Douglas Preston - Brimstone

Pendergast suddenly turned and caught his eye. "You see it, too?"

"I think so."

"What exactly do you see?"

"A face."

"What kind?"

"Ugly as shit, thick lips, big eyes, with a mouth open as if to bite."

"Or swallow?"

"Yeah, more like swallow."

"It's uncannily reminiscent of Vasari's fresco of the devil swallowing sinners. The one inside of the cupola of the Duomo."

"Yeah? I mean, yeah."

Pendergast stepped back thoughtfully. "Are you familiar with the story of Dr. Faustus?"

"Faustus? You mean, Faust? The guy who sold his soul to the devil?"

Pendergast nodded. "There are any number of variants of the story. Most come down to us in manuscript accounts written in the Middle Ages. While each account has its unique characteristics, they all involve a death similar to that of Mrs. Mary Reeser."

"The case you mentioned to the M.E. just now."

"Exactly. Spontaneous human combustion. The medievals called it the fire within ."

D'Agosta nodded. His brain felt like lead.

"Here, with Nigel Cutforth, we seem to have a classic example. Even more so than with Grove."

"Are you telling me you think the devil claimed this guy?"

"I offer the observation without attaching any hypothesis."

D'Agosta shook his head. The whole thing was creepy. Seriously creepy. He felt his hand stealing toward his cross again. It couldn’t be the work of the devil . could it?

"Good evening, gentlemen." The voice came from behind: female, a rich contralto, calm, efficient.

D'Agosta turned to see a woman framed in the doorway, dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with captain's bars on the collar of her white shirt. Several detectives were visible behind her. He took in the features: petite, thin, large breasts, glossy black hair framing a pale, almost delicate face. Her eyes were a rich blue. She looked no more than thirty-five: amazingly young for a full captain in the Homicide Division. She looked familiar. He knew her. The sick feeling returned. Maybe he'd been a little premature in congratulating himself that he wouldn't run into any of his old buddies.

"I'm Captain Hayward," she said briskly, looking at D'Agosta a little too intently for comfort-recognizing him too, it seemed. "I know you already presented credentials at the door, but may I see them again?"

"Certainly, Captain." Pendergast had his badge out in one elegant movement.

Hayward took it, examined it, looked up. "Mr. Pendergast."

Pendergast bowed. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Captain Hayward. May I congratulate you on your return to the force, and most particularly on making captain?"

Hayward let that pass without comment and turned back to D'Agosta. He had removed his shield for her, but she wasn't looking at it. She was looking at him.

The name brought it all back: Laura Hayward, who'd been a transit cop back in his former life, going to school at the time, writing some book on the underground homeless in Manhattan, working toward a graduate degree or something. They had worked together briefly on the Pamela Wisher case. That was when she was the sergeant and he a lieutenant. He felt his gut sink.

"And you must be Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta."

"Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta these days." He felt himself coloring. He really didn't feel like making more explanations. It was a frigging disgrace and there was no way around it.

"Sergeant D'Agosta? No longer NYPD?"

"Southampton P.D. You know, as in Long Island. I'm the FBI liaison on the Grove case."

He looked up to find her hand out. He took it, gave it a desultory shake. The hand was warm, a little damp. It gave D'Agosta a secret satisfaction to note she wasn't quite as cool as she seemed.

"Glad to be working with you again." The voice was crisp, devoid of morbid curiosity. D'Agosta felt relieved. There would be no chitchat, no prying questions. Totally professional.

"I, for one, am happy to see the case in such capable hands," Pendergast said.

"Thank you."

"You always struck me as an officer who could be relied on to conduct a vigorous investigation."

"Thanks again. And if I can be frank, you always struck me as somebody who never worried much about the chain of command or who let the formalities of standard police procedure get in your way."

If Pendergast was surprised by this, he gave no sign. "True."

"Well then, let's get this chain of command clear at the outset-shall we?"

"Excellent idea."

"This is my case. Bench warrants, subpoenas, whatever must be cleared through my office first, unless we're dealing with an emergency. Any communication with the press will be coordinated through my office. Perhaps that's not how you operate, but that's how I operate."

Pendergast nodded. "Understood."

"People talk about how the FBI sometimes has trouble getting along with local law enforcement. That's not going to happen here. For one thing, we're not 'local law enforcement.' We're the New York Police Department, Homicide Division. We will work with the Federal Bureau of Investigation as full equals and in no other way."

"Certainly, Captain."

"We will, naturally, return the courtesy."

"I should expect no less."

"I do things by the book, even when the book is stupid. You know why? That's how we get the conviction. Any funny business at all, and a New York jury will acquit."

"True, very true," Pendergast said.

"Tomorrow morning, 8A.M. sharp, and every Tuesday thereafter for the duration of the case, we'll be meeting at One Police Plaza, seventeenth-floor situation room, you, me, and Lieutenant-I mean Sergeant-D'Agosta. All cards on the table."

"Eight A.M. ," Pendergast repeated.

"Coffee and Danish on us."

A look of distaste settled on Pendergast's features. "I shall have already breakfasted, thank you."

Hayward looked at her watch. "How much more time do you gentlemen need?"

"I believe five more minutes should do it," said Pendergast. "Any information you can share with us now?"

"An elderly woman in the apartment below was the witness, or as close as we have to a witness. The murder occurred shortly after eleven. She seems to have heard the deceased having convulsions and screaming. She assumed he was having a party." A dry smile flickered across her face. "It grew quiet. And then, at 11:22, a substance began leaking through her ceiling: melted adipose tissue from the deceased."

Melted adipose tissue. D'Agosta began to write this down, then stopped. It didn't seem likely he'd forget it.

"About the same time, the smoke alarms and sprinklers went off-that would be at 11:24 and 11:25 respectively. Maintenance went up to check, found the door locked, no answer, and a foul smell emanating from the apartment. They opened the door with a master key at 11:29 and found the deceased as you see him now. The temperature in the apartment was almost one hundred degrees when we arrived, fifteen minutes later."

D'Agosta exchanged a glance with Pendergast. "Tell me about the adjacent neighbors."

"The man above heard nothing until the alarms went off but complained of a bad smell. There are only two apartments on this floor: the other one has been purchased but is still empty. The new owner is an Englishman, a Mr. Aspern." She pulled a pad from her breast pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Pendergast. "Here are their names. Aspern is currently in England. Mr. Roland Beard is in the apartment above, and Letitia Dallbridge is in the apartment below. Do you wish to interview either of them now?"

"Not necessary." Pendergast glanced at her, then looked at the burn mark on the wall.

Hayward's lip curled, whether in amusement or something else D'Agosta wasn't sure. "You noticed it, I see."

"I did. Any thoughts?"

"Wasn't it you, Mr. Pendergast, who once cautioned me against forming premature hypotheses?"