Douglas Preston - Two Graves

“And you’re sure he’s… your son?”

Pendergast stared at him. “As I said earlier, that information remains strictly between us.”

D’Agosta swallowed. The intensity of Pendergast’s stare unnerved him. “If you’ve got information, I mean, we’ve got to share it…” he began.

The look on Pendergast’s face became distinctly unfriendly. “Vincent, I am the only person who can catch this killer. Nobody else can. In fact, their attempts would only make things worse. Therefore, we must keep the information to ourselves. At least for now. Do you understand?”

D’Agosta couldn’t bring himself to answer. He did understand. But withholding information—especially the possible identity of the killer? You couldn’t do that. Then again, it seemed a completely crazy idea that the killer was Pendergast’s son—that he even had a son. The man was cracking up. Maybe they should withhold it.

He had no idea what to do.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Agent Pendergast.” And here came Gibbs, striding out of the hotel room. He approached, hand extended, the phoniest of smiles on his face. Pendergast took the hand.

“You look like you’ve been in a rumble,” said Gibbs with a chuckle, looking over Pendergast’s muddied suit.

“Indeed.”

“I’m curious,” said Gibbs, “how you and the lieutenant managed to get to the crime scene just, what, minutes after the perp arrived? The lieutenant said it was your idea, something about a number sequence?”

“Fibonacci,” Pendergast said.

Gibbs frowned. “Fibonacci? Who’s Fibonacci?”

“Leonardo Fibonacci,” said Pendergast, “a medieval mathematician. Italian, naturally.”

“Italian. Right.”

“I examined the numerical evidence of the killings and discovered that the addresses of the hotels follow a pattern: Five East Forty-Fifth Street, Eight West Fiftieth Street, Thirteen Central Park West. Five, eight, thirteen. That is part of the Fibonacci sequence, each number being the sum of the previous two. The next term in the sequence would be twenty-one. I discovered there was only one Manhattan hotel at a twenty-one address—the Murray Hill, at Twenty-One Park Avenue.”

Gibbs listened, head bowed, arms crossed, still frowning.

“The times of the killings follow a simpler sequence, alternating between seven thirty in the morning and nine in the evening. It’s a sign of arrogance, like showing his face to the security cameras—as if we’re so beneath contempt, he doesn’t even have to try to hide his work.”

When Pendergast fell silent, Gibbs rolled his eyes. “I can’t argue about the times of death. But all that about the Fib… the Fib… that’s got to be one of the most far-fetched ideas I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” said D’Agosta, “it seems to have worked.”

Gibbs took out his notebook. “So, Agent Pendergast, when you got here, what happened? The lieutenant tells me you just disappeared.”

“As I was telling Lieutenant D’Agosta, I went directly to the room, found the bathroom window open. The perpetrator was descending the fire escape. I gave chase and pursued him to the river, where I lost him in the area of the old piers.”

Gibbs took a few notes. “Get a good look at him?”

“No better than the security cameras.”

“You can’t tell me anything else?”

“I’m afraid not. Except that he’s a fast runner.”

D’Agosta could hardly believe it: Pendergast really was withholding evidence. It was one thing to talk about doing it; quite another to actively do it. Not only that, but Pendergast was doing so in an investigation D’Agosta himself was in charge of. He was finding it increasingly difficult not to take Pendergast’s flippant attitude toward the rule of law personally.

Gibbs slapped his notebook shut. “Interesting that he chose a dump like this. It shows his M.O. is evolving. That’s a common trait of this type of serial killer. He first kills in environments where he feels safe, then branches out, gets more daring. Pushes the envelope.”

“You don’t say,” said Pendergast.

“I do say. In fact, I believe this is significant. He killed first in the Marlborough Grand, the Vanderbilt, the Royal Cheshire. Five-star hotels all. It suggests to me the perp comes from a wealthy, privileged background. He starts off where he’s comfortable, then, as his confidence grows, he gets more daring, goes slumming, so to speak.”

“He chose this hotel,” Pendergast spoke mildly, “for one reason only: because it is the only one in Manhattan with a twenty-one in its address. It has nothing to do with his background or his ‘slumming’ habits.”

Gibbs sighed. “Special Agent Pendergast, how about if you stick to your own area of expertise and leave the profiling to the experts?”

“And which experts might that be?”

Gibbs stared at him.

Pendergast glanced at the open door of Room 516; at the shadows of those working within, still silhouetted upon the opposite wall of the corridor by the bright crime-scene lights. “Do you know Plato’s Allegory of the Cave?” he asked.

“No.”

“You might find it enlightening in the present situation. Agent Gibbs, I’ve thoroughly examined your forensic profile of the so-called Hotel Killer. As you say, it is based on probabilities and aggregates—the assumption that this killer is like others of his type. But the truth is, this killer is completely outside your bell curve. He does not fit any of your assumptions or conform to any of your precious data. What you are doing is not only a colossal waste of time but an actual hindrance. Your puerile analysis is badly sidetracking this investigation—which may well be the killer’s intention.”

D’Agosta stiffened.

Gibbs stared at Pendergast, and then spoke in measured tones. “From the beginning, I’ve wondered what the hell you were doing on this case. What your game was. We at the BSU have looked into your record, and we’re not impressed. I’ve seen all kinds of unusual stuff in there—mysterious leaves of absence, inquiries, reprimands. It’s amazing to me you haven’t been cashiered. You speak of a hindrance. The only hindrance I see here is your interfering presence. Be warned, Agent Pendergast—I won’t stand for any more of your games.”

Pendergast inclined his head in silent acquiescence. There was a silence—and then he spoke again. “Agent Gibbs?”

“Yes, what now?”

“I note blood on your left shoe. Just a spot.”

Gibbs looked down at his feet. “What? Where?”

Pendergast stooped, rubbed a finger along the edge of the sole, brought it up red. “Unfortunately, the shoe will have to be taken up as evidence. I’m afraid a report will need to be made of your error at the scene of the crime. Alas, it’s obligatory, as the lieutenant will confirm.” Pendergast waved his hand, calling over a CSI assistant with evidence bags. “Special Agent Gibbs will give you his shoe now—pity, as I note it’s a handmade Testoni, no doubt a painful loss for Mr. Gibbs, considering his modest salary.”

A moment later, D’Agosta watched as Gibbs stomped down the hall in one shoe and one stockinged foot. Funny—he himself hadn’t noticed any blood on the agent’s shoe.

“One has to be so careful at a crime scene these days,” Pendergast murmured at his side.

D’Agosta said nothing. Something was going to happen, and it wasn’t going to be nice.

39

IT WAS A COLD, GRAY, DRIZZLY MONDAY MORNING, THE cars lined up on the lot like blocks of wood, dull in the dull light, streaming rivulets of water down their flanks. It was just past eleven but already it was shaping up to be a terrible day for selling, which was just perfect as far as Corrie was concerned. She’d retreated with the other salespeople into the lounge, where they were all drinking bad coffee and shooting the breeze, waiting for customers to show up. There were four other salespeople in the lounge—all men. Joe Ricco and his son Joe Junior weren’t around, and the salesmen were in a relaxed mood.