Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

The clamor subsided and she pointed. "Ms. Lilienthal of ABC, your question?"

"What about Lucifer's Heart? Is it gone?"

"Yes, it was among the diamonds taken."

A turbulent murmur followed this unsurprising revelation. Rocco held up her hands again. "Please!"

"The museum claimed their security was the best in the world!" a reporter shouted. "How did the thieves get through?"

"We're analyzing it as we speak. Security is multilayered and redundant. The hall was under constant video surveillance. The thieves left behind a mass of technical equipment."

"What kind of technical equipment?"

"It'll take days, maybe weeks, to analyze."

More shouted questions. Rocco pointed to another reporter. "Roger?"

"How much is the collection insured for?"

"One hundred million dollars."

A murmur of awe.

"What's it actually worth?" the reporter named Roger persisted.

"The museum never put a value on it. Next question to Mr. Werth from NBC."

"What's Lucifer's Heart worth?"

"Again, you can't put a value on it. But let me please emphasize that we expect to recover the gems, one way or another."

Collopy stepped forward abruptly. "The museum's collection consists mostly of 'fancy' diamonds-that is, colored ones-and most are unusual enough to be recognizable from color and grade alone. That's especially true of a diamond like Lucifer's Heart. There's no other diamond in the world with its deep cinnamon color."

Nora watched as Smithback stepped over the velvet cord and into the group of press, waving his hand.

Rocco pointed to him, squinted. "Smithback, from the Times?"

"Isn't Lucifer's Heart considered the finest diamond in the world?"

"The finest fancy diamond, yes. At least that's what I've been told."

"So how are you going to explain this to the people of New York? How are you going to explain the loss of this unique gemstone?" His voice was suddenly shaking with emotion. It seemed to Nora that all the anger Smithback felt at Margo's death, and at his enforced separation from her, was being channeled into his question. "How could the museum have allowed this to happen!"

"No one allowed this to happen," said Rocco defensively. "The security in the Astor Hall is the most sophisticated in the world."

"Apparently, not sophisticated enough."

More chaos and shouting erupted. Rocco waved her hands. "Please! Let me speak!"

The roar died to an uneasy rumble.

"The museum deeply regrets the loss of Lucifer's Heart. We understand its importance to the city and, indeed, to the country. We're doing all we can to recover it. Please be patient and give the police time to do their work. Ms. Carlson of the Post?"

"This is for Dr. Collopy. Not to put too fine a point on it, but you were holding that diamond in trust for the people of New York, to whom it really belongs. How do you, personally, as the head of the museum, intend to bear responsibility for this?"

The rumble was rising again. But it suddenly died away as Collopy held up his hands. "The fact is," he said, "any security system devised by man can be defeated by man."

"That's a rather fatalistic view," Carlson continued. "In other words, you're admitting the museum can't ever guarantee the security of its collections."

"We certainly do guarantee the security of our collections," Collopy thundered.

"Next question!" Rocco called. But the reporters had latched onto something and weren't going to let go.

"Can you explain what you mean by 'guarantee'? The greatest diamond in the world has just been stolen and you tell us its security was guaranteed?"

"I can explain." Collopy's face swelled with anger.

"There's a bit of cognitive dissonance floating around here!" Smithback shouted.

"I make that statement because Lucifer's Heart was not among the diamonds stolen!" Collopy cried.

There was an astonished silence. Rocco turned and looked at Collopy in amazement, as did Rocker himself.

"Excuse me, sir," Rocco began.

"Silence! I'm the only person in the museum privy to this information, but under the circumstances I don't see any point in keeping the information back any longer. The stone on display was a replica, a real diamond artificially colored by radiation treatments. The true Lucifer's Heart has always been safely locked in a vault at the museum's insurance company. The gem was too valuable to put on display-our insurance company wouldn't allow it."

He raised his head, a glitter of triumph in his eyes. "The thieves, whoever they are, stole a fake."

A roar of questions followed. But Collopy simply mopped his brow and retreated.

"This press conference is over!" shouted Rocco, to no effect. "No more questions!"

But it was clear, from the frantic hands and the shouts, that it was not over, and that there were many, many more questions to come.

Hours passed as they drove through one deserted beach town after another. Dawn had swelled into a dismal day, bitterly cold, with a knife-edged wind whipping out of a pewter sky. D'Agosta was still listening, moodily, to the police radio. He was growing increasingly concerned: the police chatter concerning them had abruptly dropped off-not just because of the gem heist, although that filled most of the channels, but because they'd probably switched to more secure channels that couldn't be monitored from their portable police-band radio.

It was becoming obvious to him they had reached the end of the line. Hitting more convenience stores was hopeless-with a full tank of gas, Diogenes would have no further reason to stop. Their previous score in Yaphank had only confirmed what Diogenes wanted them to know-that he had gone east and that Viola would shortly be dead. Beyond that, nothing. D'Agosta felt sick for Pendergast: it was hopeless, and he knew it.

Still, they soldiered on, stopping at motels, marts, all-night diners, each time exposing themselves to the possibility of being spotted and arrested.

What few scraps D'Agosta had managed to glean from the radio had been disheartening. Bolstered by a new and strong federal presence, the police were rapidly closing in. New roadblocks had been erected, and local authorities were on full alert. Inevitably, they'd learn about the purchase of the pickup truck. Unless Pendergast had something truly clever up his sleeve, their free-range hours were numbered.

The pickup swerved abruptly and D'Agosta clutched the roof handle as Pendergast screeched into a small parking lot, coming to a halt in front of a twenty-four-hour Starbucks. Beyond lay a public parking lot and, beyond that, the gray, rolling Atlantic.

They sat for a moment while the police radio, still tuned to the museum theft, droned on. Some kind of press conference was in session, being broadcast over one of the public channels.

"No way they stopped here," said D'Agosta.

"What I'm after is a wireless hot spot." Pendergast opened the laptop, booted it up. "No doubt there's one inside. I'll use a sniffer to find an open port, tap into the Net that way. I left my pattern-recognition software running at the Dakota. Perhaps it has something more to tell us."

D'Agosta watched morosely as Pendergast tapped on the keyboard. "Would you be so kind as to order us some coffee, Vincent?" he asked without looking up.

D'Agosta got out of the truck and entered the Starbucks. When he returned a few minutes later with a couple of lattes, Pendergast had moved into the passenger seat and was no longer typing.

"Anything?"

Pendergast shook his head. Slowly, he sat back, closed his eyes.

D'Agosta eased himself into the driver's seat with a sigh. As he did so, he noticed a police cruiser turning into the parking lot. It slowed as it passed them, then halted at the far end of the lot.