Cemetery Dance (9 page)

Nora said nothing.

"Bill was a good guy. It's like I said: you and I have a common goal — find his murderer. We each have unique resources at our disposal; we should use them. You know him better than anyone. And I've got a paper. We could pool our talents, help each other."

"I'm still waiting to hear how."

"You know that story Bill was working on, the animal rights piece? He mentioned it to me a few weeks ago."

Nora nodded. "I already told the police about that." She hesitated. "You think it's connected?"

"That's what my gut tells me. But I don't have enough information yet. Tell me more about it."

"It was that business of animal sacrifice up in Inwood. There was a flurry of stories and then it got dropped. But it held Bill's interest. He kept it on the back burner, kept looking for new angles."

"Did he tell you much about it?"

"I just got the sense that some people weren't thrilled about his interest in the subject, but what else is new? He was never happier than when he was pissing off people. Unpleasant people in particular. And there was no one he hated more than an animal abuser." She glanced at her watch. "Thirty seconds left. You still haven't told me how you can help me."

"I'm a tireless researcher. Ask any of my colleagues. I know how to work the police, the hospitals, the libraries, the morgue — I mean, the newspaper's morgue. My press card gets me in places you can't go. I can devote my nights and my days to this, twenty–four/seven. It's true, I want a story. But I also want to do right by Bill."

"Your two minutes are up."

"Okay, I'll leave now. I want you to do something — for yourself as much as for me." Caitlyn tapped her head. "Get out his notes on that piece. The animal rights piece. Share them with me. Remember: we reporters look after our own. I want to get to the bottom of this almost as much as you do. Help me do that, Nora."

And with that, she smiled briefly, gave Nora her card, then turned and let herself out of the lab.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 15

The Rolls passed through a pair of gates set into a faux–brick wall, decorated with plastic ivy stapled haphazardly across its front. A sign amid the ivy informed visitors that they had arrived at Whispering Oaks Cemetery and Mausoleum. Beyond the wall lay an expanse of green lawn, bordered by freshly planted oak trees kept vertical by guy wires. Everything was new and raw. The graveyard itself was virtually empty, and D'Agosta could still see the seams where the turf had been rolled down. Half a dozen gigantic, polished granite gravestones were clustered in one corner. Ahead, a mausoleum rose up from the center of the greensward, bone white, stark, and charmless.

Proctor guided the Rolls up the asphalt drive and came to a halt in front of the building. A strip of flower bed before the mausoleum was bursting with flowers, despite the fall season, and as he emerged from the car D'Agosta prodded one with his foot.

Plastic.

They stood in the parking lot, looking around. "Where is everybody?" D'Agosta asked, looking at his watch. "The guy was supposed to be here at noon."

"Gentlemen?" A man had emerged, ghost–like, from the rear of the mausoleum. D'Agosta was startled by his appearance: slender, wearing a well–cut black suit, his skin unnaturally white. The man hurried over, hands clasped obsequiously in front of him, and went straight up to Pendergast. "How may I help you, sir?"

"We are here with regard to the remains of Colin Fearing."

"Ah, yes, the poor fellow we interred, what, almost two weeks ago?" The man beamed, looking Pendergast up and down. "You must be in the business. I can always tell a man in the business!"

Pendergast slowly dipped a hand into his pocket.

"Yes, yes," the man went on, "I remember the interment well. Poor fellow, there was just his sister and the priest. I was surprised — the young ones usually draw a crowd. Well! What mortuary are you gentlemen from, and how can I be of service?"

Pendergast's hand had finally withdrawn a leather case from his pocket, which he held up, allowing it to drop open.

The man stared. "What — what's this?"

"Alas, we are not ‘in the business,' as you so charmingly put it."

The man paled even further, saying nothing.

D'Agosta stepped up and handed him an envelope. "We're here about the court–ordered exhumation of Colin Fearing. The papers are all in there."

"Exhumation? I don't know a thing about it."

"I talked to a Mr. Radcliffe about it last night," said D'Agosta.

"Mr. Radcliffe didn't tell me anything. He never tells me anything." The man's voice rose in querulous complaint.

"That's too bad," said D'Agosta, the foul mood he had been in since the murder surfacing again. "Let's get this over with."

The man was clearly frightened. He seemed to sway in place. "We've … we've never had this sort of thing happen before."

"Always a first time, Mr. —"

"Lille. Maurice Lille."

Now the M.E.'s much–abused van came rattling down the drive, laying down a cloud of blue smoke. It swung around the curve too fast — D'Agosta wondered why they always drove like maniacs — and came to a halt with a little screech, the vehicle rocking back and forth on a bad suspension. A couple of med techs in white overalls got out, walked to the back, threw open the doors, and slid out a gurney on which lay an empty body bag. Then they approached across the parking lot, pushing the gurney in front.

"Where's the mort?" bawled the thinner of the two, a freckle–faced kid with carroty hair.

Silence.

"Mr. Lille?" D'Agosta asked after a moment.

"The … mort?"

"You know," said the tech. "The stiff. We don't got all day."

Lille shook himself out of his shock. "Yes. Yes, of course. Please, follow me into the mausoleum."

He led the way to the front door, punched a code into a keypad, and the faux–bronze door clicked open, revealing a high, white space with crypts rising from floor to ceiling on all four walls. Two enormous bunches of plastic flowers spilled out of a pair of gigantic Italianate plaster urns. Only a few of the crypts were marked with black, incised lettering giving names and dates. D'Agosta couldn't help but test the air for that smell he knew so well, but it was clean, fresh, perfumed. Definitely perfumed. Place like this, he thought, must have one hell of a forced–air system.

"I'm sorry. You did say it was Colin Fearing?" Despite the excessive air–conditioning, Lille was sweating.

"That's right." D'Agosta glanced with irritation at Pendergast, who had gone off on a stroll, hands behind his back, lips pursed, looking around the place. He always seemed to disappear at the wrong time.

"Just a moment, please." Lille went through a glass door that led to his office and came back out clutching a clipboard, looking up at the vast wall of crypts, his lips moving as if counting. After a moment, he stopped.

"There it is. Colin Fearing." He pointed at one of the marked crypts, then stepped back, the grimace of an attempted smile on his face.

"Mr. Lille?" said D'Agosta. "The key?"

"Key?" A look of panic took hold. "You want me to open it?"

"That's what an exhumation is all about, right?" said D'Agosta.

"But, you see, I'm not authorized. I'm just a salesman."

D'Agosta exhaled. "You'll find all the paperwork in that envelope. All you have to do is sign the top page — and get us the key."

Lille looked down and discovered, as if for the first time, the manila envelope he was clutching in his hand.

"But I'm not authorized. I'll have to call Mr. Radcliffe."

D'Agosta rolled his eyes.

Lille went back into his office, leaving the door open. D'Agosta listened. The conversation started off low, but soon Lille's shrill voice was echoing through the mausoleum like the cries of a kicked dog. Mr. Radcliffe, apparently, was not interested in cooperation.

Lille came back out. "Mr. Radcliffe is coming in."

"How long will that take?"

"An hour."

"Forget it. I already explained this to Radcliffe. Open the crypt. Now."

Lille wrung his hands, his face contorted. "Oh dear. I just … can't."

"That's a court order in your hand, pal, not a permission request. If you don't open that crypt, I'll cite you for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty."

"But Mr. Racliffe will fire me!" Lille wailed.

Pendergast swung back around from his self–guided tour, strolling casually up to the group. He approached the face of Fearing's crypt and read aloud: "Colin Fearing, age thirty–eight. Sad when they die young, don't you think, Mr. Lille?"

Lille didn't seem to hear. Pendergast laid a hand on the marble, as if caressing it. "You say no one came to the funeral?"

"Just the sister."

"How sad. And who paid for it?"

"I'm … I'm not sure. The sister paid the bill, I think from the mother's estate."

"But the mother is non compos mentis." The agent turned to D'Agosta. "I wonder if the sister had a power of attorney? Worth looking into."

"Good idea."

Pendergast's white fingers continued to stroke the marble, drawing back a small, hidden plate, exposing a lock. His other hand dipped into his breast pocket and emerged with a small object, like a comb with only a few short teeth at one end. He inserted it into the lock, gave it a wiggle.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're …" Lille began, his voice dying away as the crypt door swung open noiselessly on oiled hinges. "No, wait, you mustn't do this —"

The med techs pushed the gurney forward, raising it with a little shake to the level of the crypt. A small flashlight appeared in Pendergast's hand, and he aimed it into the darkness, peering inside.

There was a short silence. Then Pendergast said: "I don't think we'll be needing the gurney."

The two med techs paused, uncertain.

Pendergast straightened up and turned to Lille. "Pray tell, who keeps the keys to these crypts?"

"The keys?" The man was shaking. "I do."

"Where?"

"I keep them locked up in my office."

"And the second set?"

"Mr. Radcliffe keeps them off site. I don't know where."

"Vincent?" Pendergast stepped back, motioned toward the open crypt.

D'Agosta stepped up and peered in the dark cavity, his eye following the narrow beam of the flashlight.

"The damn thing's empty!" he said.

"Impossible," quavered Lille. "I saw the body put in there with my own eyes …" His voice choked off and he clutched at his tie.

The carroty–haired med tech peered in, to see for himself. "Well fuck me twice on Sunday," he said, staring.

"Not quite empty, Vincent." Pendergast snapped on a latex glove and reached inside, gingerly withdrawing an object and displaying it to the others in the palm of his hand. It was a tiny coffin, crudely fashioned from papier–mâché and bits of cloth, its folded–paper lid ajar. Inside lay a grinning skeleton composed of tiny, white–painted toothpicks.

"There is an interment in here — of sorts," he said in his mellifluous voice.

There was a gasp, followed by a soft, collapsing sound. D'Agosta turned. Maurice Lille had fainted.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 16

Midnight. Nora Kelly walked briskly through the dark heart of the museum's basement, her heels tapping softly against the polished stone floor. The corridors were on after–hours lighting, and shadows yawned from open doorways. There was nobody around: even the most hard–core curator had left for home hours ago, and most of the guards' rounds were through the museum's public spaces.

She came to a halt at a stainless–steel door labeled PCR LAB. As she'd hoped, the door's wire–covered window was dark. She turned to the keypad lock, typed in a sequence of numbers. An LED set into the pad turned from red to green.

She pushed open the door, ducked inside, and turned on the light, stopping to look around. She had been in the lab only a few times on casual visits, on the occasions she'd dropped off samples for testing. The thermal cycler for the PCR stood on a spotless stainless–steel table, shrouded in plastic. She stepped up, pulled away the plastic, folded it and laid it aside. The machine — an Eppendorf Master–cycler 5330 — was made of white plastic, its ugly, low–tech appearance belying its sophisticated innards. She rummaged in her bag and removed a printed document she had downloaded from the Internet with directions on how to use it.

The door had locked behind her automatically. She took a deep breath, then hunted around behind the machine with one hand, at last locating the power switch and turning it on. The manual stated it would take a full fifteen minutes to warm up.

Laying her bag on the table, she removed a Styrofoam container, took off the lid, and began carefully withdrawing pencil–thin test tubes and racking them. One tube contained a bit of hair, another a fiber, another a piece of Kleenex, still another freeze–dried fragments of blood, all of which Pendergast had given her.

She passed a hand over her brow, noticing as she did so that her fingertips were trembling slightly. She tried not to think of anything beyond the lab work. She had to be finished and long gone by dawn. Her head pounded; she was dead tired; she hadn't slept since returning home two days before. But her anger and her grief gave her energy, fed her, kept her going. Pendergast needed the DNA results as soon as possible. She was grateful for the chance to be of use — any use — if it would help catch Bill's murderer.

From a lab refrigerator, she took out a strip of eight PCR tubes: tiny, bullet–shaped sealed plastic containers pre–filled with buffer solution, Taq polymerase, dNTPs, and other reagents. With exquisite care, she used a pair of sterilized tweezers to transfer minuscule samples of the biological material from her test tubes to the PCR tubes, quickly resealing each one as she did so. By the time the machine trilled its readiness, she had filled thirty–two: the maximum the PCR cycler could hold in a single run.

She slipped a few extra tubes into her pocket for later use, then went over the instructions for the third time. She opened the cycler, slotted in the reaction tubes, then closed and locked it down. Setting the controls, she gingerly pressed the start button.