands. “You’re a CEO now, and nobody’s going to kick sand in your face again or take your lunch money. Nobody’s going to disrespect you and get away with it these days—am I right, Mr. Kline?” Pendergast smiled mildly and glanced at D’Agosta. “The letter?”

  D’Agosta reached into his pocket, slipped out the letter, and began to quote: “I promise that, no matter how much time it takes or how much it costs, you will regret having written that article. You cannot know how I will act, or when, but rest assured: I will act.” He looked up. “Did you write that, Mr. Kline?”

  “Yes,” he said, his face remaining utterly under control.

  “And did you send that to William Smithback?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you—”

  Kline interrupted. “Lieutenant, you are such a bore. Let me ask myself the questions and save us all some time. Was I serious? Absolutely. Was I responsible for his death? It’s a possibility. Am I glad he’s dead? Delighted, thank you.” He winked.

  “You—” D’Agosta began.

  “The thing is”—Kline rode over him again—“you’ll never know. I have the finest lawyers in town. I know precisely what I can say and cannot say. You’ll never touch me.”

  “We can take you in,” D’Agosta said. “We could do it right now.”

  “Of course you could. And I will sit silently where you take me until my lawyer arrives, and then I will leave.”

  “We could book you for probable cause.”

  “You’re bloviating, Lieutenant.”

  “The letter is a clear threat.”

  “All my movements at the time of the killing can be accounted for. The finest legal minds in the country vetted that letter. There’s nothing in there that is actionable on your part.”

  D’Agosta grinned. “Why, hell, Kline, we could have a little fun, perp-walking you out the lobby downstairs—after we tip off the press.”

  “Actually, it would be excellent publicity. I would be back in my office within the hour, you would be embarrassed, and my enemies would see that I am untouchable.” Kline smiled again. “Remember, Lieutenant: I was trained as a programmer. It was my job to write long, complicated routines in which faultless logic was of paramount importance. That’s the first thing you learn as a programmer, the most vital thing. Think everything through, forward and backward. Make sure you’ve made provisions for any unexpected output. And don’t leave any holes. Not a one.”

  D’Agosta could feel himself doing a slow burn. A silence settled over the large office. Kline sat there, arms folded, looking back at D’Agosta.

  “Dysfunctional,” D’Agosta said. At least he’d wipe that smug smile off this little bastard’s face.

  “Excuse me?” Kline asked.

  “If I wasn’t so disgusted, I could almost feel sorry for you. The only way you can get laid is to brandish money and power, to harass and force. That doesn’t sound dysfunctional to you? No? How about another word, then: pathetic. That girl in the outer office—when are you planning to rotate her out for this year’s model?”

  “Kick your fucking ass” came the response.

  D’Agosta rose. “That’s a threat of violence, Kline. Made against a police officer.” He put his hands on his cuffs. “You think you’re so smart, but you just crossed the line.”

  “Kick your fucking ass, D’Agosta,” came the voice again.

  D’Agosta realized it wasn’t Kline who had spoken. The voice was slightly different. And it hadn’t come from behind the desk: it had come from beyond a door set into the opposite wall.

  “Who’s that?” D’Agosta said. He had grown so angry, so quickly, that he could feel himself shaking.

  “That?” Kline replied. “Oh, that’s Chauncy.”

  “Get him out here. Now.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “What?” D’Agosta said through clenched teeth.

  “He’s busy.”

  “Kick your fucking ass,” came the voice of Chauncy.

  “Busy?”

  “Yes. Eating his lunch.”

  Without another word, D’Agosta strode to the door, flung it open.

  Beyond lay a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It held nothing but a wooden T-bar about chest high—and sitting on it was a huge, salmon-colored parrot. A Brazil nut was in one claw. It regarded him mildly, massive beak coyly hidden by cheek feathers, the crest atop its head raised slightly in inquiry.

  “Lieutenant D’Agosta, meet Chauncy,” Kline said.

  “Kick your fucking ass, D’Agosta,” said the parrot.

  D’Agosta took a step forward. The parrot gave out an ear-piercing shriek and dropped the nut, flapping its wide wings and showering D’Agosta with feathers and dander, its crest flaring wildly.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” said Kline in a tone of mild reproof. “You’ve disturbed his lunch.”

  D’Agosta stepped back again, breathing heavily. Abruptly, he realized there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do. Kline had broken no law. What was he going to do, cuff a Moluccan cockatoo and haul it downtown? He’d be laughed out of Police Plaza. The little prick really had thought everything through. His hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. The frustration was agonizing.

  “How does it know my name?” he muttered, flicking a feather off his jacket.

  “Oh, that,” said Kline. “You see, Chauncy and I were, um, discussing you before you came in.”

  As they stepped into the elevator for the ride back down to the lobby, D’Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The special agent was shaking with what appeared to be silent mirth. D’Agosta looked away, frowning. At length Pendergast composed himself and cleared his throat.

  “I think, my dear Vincent,” he said, “you might consider obtaining that search warrant with all possible haste.”

  14

  Caitlyn Kidd nosed her car into a bus-only zone across the street from the New York Museum of Natural History. Before getting out, she draped a copy of yesterday’s West Sider—with the headline and her byline prominently displayed—on the dash. That, along with her press plates, just might help her avoid a second parking ticket in as many days.

  She walked briskly across Museum Drive, inhali
ng the frosty fall air. It was quarter to five, and as she suspected a number of people were exiting purposefully from an unmarked door set into the ground floor of the vast structure. They carried bags and briefcases—employees, not visitors. She threaded her way through them toward the door.

  Beyond the door lay a narrow corridor, leading to a security station. A few people were showing their museum IDs and being waved past the station by a pair of bored-looking guards. Caitlyn rummaged in her bag, plucked out her press ID.

  She stepped up and showed the pass to the guard. “Staff only,” he said.

  “I’m with the West Sider,” she replied. “I’m doing a story on the museum.”

  “Got an appointment?”

  “I’ve got an interview set up with…” She glanced at the badge of a curator just passing the little guard station. It would be at least a few minutes before he reached his office. “Dr. Prine.”

  “Moment.” The guard checked a phone book, lifted the phone, dialed a number, let it ring a few times. Then he raised his sleepy eyes to her. “He ain’t in. You’ll have to wait here.”

  “May I sit down?” She indicated a bench a dozen yards off.

  The guard hesitated.

  “I’m pregnant. I’m not supposed to be on my feet.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She sat down, crossed her legs, opened a book, keeping an eye on the guard station. A knot of employees arrived and began piling up around the entrance—janitors by the look of them, arriving for the night shift. As the guards became fully engrossed in checking IDs and ticking off names, Caitlyn quickly rose and joined the stream of employees already through the security checkpoint.

  The room she was looking for was in the basement—a five-minute search on the Internet had secured an employee directory and layout of the museum—but the place was a rabbit warren of intersecting passages and endless, unmarked corridors. Nobody challenged her access or even seemed to notice her, however, and a few well-placed queries finally led her to a long, dimly lit hallway, opposing walls punctuated every twenty feet by doors with frosted windows set into them. Caitlyn made her way slowly down the corridor, glancing at the names on the doors. A smell lingered in the air, faintly unpleasant, that she couldn’t identify. Some of the doors were open, and beyond she could see laboratory setups, cluttered offices, and—bizarrely—jars of pickled animals and fierce-looking beasts, stuffed and mounted.

  She paused outside a door labeled kelly, n. The door was ajar, and Caitlyn heard voices within. One voice, she realized: Nora Kelly was on the phone.

  She edged forward, listening.

  “Skip, I can’t,” the voice was saying. “I just can’t come home now.”

  There was a pause. “No, it’s not that. If I went back to Santa Fe right now, I might never return to New York. Don’t you understand? Besides, it’s vital for me to find out what really happened, track down Bill’s killer. That’s the only thing keeping me going right now.”

  This was too personal. Caitlyn pushed the door wider, clearing her throat as she did so. The lab beyond was cramped yet orderly. Half a dozen pottery fragments lay on a worktable beside a laptop computer. In one corner, a woman on the telephone looked up at her. She was slim, attractive, with bronze-colored hair spilling down over her shoulders, a haunted look in her hazel eyes.

  “Skip,” the woman said. “I’m going to have to call you back. Yes. Okay, tonight.” She hung up, stood up from the desk. “Can I help you?”

  Caitlyn took a deep breath. “Nora Kelly?”

  “That’s right.”

  Caitlyn pulled the press ID from her bag, held it open. “I’m Caitlyn Kidd, from the West Sider.”

  Nora Kelly abruptly flushed. “The author of that piece of garbage?” Her voice was sharp with anger and grief.

  “Ms. Kelly—”

  “That was quite a piece of work. Another one like that and you might get an offer from the Weekly World News. I suggest you leave before I call security.”

  “Did you actually read my story?” Caitlyn blurted out hastily.

  A look of uncertainty crossed Nora’s face. Caitlyn had guessed right: the woman hadn’t read it.

  “It was a good story, factual and unbiased. I don’t write the headlines, I just report the news.”

  Nora took a step forward, and Caitlyn instinctively moved back. For a moment, Nora stared at her, eyes flashing. Then she turned back toward the desk, picking up the phone.

  “What are you doing?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Calling security.”

  “Ms. Kelly, please don’t do that.”

  She finished dialing and waited while it rang.

  “You’re only hurting yourself. Because I can help you find your husband’s murderer.”

  “Yes?” Nora spoke into the phone. “This is Nora Kelly, in the anthro lab.”

  “We both want the same thing,” Caitlyn hissed. “Please let me show you how I can help you. Please.”

  A silence. Nora stared at her, and then said into the phone, “I’m sorry, I dialed the wrong number.” She slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Two minutes,” she said.

  “Okay. Nora—can I call you Nora? I knew your husband. Did he ever mention that? We used to run into each other at journalistic events, press conferences, crime scenes. Sometimes we were after the same story but, well… it was kind of hard for me, a cub reporter with a throwaway tabloid like the West Sider, to compete with the Times.”

  Nora said nothing.

  “Bill was a good guy. It’s like I said: you and I have a common goal—find his murderer. We each have unique resources at our disposal; we should use them. You know him better than anyone. And I’ve got a paper. We could pool our talents, help each other.”

  “I’m still waiting to hear how.”

  “You know that story Bill was working on, the animal rights piece? He mentioned it to me a few weeks ago.”

  Nora nodded. “I already told the police about that.” She hesitated. “You think it’s connected?”

  “That’s what my gut tells me. But I don’t have enough information yet. Tell me more about it.”

  “It was that business of animal sacrifice up in Inwood. There was a flurry of stories and then it got dropped. But it held Bill’s interest. He kept it on the back burner, kept looking for new angles.”

  “Did he tell you much about it?”

  “I just got the sense that some people weren’t thrilled about his interest in the subject, but what else is new? He was never happier than when he was pissing off people. Unpleasant people in particular. And there was no one he hated more than an animal abuser.” She glanced at her watch. “Thirty seconds left. You still haven’t told me how you can help me.”

  “I’m a tireless researcher. Ask any of my colleagues. I know how to work the police, the hospitals, the libraries, the morgue—I mean, the newspaper’s morgue. My press card gets me in places you can’t go. I can devote my nights and my days to this, twenty-four/ seven. It’s true, I want a story. But I also want to do right by Bill.”

  “Your two minutes are up.”

  “Okay, I’ll leave now. I want you to do something—for yourself as much as for me.” Caitlyn tapped her head. “Get out his notes on that piece. The animal rights piece. Share them with me. Remember: we reporters look after our own. I want to get to the bottom of this almost as much as you do. Help me do that, Nora.”

  And with that, she smiled briefly, gave Nora her card, then turned and let herself out of the lab.

  15

  The Rolls passed through a pair of gates set into a faux-brick wall, decorated with plastic ivy stapled haphazardly across its front. A sign amid the ivy informed visitors that they had arrived at Whispering Oaks Cemetery and Mausoleum. Beyond the wall lay an expanse of green lawn, bordered by freshly planted oak trees kept vertical by guy wires. Everything was new and raw. The graveyard itself was virtually empty, and D’Agosta could still see the seams where the turf had been rolled down.
Half a dozen gigantic, polished granite gravestones were clustered in one corner. Ahead, a mausoleum rose up from the center of the greensward, bone white, stark, and charmless.

  Proctor guided the Rolls up the asphalt drive and came to a halt in front of the building. A strip of flower bed before the mausoleum was bursting with flowers, despite the fall season, and as he emerged from the car D’Agosta prodded one with his foot.

  Plastic.

  They stood in the parking lot, looking around. “Where is everybody?” D’Agosta asked, looking at his watch. “The guy was supposed to be here at noon.”

  “Gentlemen?” A man had emerged, ghost-like, from the rear of the mausoleum. D’Agosta was startled by his appearance: slender, wearing a well-cut black suit, his skin unnaturally white. The man hurried over, hands clasped obsequiously in front of him, and went straight up to Pendergast. “How may I help you, sir?”

  “We are here with regard to the remains of Colin Fearing.”

  “Ah, yes, the poor fellow we interred, what, almost two weeks ago?” The man beamed, looking Pendergast up and down. “You must be in the business. I can always tell a man in the business!”

  Pendergast slowly dipped a hand into his pocket.

  “Yes, yes,” the man went on, “I remember the interment well. Poor fellow, there was just his sister and the priest. I was surprised—the young ones usually draw a crowd. Well! What mortuary are you gentlemen from, and how can I be of service?”

  Pendergast’s hand had finally withdrawn a leather case from his pocket, which he held up, allowing it to drop open.

  The man stared. “What—what’s this?”

  “Alas, we are not ‘in the business,’ as you so charmingly put it.”

  The man paled even further, saying nothing.

  D’Agosta stepped up and handed him an envelope. “We’re here about the court-ordered exhumation of Colin Fearing. The papers are all in there.”

  “Exhumation? I don’t know a thing about it.”

  “I talked to a Mr. Radcliffe about it last night,” said D’Agosta.