Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

"Shit. That cop's running our plates."

Pendergast didn't respond. He sat motionless, eyes closed.

"That's it. We're screwed."

Now the cruiser eased into a three-point turn at the end of the lot and headed back toward them.

Pendergast opened his eyes. "I'll hold the drinks. See what you can do about getting him off our tail."

Instantly, D'Agosta slammed the truck into drive and peeled out, fishtailing past the cruiser and onto the road paralleling the boardwalk. The cruiser snapped on its lights and siren, accelerating behind them.

They tore along the dune road. Moments later, D'Agosta heard another siren, this one coming from somewhere ahead.

"The beach," said Pendergast, gingerly balancing the lattes.

"Right." D'Agosta shifted into 4WD, spun the wheel, and bashed through the railing onto the boardwalk. The truck rumbled across the uneven wooden planks, hit the railing on the far side, and was briefly airborne as it made the two-foot drop to the sand.

In a moment, they were racing along the beach, just beyond the surf. D'Agosta glanced back to see the squad cars in the sand, still following.

They were going to have to do better.

He accelerated further, tires spinning up jets of damp sand. Ahead, he could see an area of dunes, one of the many preserves along the South Shore. He swerved into it, broke down another wooden fence, and hit the scrubby dunes at forty. It was clearly a large preserve, and he had no idea where he was going, so he angled the truck into the roughest-looking section, where the brush was heaviest and the dunes highest, covered with a scattering of scrubby pines. No way the cruisers could follow them in here.

Suddenly, Pendergast sat up, like the snapping of a steel spring.

D'Agosta bashed through some more heavy brush, then glanced into the rearview mirror. Nothing. The cruisers had been stopped, but D'Agosta knew their respite was only temporary. All the police stations along the South Shore had beach patrol buggies-he knew, he used to drive one, in another life just a few months back. They were still in deep shit and he'd have to find some other way to-

"Stop the truck!" Pendergast said abruptly.

"No way, I've got to-"

"Stop!"

Something in the tone caused D'Agosta to jam on the brakes. They swerved wildly, stopping beneath the shadow of an overhanging dune. He killed the lights and the engine at the same time. This was crazy. They'd left a set of tracks any idiot could follow.

The radio was still on the press conference, and Pendergast was listening intently.

"… 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."

Pendergast turned to D'Agosta, a look of astonishment and sudden, fierce hope lighting up his face.

"That's it!"

"What?"

"Diogenes finally made a mistake. This is the opening we need." He had his cell phone out.

"I wish to hell I knew what you were talking about."

"I'm going to make some calls. As of now, you have but one vital task, Vincent: get us back to Manhattan."

The faint sound of a siren came up from behind the screen of dunes.

Smithback slowly SHUT his cell phone, stunned by the bizarre call he had just received. He found Nora looking at him curiously. They had finally opened the museum's staff entrance and employees were streaming past them, rushing to gain the warmth of indoors.

"What is it, Bill?" she asked. "Who was that?"

"Special Agent Pendergast. He managed to track me down on this loaner cell phone I picked up at the Times."

"What'd he want?"

"I'm sorry?" He felt dazed.

"I said, what did he want? You look shell-shocked."

"I've just had a most, um, extraordinary proposal put to me."

"Proposal? What are you talking about?"

Smithback roused himself and grasped Nora's shoulder. "I'll tell you about it later. Look, are you going to be okay here? I'm worried about your safety, with Margo dead and all these warnings of Pendergast's."

"The safest place in New York City is inside that museum right now. There must be a thousand cops in there."

Smithback nodded slowly, thinking. "True."

"Listen, I do have to go to work."

"I'm coming in with you. I've got to talk to Dr. Collopy."

"Collopy? Good luck."

Smithback could already see a large, angry crowd of reporters being kept from the museum by a string of policemen and guards. No one was getting in but employees. And Smithback was well known-all too well known-to the guards.

He felt Nora put an arm around his shoulder. "What are you going to do?"

"I've got to get inside."

Nora frowned. "Does this have to do with that call of Pendergast's?"

"It sure does." He looked into her green eyes, his gaze wandering over her copper hair and freckled nose. "You know what I'd really like to do…"

"Don't tempt me. I have a ton of work to do. Today's the public opening of the exhibition-assuming we ever open again."

Smithback gave her a kiss and a hug. He started to break away but found that Nora wouldn't release him.

"Bill," she murmured in his ear, "thank God you're back."

They held each other a few moments more, then Nora slowly let her arms fall away. She smiled, winked, then turned and walked into the museum.

Smithback watched her disappearing form. Then he shouldered his way into the crowd of employees lined up outside the door, bypassing the thicket of reporters who had been shunted off to one side. All the employees had their IDs out, and the crowd was thick. Police and museum guards were checking everybody's identification: it was going to be a bitch getting in. Smithback thought a moment, then pulled out his business card and scribbled a short note on the back.

When his turn came to pass through the security barrier, a guard barred his way. "ID?"

"I'm Smithback of the Times."

"You're in the wrong place, pal. Press is over there."

"Listen to me. I have a very urgent and private message for Dr. Collopy. It must be delivered to him immediately, or heads will roll. I'm not kidding. Yours, too"-Smithback glanced at the guard's name-plate- "Mr. Primus, if you don't deliver it."

The guard wavered, a look of fear in his eyes. The museum administration had not made life easy in recent years for those on the bottom, fostering a climate of fear more than family. Smithback had used this fact before, to good effect, and he hoped it would work again.

"What's it about?" the guard named Primus asked.

"The diamond theft. I have private information."

The guard seemed to waver. "I don't know…"

"I'm not asking you to let me in. I'm asking you to deliver this note directly to the director. Not to his secretary, not to anyone else-just to him. Look, I'm not some schmuck, okay? Here are my credentials."

The guard took the press pass, looking at it doubtfully.

Smithback pressed the message into his hand. "Don't read it. Put it in an envelope and deliver it personally. Trust me, you'll be glad you did."

The guard hesitated a moment. Then he took the card and retreated to the security office, reappearing a few moments later with an envelope. "I sealed it in here, never looked at it."

"Good man." Smithback scribbled on the envelope: "For Dr. Collopy, extremely important, to be opened immediately. From William Smithback Jr. of the New York Times."

The guard nodded. "I'll see it's delivered."

Smithback leaned forward. "You don't understand. I want you to deliver it personally." He glanced around. "I don't trust any of these other bozos."

The guard flushed, nodded. "All right." Envelope in hand, he disappeared down the hall.