Douglas Preston - Two Graves

“Via an earpiece or some similar device.”

“Exactly.”

D’Agosta liked the idea at once. “So we look for this guy. Because he’s got to be on our security tapes.”

“Probably. But of course he’ll be very, very carefully disguised.”

Suddenly a long shadow, emerging from the bedroom, fell across the corpse, startling D’Agosta. A moment later a tall figure in black emerged, backlit, his blond-white hair a bright halo around his shadowed face, making him look not like an angel but like some ghastly revenant, a specter of the night.

“Two killers, you say?” came the honeyed drawl.

“Pendergast!” said D’Agosta. “What the hell? How’d you get in here?”

“The same way you did, Vincent. I’ve just been examining the bedroom.”

His voice was not exactly friendly, but at least, thought D’Agosta, it had a steeliness behind it that had been lacking during their last encounter.

D’Agosta glanced at Gibbs, who was staring at Pendergast, failing to control the disapproval on his face.

Another step forward and the bright light fell athwart Pendergast’s face, raking it from the side, chiseling his features into marble-like perfection. The face turned. “Greetings, Agent Gibbs.”

“The same to you,” said Gibbs.

“I trust we have liaised to your satisfaction?”

A silence. “Since you mentioned it, no, I haven’t yet had confirmation of your role in the case.”

A tsk-tsk sound from Pendergast. “Ah, that FBI bureaucracy, so very dependable.”

“But of course,” said Gibbs, hardly able to disguise his ill will, “I always welcome the assistance of a fellow agent.”

“Assistance,” Pendergast repeated. He suddenly was in motion, moving around the corpse, bending quickly, examining articles with a loupe, picking up something with tweezers that went into a test tube, more rapid, almost manic movement—and then he had completed the circuit and was face-to-face with Gibbs again.

“ Two , you say?”

Gibbs nodded. “A working hypothesis only,” he said. “We’re obviously not at the point where we can draw conclusions.”

“I’d love to hear your thoughts. I’m terribly interested.”

D’Agosta felt a certain uneasiness at Pendergast’s choice of words, but he kept silent.

“Well,” said Gibbs. “I don’t know if the lieutenant has shared with you our provisional report, but we see this as the work of an organized killer—or killers—who operate in a ritual fashion. I’ll get you the report, if you don’t have it.”

“Oh, I have it. But there’s nothing like hearing it—how does the quaint saying go? Straight from the horse’s mouth. And the motive?”

“These types of killers,” Gibbs continued evenly, “generally kill for reasons of libidinous gratification, which can be satisfied only by the exercise of extreme control and power over others.”

“And the extra body parts?”

“That is unique in our experience. The hypothesis our profilers are developing is that the aggressor is overwhelmed with feelings of self-loathing and worthlessness—perhaps due to childhood abuse—and is acting out a sort of slow-motion suicide. Our experts are working from that conjecture.”

“How fortunate for us. And the message, Tag, you’re it ?”

“This type of killer often taunts law enforcement.”

“Your database has an answer for everything.”

Gibbs didn’t seem to know how to take this, and neither did D’Agosta. “It is a very good database, I’ll admit,” Gibbs went on. “As I’m sure you know, Agent Pendergast, the joint NCAVC/BSU profiling system includes tens of thousands of entries. It’s based on statistics, aggregates, and correlates. It doesn’t mean our killer necessarily fits the pattern, but it does give us something to follow.”

“Yes, indeed. It gives you a trail to follow deep into the wilderness, at least.”

This rather strange metaphor dangled, D’Agosta trying to figure out exactly what it was Pendergast meant. A tense silence enveloped them as Pendergast continued gazing at Gibbs, his head slightly tilted, as if examining a specimen. Then he turned to D’Agosta and seized him by the hand. “Well, Vincent,” he said. “Here we are again, partners on a case. I want to thank you for—how should I put it?—helping save my life.”

And with that, he turned and strode out the door at a swift pace, black suit coat flapping crazily behind him.

23

LIEUTENANT D’AGOSTA SAT, SLUMPED FORWARD, IN VIDEO Lab C on the nineteenth floor of One Police Plaza. He’d left the scene of the third murder just an hour before, and he felt like he’d gone fifteen rounds with a prizefighter.

D’Agosta turned to the man working the video equipment, a skinny dweeb named Hong. “Fifteenth-floor feed. Back sixty seconds.”

Hong worked the keyboard, and the black-and-white image on the central monitor changed, going backward rapidly in reverse motion.

As he watched the screen, D’Agosta mentally went over how the crime had gone down. The killer had forced his way into the room—once again, based on the Royal Cheshire security tapes, he’d seemed to know just when the door was going to open—and dragged the unfortunate woman into the bedroom of the hotel suite. He’d killed her, then proceeded with his ghastly work. The whole thing took fewer than ten minutes.

But then the woman’s husband had returned to the suite. The killer had hidden in the bathroom. The man discovered the body of his wife, and his frantic cries were overheard by a hotel security officer, who entered the suite, saw the body, and called the police. The killer escaped in the resulting confusion. All this had been corroborated by the security tapes, as well as by the evidence found in the suite and by the statements of the husband and the detective.

It seemed straightforward enough. But the devil—the really weird shit, actually—was in the details. How, for example, did the killer know to hide in the bathroom? If he’d been disturbed in his bedroom work by the click of the front door lock, there was no way he could have made it to the bathroom in time without being seen by the husband. He must have hidden himself before the key card was swiped through the lock. He must have been alerted by some other cue.

Pretty damn clear the guy had an accomplice. But where?

“Start it right there,” D’Agosta told Hong.

He watched the corridor video for perhaps the tenth time as the husband entered the suite. Five seconds later, the front door opened again and the killer—wearing a fedora and a trench coat—stepped out. But then—against all logic—he ducked back inside the room a second time. A few moments later, the hotel dick rounded a corner and came into view.

“Stop it for a moment,” D’Agosta said.

The problem was, there was no accomplice in the hall to see the guy come. The hall was empty.

“Start it up again,” he said.

He watched morosely as the hotel detective disappeared into the room, alerted by the husband’s shouts. Almost immediately the killer stepped out again and headed for the elevator bank. He pressed the DOWN button, waited a minute, and then—as if changing his mind—walked the rest of the way down the hall, exiting through the stairwell door.

Moments later, the elevator doors opened and three men in suits stepped out.

“Stop,” D’Agosta said. “Let’s see the feed from the thirteenth floor. Begin at the same time index.”

“Sure thing, Loo,” said Hong.

They had already reviewed the tapes of the fourteenth floor—at that particular moment there had been several cleaning ladies at work, their carts blocking the corridor. Now D’Agosta watched as the killer emerged from the stairwell onto the thirteenth floor. He strode over to the elevator bank, pressed the DOWN button again, and waited. He let one elevator go by, then pressed the button again. This time, when the doors opened, he stepped inside.