Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

To his surprise, D'Agosta found himself, not in a room, but in a very narrow hallway-barely more than a crawl space-that ran on ahead into darkness. The doorman switched on a flashlight, then led the way along the corridor.

It seemed to go on forever. The walls changed from cinder block, to brick, to plaster, then back to brick again. At times, the corridor widened; at others, it grew so narrow it almost brushed against D'Agosta's shoulders. It jogged left a few times, then right. At one point, they emerged into a tiny courtyard, little more than an air shaft, and D'Agosta could see a small patch of blue sky far above. It felt like being at the base of a chimney. Then they climbed a short stairway, the doorman opened another door with a large, old-fashioned key, and they entered yet another narrow corridor.

At length, the corridor dead-ended at a small service elevator. The doorman pulled back the brass grillwork, unlocked the elevator door with a different key, and motioned for D'Agosta to step in. The man stepped in behind D'Agosta, closed the grille and the elevator door, then grasped a large, circular handle in one wall. With a protesting chuff, the elevator creaked upward.

The ancient door was windowless, and D'Agosta had no idea how many floors they ascended: he guessed four or five. The elevator stopped of its own accord and the doorman opened its door. As the bronze grille was pulled back, D'Agosta saw a short passageway beyond, leading to a single door. The door was open, and Pendergast stood within it, once again clad in his habitual black suit.

D'Agosta paused, staring at him. Ever since his surprise reappearance, the man had appeared in some disguise or other-his face or clothing, or more usually both, dramatically altered-and it gave D'Agosta a strange chill to see his old friend as he really was.

"Vincent," Pendergast said. "Do come in." And he led the way into a small, almost featureless room. There was an oaken dresser and a leather sofa along one wall, and a worktable along another. Four iMac laptops were lined up on the worktable, along with some NAS devices and what looked to D'Agosta like a network hub. There were two doors in the rear of the room; one was closed, and the other opened onto a small bathroom.

"This is your Dakota apartment?" D'Agosta asked in disbelief.

A wan smile appeared on Pendergast's face, then disappeared again. "Hardly," he said, closing the door. "My apartment is on the floor above this one."

"Then what's this place?"

"Think of it as a bolt-hole. A rather high-tech bolt-hole. It was set up last year on the advice of an Ohio acquaintance of mine, in case his services were temporarily unavailable."

"Well, you can't stay here. The cops are crawling all over the entrance to the Dakota. I've just come from Laura Hayward's office, and she's got a red-hot suspect."

"Me."

"And how in hell did you learn that?"

"I've known it for some time." Pendergast's eyes darted from monitor to monitor as his hands flew over the keys. "When I came upon the murder scene of my friend Michael Decker, I found several strands of hair clutched in his hand. Blond hair. My brother's hair is not blond: it's a gingery red. Immediately, I realized that Diogenes's plan was even more 'interesting' than I'd suspected. Not only did he plan to kill everyone close to me-he planned to frame me for their murders."

"But what about the notes Diogenes wrote you? Don't they indicate he's alive?"

"No. Recall the odd handwriting, the handwriting I said was strangely familiar? That was my handwriting, but altered just enough so it would appear-to a handwriting expert, anyway-that I was trying to disguise it."

D'Agosta took a moment to digest this. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I saw no reason to burden you with all this before it was necessary. When I saw those hairs, it was perfectly clear to me that Diogenes would have salted the other crime scenes with false evidence as well. I'm sure, during my convalescence in Italy, he stocked up on all the physical evidence he needed, taken from my person, including my blood. It was only a matter of time before they connected me to the killings. I had hoped I'd have a little more time than this. Hayward did a commendable job."

"That's not all. Laura asked me to set you up. I walked out on that one. They've sworn out a warrant on you. You can't stay here."

"On the contrary, Vincent, I must stay here. It's the only place with the resources I need on short notice. And it is a bit like Poe's purloined letter-the last place they expect to find me is at home. The police presence is a mere formality."

D'Agosta stared at him. "So that's how you knew Diogenes wouldn't target Laura. She's the one investigating Duchamp's murder. He was banking on her suspecting you."

"Precisely. Now, pull up a chair and let me show you what I'm doing." Pendergast waved his hands toward the four laptops.

"These computers are tapped in parasitically to the city's web of street corner surveillance cameras, along with a couple of major private systems-ATMs and banks, for example." He pointed at one of the screens, which was currently subdivided into a dozen small windows: in each window, black-and-white video feeds of sidewalks, street intersections, and toll plazas were zipping by in accelerated reverse motion.

"Why?"

"I'm convinced Diogenes's final crime is going to take place in or around Manhattan. And you cannot move around a city like New York these days without being photographed, taped, or otherwise surveyed dozens of times every hour."

"But Diogenes is disguised."

"To most, yes. Not to me. You can disguise your appearance, but you can't disguise everything-your mannerisms, the way you walk, even the way you blink your eyes. Diogenes and I are very alike physically. I've videotaped myself, and now I'm running image-recognition and pattern-recognition algorithms against these video-in-various-states-of-motion feeds." He waved at another of the laptops. "As you can see, I'm concentrating particularly on feeds near the Dakota and the intersections around the Riverside Drive mansion. We know Diogenes has been to the mansion, and he has probably been here as well. If I can locate him, acquire an image print, I can track him backwards and forwards visually from that point, try to find a pattern in his movements."

"Wouldn't that need more computing horsepower than you'd find at a small university?"

"Hence the wiring closet." And Pendergast reached over and opened the closed door. Inside, stacked from floor to ceiling, were rack-mounted blade servers and RAID arrays.

D'Agosta whistled. "You understand all this shit?"

"No. But I know how to use it."

Pendergast swiveled to look at him. Although his skin was paler than D'Agosta had ever seen it, the agent's eyes glittered with a dangerous brightness. He had the manic energy, the deceptive second wind, of somebody who had not slept in several days.

"Diogenes is out there, Vincent. He's lurking somewhere in this myriad of data streams. To commit his ultimate crime, he's going to have to surface. And that's my chance-my last, my only chance- to stop him. This room is the only place anymore where I have access to the technology that can accomplish that." More clattering of keys. "The acquaintance I spoke of just now, the one in Ohio? He would be far better suited to this job than I. But he has been forced to make himself invisible for… for reasons of his own protection."

"Laura isn't the type to wait around. They're probably already coming after you."

"And no doubt you, too."

D'Agosta said nothing.

"They've searched my apartment, they've probably searched the Riverside Drive house. As for this little warren… well, you saw yourself that I have a private exit from the Dakota. Even the doormen here don't know about it. Only Martyn, who you just met."