Douglas Preston - Reliquary

“Why not?” D’Agosta turned to her. “Even old farts like me get rusty.” They stepped out of the range and began climbing the long, steep staircase. “Actually, cases like this get everybody on edge,” he said. “A little practice seemed like a good idea. Especially after that briefing.”

Margo didn’t bother to reply. At the top of the steps, she stopped and waited for the Lieutenant to catch up. He emerged, puffing slightly, and they passed through the revolving door onto 31st Street. It was a cool evening, and traffic was light. Margo looked at her watch: almost eight. She could jog home, fix herself a light dinner, then try to catch up on her sleep.,

“I’ll bet those damn stairs have caused more coronaries than all the pastry in New York,” D’Agosta said. “Doesn’t seem to have bothered you any, though.”

Margo shrugged. “I’ve been working out.”

“So I noticed. You’re not the same person I met eighteen months ago. Not on the outside, anyway. What’s your routine?”

“Strength workout, mostly. You know, high weight, low reps.”

D’Agosta nodded. “Couple times a week?”

“I work the upper and lower muscle groups on alternating days. I try to work in some interval training, as well.”

“What are you currently benching? One twenty?”

Margo shook her head. “One thirty-five, actually. It’s nice, because for the first time I don’t have to change all those little weights on the bar. I can just use the forty-fives.”

D’Agosta nodded again. “Not bad.” They started toward Sixth Avenue. “And has it worked?”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, has it worked?”

Margo frowned. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, but even as she said the words, she understood.

“No,” she said a moment later, in a lower voice. “Not completely, anyway.”

“Don’t mean to be nosy,” D’Agosta replied, patting his pockets, absently searching for a cigar. “I’m a blunt kind of guy, just in case you didn’t know.” Finding one, he picked off the label with his fingernail and inspected the wrapper. “That shit at the Museum affected all of us, I suppose.”

They reached the avenue, and Margo hesitated a moment, looking northward. “Sorry,” she said. “I guess it’s just hard for me to talk about.”

“I know,” D’Agosta said. “Especially now.” There was a brief silence as he lit up. “Take good care of yourself, Dr. Green.”

Margo smiled slightly. “You too. And thanks again for this.” She patted her carryall, then eased into a jog, moving northward through the traffic, aiming for the West Side and home.

= 20 =

D’AGOSTA LOOKED AT his watch: 10:00 P.M., and they still had jack shit to show for all their work. Details of beat cops had checked the shelters, redemption centers, and soup kitchens, searching fruitlessly for word of anyone who might have an excessive interest in Mbwun. Hayward, whose knowledge of the underground homeless was becoming an ever more valuable resource, had led a number of special rousting details. Unfortunately, the results had also been disappointing: the moles had melted before their sweeps, disappearing into ever darker and more obscure recesses. Besides, as Hayward explained, the sweeps could only scratch the surface of the vast tunnel networks beneath the city’s streets. At least the stream of nutcases calling in to claim the Post reward was beginning to slow to a trickle. Maybe everyone was too worried about the Times report and the Bitterman murder.

He looked down at his desk, still buried under the half-coordinated results of the sweeps. Then he glanced up at the precinct board for the hundredth time that evening, staring fixedly at the map as if the fierceness of his glare would force it to yield up an answer. What was the pattern? There had to be one; it was the first rule of detective work.

He didn’t give a shit what Horlocker said: his gut told him that these killings were the work of more than one murderer. And it wasn’t only his gut—there were just too many; and the MOs, while similar, weren’t similar enough: some decapitated, some with their heads crushed, others simply mutilated. Perhaps it was some kind of truly screwed-up cult. But whatever it turned out to be, Horlocker’s threatening deadlines were time-consuming distractions. What was needed here was patient, methodical, intelligent detective work.

D’Agosta laughed to himself. Christ, I’m sounding more like Pendergast all the time .

From beyond the closed door of the storage room at one side of his office, he began to make out a series of odd shuffling noises. Hayward had gone in there a few minutes earlier on her coffee break. He stared at the door for a moment while the noises continued. At last, he rose, walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped in. Hayward stood in the middle of the storage room, crouched in an animal-like stance, her left hand stuck rigidly in front of her like an arrow, her right cocked back to the side of her head. Her hands were tensed and slightly curved, bent thumbs protruding upward. As he watched, she swiveled her small form through ninety degrees of the compass, reversed the position of her arms in a silent punching motion, then turned another ninety degrees. It looked like some kind of dangerous ballet.

The movements were punctuated by sharp exhalations, not unlike the breathing she’d done during the confrontation in the tunnels. As he watched, she swiveled again, facing him this time, and brought her hands together in front of her with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Need something, Lieutenant?” she asked.

“Just an explanation of what the hell you’re doing,” he replied.

Hayward straightened up slowly to her full height, released a deep breath, then looked up at him. “It’s one of the heian series of kata.”

“What’s that again?”

“Formal exercises of shotokan karate,” she said. Then she caught his look. “It helps keep me relaxed, in shape,” she explained. “And it is my break, Lieutenant.”

“Then get on with it.” D’Agosta turned toward the door, then stopped and looked back. “What’s your belt?”

She looked up at him for a moment. “White,” she replied at last.

“I see.”

Hayward smiled slightly. “ Shotokan is the original Japanese school of karate. They don’t usually believe in all sorts of pastel belt colors, Lieutenant. There are six degrees of white belt, three brown, then black.”

D’Agosta nodded. “So what degree are you?” he asked curiously.

“I go for my sankyu brown belt examination next month.”

From his office beyond D’Agosta could hear the rattle of a knob. Stepping out of the supply room and closing the door behind him, he found himself looking at the corpulent form of Captain Waxie. Without a word, Waxie sauntered over to the precinct board. He studied the riot of red and white pins intently, hands clasped behind his back.

“There’s a pattern here,” he said at last.

“Really?” D’Agosta asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

Waxie nodded sagely, keeping his back turned.

D’Agosta said nothing. He knew he was going to regret to his dying day bringing Waxie into the case.

“It originates here .” Waxie’s finger hit a green spot on the map with a soft thump. D’Agosta saw that he had fingered the Ramble, the wildest area of Central Park.

“How do you figure?”

“Simple,” said Waxie. “The Chief had a talk with the top actuary in human resources. He looked at the murder locations, did a best-fit linear analysis, and said they were radiating right from this spot. See? The deaths form a semicircle around this point. The Belvedere Castle murder was the key.”