Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

"Pizza delivery, coming through!" He elbowed his way to the front, came up against the blue barricades draped in crime scene tape.

"Pizza delivery, SOC team, twenty-fourth floor."

It worked like a dream. The fat cop manning the barricade shoved it aside and Smithback hiked through.

Now for the triumvirate at the door.

He strode confidently forward as the three cops turned to face him.

"Pizza delivery, twenty-fourth floor."

They moved to block his way.

"I'll take the pizzas up," one said.

"Sorry. Against company rules. I got to deliver directly to the customer."

"Nobody's allowed in."

"Yeah, but this is for the SOC team. And if you take it up, how am I going to collect my money?"

The cops exchanged an uncertain glance. One shrugged. Smithback felt a glow. It was going to work. He was as good as in.

"They're getting cold, come on." Smithback pressed forward.

"How much?"

"Like I said, I have to deliver directly to the customer. May I?" He made one more tentative step, almost bumped into the large gut of the lead cop.

"No one's allowed up."

"Yes, but it's just for a-"

"Give me the pizzas."

"Like I said-"

The cop reached out. "I said, give me the damn pizzas."

And just like that, Smithback realized he was defeated. He docilely held them out and the cop took them.

"How much?" the cop asked.

"Ten bucks."

The cop gave him ten, no tip. "Who's it for?"

"The SOC team."

"Your customer got a name? There're a dozen SOC up there."

"Ah, I think it was Miller."

The cop grunted, disappeared in the dim lobby carrying the pizzas, while the other two closed rank, blocking the door. The one who had shrugged turned back. "Sorry, pal, but could you bring me a fifteen-inch pie, pepperoni, garlic, and onions with extra cheese?"

"Up yours," Smithback said, turning and walking back to the barriers. As he squeezed through the press of reporters, he heard some snickers and someone called out, "Nice try, Bill." And another shrilled out in an effeminate voice, "Why, Billy darling, that hat looks dreamy on you."

Smithback pulled the hat off in disgust and tossed it. For once, his reportorial genius had failed. He was already getting a bad feeling about this assignment. It had barely started and already it was smelling rotten. Despite the January frost in the air, he could almost feel Harriman's hot breath on the back of his neck.

He turned and-with heavy heart-took his place in the crowd to wait for the official briefing.

Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta pushed open the door of McFeeley's Ale House, feeling bone-tired. McFeeley's was about as cozy an Irish bar as you could still find in New York, and D'Agosta needed a little comfort right about now. The place was dark, long, and narrow, with a thickly varnished wooden bar on one side, booths along the other. Ancient sporting prints hung from the walls, indistinguishable underneath a heavy mantle of dust. Behind the bar, bottles stood six rows deep in front of the mirrored wall. An old jukebox sat near the door, the kind where the Irish selections were printed in green ink. On tap were Guinness, Harp, and Bass. The place smelled of greasy cooking and spilled beer. Just about the only nostalgic touch missing, in fact, was tobacco smoke, and D'Agosta didn't miss that at all: he'd given up cigars years before, when he quit the force and moved to Canada to write.

McFeeley's was half empty, the way D'Agosta liked it. He chose a stool, pulled it up to the bar.

Patrick, the bartender, caught sight of him and came over. "Hey, Lieutenant," he said, sliding a coaster in front of him. "How's it going?"

"It's going."

"The usual?"

"No, Paddy, a black and tan, please. And a cheeseburger, rare.'

A pint appeared a moment later and D'Agosta sank his upper lip meditatively into the mocha-colored foam. He almost never allowed himself this kind of indulgence anymore-he had lost twenty pounds in the last few months and didn't intend to gain them back- but tonight he'd make an exception. Laura Hayward wouldn't be home until late: she was working the bizarre hanging that had taken place on the Upper West Side at lunchtime.

He'd spent a fruitless morning chasing leads. There was nothing in the public records office on Ravenscry, Great-Aunt Cornelia's estate in Dutchess County. He'd made inquiries with the NOPD about the long-burned Pendergast residence in New Orleans, with similar results. In both cases, there was nothing about Diogenes Pendergast.

From headquarters, he'd journeyed back to 891 Riverside to reexamine Pendergast's scanty collection of evidence. He'd called the London bank to which, according to Pendergast's records, Diogenes had requested money be deposited years before. The account had been closed for twenty years, no forwarding information available. Inquiries at the banks in Heidelberg and Zurich brought the same answer. He spoke with the family in England whose son had briefly been Diogenes's roommate at Sandringham, only to learn the youth had killed himself one day after being removed from protective restraints.

Next, he called the firm of lawyers that had acted as intermediaries in the correspondence between Diogenes and his family. This time the red tape was almost interminable: he was transferred from one legal secretary to another, each requiring a repetition of his request. At long last, an attorney who would not identify himself came on the line and informed D'Agosta that Diogenes Pendergast was no longer a client; that attorney-client privilege forbade giving out further information; and that, besides, all relevant files had long been destroyed at said person's request.

Five hours and at least thirty phone calls later, D'Agosta had learned precisely zip.

Next, he turned to the newspaper clippings Pendergast had collected of various odd crimes. He'd considered calling the case officers involved but decided against it. Pendergast had no doubt done this already; if there had been any information worth sharing, he would have put it in the files. Anyway, D'Agosta still had no clue what Pendergast thought important about these clippings, scattered as they were across the globe, the crimes they reported bizarre yet seemingly unconnected.

It was now past two o'clock. D'Agosta knew his boss, Captain Singleton, would be out: he invariably spent his afternoons in the field, following up personally on the important cases. So D'Agosta left 891 Riverside and made his way down to the precinct house, where he slunk to his desk, turned on his computer terminal, and punched in his password. For the rest of the afternoon, he had moused his way through every law enforcement and governmental database he could access: NYPD, state, federal, WICAPS, Interpol, even the Social Security Administration. Nothing. Despite all the crushing, endless documentation generated by the interlocking tangle of government bureaucracies, Diogenes walked through it all like a wraith, leaving no impression behind him. It was almost as if the guy were really dead, after all.

That was when he gave up and went to McFeeley's.

His cheeseburger arrived and he began to eat, barely tasting it. His investigation wasn't even forty-eight hours old, and already he'd just about run out of leads. Pendergast's vast resources seemed of little use against a ghost.

He took a few more halfhearted bites from his burger, finished his drink, dropped some bills on the bar, nodded to Patrick, and left. Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement. D'Agosta had, in fact, told her little of his investigations since their visit to Great-Aunt Cornelia. In a perverse way, it seemed best.