Lincoln Child - Dance Of Death

D'Agosta clambered into the driver's seat and waited for instructions.

"Foot on the accelerator. Choke out. Gear in neutral."

"Check," D'Agosta said.

"When you hear the engine turn, give it a bit of gas."

D'Agosta complied. A moment later, the car roared to life.

"Ease off the choke," Pendergast said. He walked over to the alarm box, glanced around, picked up a long wire, attached it to both metal plates in the alarm, then opened the door. "Take her out."

D'Agosta eased the Jag out. Pendergast shut the garage door and got into the rear of the vehicle.

"Let's get the heat on in this baby," said D'Agosta, fiddling with the unfamiliar controls as he drove onto the street.

"You do that. Pull over and let it run for a few minutes. I am going to lie down, and… ho, what's this?" He held up a loud sports jacket checkered in various shades of light green. "A stroke of luck, Vincent! Now you look the part."

D'Agosta drew off his sodden coat and tossed it on the floor, putting on the sports jacket instead.

"How becoming."

"Yeah, right."

At that moment, Pendergast's cell phone rang. D'Agosta watched as the agent plucked it from his pocket.

"Yes," Pendergast said. "I understand. Yes, excellent. Thank you." And he hung up.

"We have three hours to get to Manhattan," he said, checking his watch. "Do you think you can manage it?"

"You bet." D'Agosta hesitated. "Now, you want to tell me who that was and what the heck you've been up to?"

"That was William Smithback."

"The journalist?"

"Yes. You see, Vincent, at last-at long, long last-we might have been given a break."

"How do you figure that?"

"Diogenes was the person who robbed the Astor Hall last night."

D'Agosta turned to stare at him. "Diogenes? You sure?"

"Undoubtedly. He's always had an obsession with diamonds. All these murders were just a horrible distraction to keep me busy while he planned his real crime: the robbing of the diamond hall. And he chose to take Viola last, to ensure my maximal distraction during the robbery itself. Vincent, it was a 'perfect' crime, after all, in a spectacular, public sense-not one aimed simply at myself."

"So what makes this a break for us?"

"What Diogenes didn't know-couldn't know-was that the finest gem of all, no doubt the one he most wanted, wasn't on display. He didn't steal Lucifer's Heart: he stole a fake."

"So?"

"So I'm going to steal the real Lucifer's Heart for him and make a trade. Is the motor warmed up? Let's get back to New York-there's no time to waste."

D'Agosta eased the car away from the curb. "I've seen you pull a few rabbits out of your hat, but how in the hell are you going to steal the world's greatest diamond on the spur of the moment? You don't know where it is, you don't know anything about its security."

"Perhaps. But as it happens, Vincent, my plans are already in motion." And Pendergast patted the pocket where his cell phone was.

D'Agosta kept his eyes on the road. "There's a problem," he said in a quiet voice.

"What's that?"

"We're assuming that Diogenes still has something to trade."

There was a brief silence before Pendergast spoke. "We can only pray that he does."

Laura Hayward walked briskly up the steps of the Lower Manhattan Federal Building, Captain Singleton at her heels. Singleton was, as usual, dressed nattily: camel's-hair topcoat, Burberry scarf, thin black leather gloves. He hadn't said much on the ride downtown, but that was okay: Hayward hadn't felt much like talking.

It had been barely twenty-four hours since D'Agosta walked out of her office and away from her ultimatum, but it might as well have been a year. Hayward had always been an exceptionally levelheaded person, but as she walked into the Federal Building, she had an almost overpowering sense of unreality. Maybe none of this was happening, maybe she wasn't on her way to an urgent FBI briefing, maybe Pendergast wasn't the most wanted criminal in New York and D'Agosta his accomplice. Maybe she'd just wake up and it would be January 21 again, and her apartment would still smell of Vinnie's overcooked lasagna.

At the security checkpoint, Hayward showed her shield, checked her weapon, signed the clipboard. There wasn't going to be a happy ending. Because if D'Agosta wasn't Pendergast's accomplice, he would be Pendergast's victim.

The conference room was large, paneled in dark wood. Flags of New York and the United States drooped from brass flagpoles on both sides of the entryway, and color photos of various government types lined the walls. A huge oval table dominated the room, surrounded with leather chairs. The coffee urn and the table heaped with donuts and crullers, a staple of NYPD departmental meetings, was absent. Instead, a pint bottle of spring water had been placed before each chair.

Unfamiliar men and women in dark suits were standing around in knots, talking quietly among themselves. As Hayward and Singleton entered, the groups began making their way quickly toward the chairs. Hayward chose the nearest seat and Singleton sat down beside her, removing his gloves and scarf. There was no place to hang their stuff, and as a result they were the only two people in the room wearing coats.

At that moment, a tall, stocky man walked into the conference room. Two shorter men followed on his heels, like obedient hounds. Each of the two carried a brick of red folders under his arm. The tall man stopped for a moment, glancing around the table. Unlike the rest of the faces in the room, pallid from the New York winter, his was sunburned. It wasn't the even, artificial tan you got from a salon: this man had spent long hours working someplace sunny and hot. His eyes were small, narrow, and pissed-off.

He walked to the head of the table, where three seats had been left empty, and took the middle one. His two retainers sat to his right and his left.

"Good morning," the man said in an abrasive Long Island accent at odds with the sunburn. "I'm Special Agent in Charge Spencer Coffey, and with me are Special Agents Brooks and Rabiner. With their assistance, I'll be leading the search for Special Agent Pendergast."

The man seemed to spit out the final word, and as he said it, the anger spread from his eyes to his entire face.

"The facts as we know them so far are these: Pendergast is a primary suspect in four homicides, one in New Orleans, one in D.C., and two here in New York. We have DNA and fiber evidence from all four sites, and we're cooperating with local authorities in an effort to gather more."

Singleton shot Hayward a meaningful look. Coffey's idea of "cooperation" had been a phalanx of FBI agents swooping down on her office, grilling her men, and taking whatever evidence struck their fancy. Ironic how her own request for the Quantico profile had aroused Coffey's interest in the first place.

"Clearly, we're dealing with a mentally unbalanced individual- the psych profile confirms it. There is a high probability he is planning additional homicides. He was last spotted yesterday afternoon at Kennedy Airport, where he eluded security guards and police officers, stole a rental car, and drove away. He abandoned his own vehicle at the rental lot-a Rolls-Royce."

A low murmur went around the room at this, punctuated by several scoffs and dark looks. Pendergast must have made more than his share of enemies during his tenure with the FBI.

"There have been unconfirmed sightings of Pendergast at several convenience stores and gas stations in Nassau and Suffolk counties, last night and this morning. We're following up on those now. Pendergast is traveling with another man, believed to be NYPD lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta. And I've just had news of a high-speed chase in the vicinity of Southampton. Preliminary eyewitness accounts from the officers involved would seem to ID Pendergast and D'Agosta."