Douglas Preston - Two Graves

And with that, she nodded her dismissal, picked up her book, and began to read.

87

D’AGOSTA WAS FEARFUL THE OLD BAR MIGHT HAVE closed up. He hadn’t been there in years. Few of his fellow officers even knew of the place—the ferns in their macramé hangers guaranteed that no self-respecting cop would be caught dead in there. But as he turned the corner from Vesey onto Church Street, feet crunching against the light dusting of snow, he saw—with relief—that the place was still there. The ferns in the window appeared, if anything, deader than ever. He descended the steps and went inside.

Laura Hayward was already there. She was sitting in the back, at the very same table—how was that for a coincidence?—a fresh, foamy Guinness in one hand. She looked up as D’Agosta approached, smiled.

“I didn’t even know this place had a name,” she said as he sat down.

D’Agosta nodded. “Vino Veritas.”

“Maybe the owner’s a wine connoisseur. Or a Harvard graduate. Or both.”

D’Agosta didn’t quite understand this, so instead of replying he nodded to the waiter and pointed at Hayward’s drink.

“It seemed like a good place to meet,” he said as his own Guinness was placed before him. “Just a stone’s throw from Police Plaza.”

He took a sip from the pint glass, then sat back in his chair, trying to appear nonchalant. In fact he was nervous as hell. The idea had come to him that morning, on his way to work. No big plan this time, no elaborate preparations. Instinct told him that he’d better just go for it.

“Big doings in Captain Singleton’s office,” Laura said, teasingly.

“So the word’s already out?”

She nodded. “Midge Rawley. She’s the last person you’d think. I mean, she’s been Glen’s confidential secretary, known every last bit of his business, for—what?—at least ten years.”

“And I think she was loyal for all of them. Until just recently. At least, that’s when the payments took place—according to the bank records.”

“I’d heard she’d been having some personal problems. Separated from her husband, mother in a nursing home. I suppose that’s why they chose her.”

“Maybe they blackmailed her. Almost makes you feel sorry for her.”

“Almost. Until you remember it was her tip-off that betrayed the location of the Central Park boathouse meet. Which led to the shootout, the deaths of five people, and the kidnapping and murder of Helen Pendergast.” Laura paused. “Did the search warrant uncover anything?”

D’Agosta shook his head. “We’re hoping to learn more from the audio and video surveillance logs. Or maybe from Rawley herself. The Internal Affairs boys have her down in the Tombs right now. Who knows? She might get talkative.” He took another sip of his Guinness. He was getting more nervous by the minute—and this small talk wasn’t helping any.

“Anyway, you did good, Vinnie. This will be a real feather in your cap.”

“Thanks.”

“And it may take Singleton down a notch or two, as well.”

D’Agosta had thought of this. Having a mole discovered in his own private office would make Captain Singleton defensive, to say the least—and that, indirectly, would only help get D’Agosta off the hot seat. Although it was a damn shame—Singleton was a decent man.

“It’s really Pendergast who should get the credit,” he said.

“He just called you, out of the blue, and told you who to finger?”

“Not exactly. Let’s say he pointed me in the right direction.”

“So it was your own good police work that did it. Don’t sell yourself short, Vinnie—you scored, big-time. Take the credit and run.” Laura’s sly smile deepened. “So does this mean you and Agent Pendergast are best buddies again?”

“He called me ‘my dear Vincent,’ if that’s any indication.”

“I see. So Pendergast is back in New York, the Hotel Killer murders have stopped, and the FBI profilers think the killer’s moved on. It’s Christmas Eve. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.” She raised her glass.

D’Agosta took another sip of his Guinness. He barely tasted the brew. It was all he could do to keep from squirming in his chair. This was growing intolerable. He’d have to find some way to introduce the subject, but he was damned if he knew how—

Suddenly he became aware that Laura had put down her glass and was gazing at him intently. For a moment they looked at each other in silence. And then, she spoke.

“Yes,” she said in a low voice.

D’Agosta was confused. “I’m sorry?”

She reached over, took his hand. “You big dope. Let me put you out of your misery. Of course I’ll marry you.”

“You… how…?” D’Agosta fell silent, at a loss for words.

“Do you think I’m a complete idiot? Why would you ask me to meet you for a drink here, of all unlikely places? You made such a big deal out of picking this particular spot—the spot where we first got to know each other. Two years ago, remember?” She squeezed his hand, then laughed. “Vino Veritas, indeed. You know what? Deep down, Lieutenant D’Agosta, you’re just an old softie. A sentimentalist. And that’s one of the things—one of the many things—I love about you.”

D’Agosta looked down. He was so moved that he could not speak. “I can’t believe you knew. I mean…”

“So where’s the ring?”

D’Agosta stammered, trying to explain it was spontaneous, last minute, until he was interrupted by her laugh. “I’m just teasing you, Vinnie. I like spontaneous. I can wait for the ring—no problem.”

Sheepishly, he reached over and took her hand. “Thanks.”

Still smiling, she cocked her head. “Let’s go someplace else. Some new place, really nice. As nostalgic as this place is, let’s make a new memory of tonight. We need to celebrate—and not just because it’s Christmas Eve. We’ve got a lot of planning to do.”

She signaled the waiter for the check.

And Last

THE LARGE, ORNATELY PANELED LIBRARY OF 891 RIVERSIDE Drive was lit only by fire and candlelight. It was a late-February evening, and a light freezing rain was falling on the cars passing by on Riverside and the West Side Highway, but no sound of traffic, no tick, tick of ice upon glass panes, penetrated the barred and curtained windows. The only sound was the crackling of the fire, the scratch of Agent Pendergast’s fountain pen on cream laid writing paper, and a low, infrequent conversation that was being carried out between Constance Greene and Tristram.

The two were sitting at a gaming table placed before the fire, and Constance was teaching Tristram how to play ombre, a card game that had gone out of fashion decades, if not centuries, before. Tristram stared at his cards, his young face screwed up in thought. Constance had begun introducing him to games slowly—with whist—and already Tristram’s memory, concentration, and logical abilities showed remarkable improvement. Now he was immersed in the subtleties of spadilles, entradas, and estuches.

Pendergast was sitting at a writing table in the far corner of the library, his back to a wall of leather-bound books. From time to time he glanced up from his writing, his silvery eyes moving around the room, always coming to rest at last on the two persons playing cards.

Now the quiet of the room was broken by the ringing of Pendergast’s cell phone. He slipped it from his pocket, glanced at the number. “Yes?” he spoke into it.

“Pendergast? It’s me. Corrie.”