Dance of Death (16 page)

Except that today it was occupied by Bryce Harriman.

Smithback froze in the doorway, hand still raised in midknock.

"Ah, Bill." Davies nodded. "Good timing. Please come in."

Smithback took a step forward, then another. He struggled to keep his eyes from meeting Harriman's.

"Planning to file a follow-up on the Duchamp murder?" Davies asked.

Smithback nodded. He felt dazed, as if somebody had just sucker-punched him in the gut. He hoped to hell it didn't show.

Davies ran his fingertips along the edge of his desk. "What's the angle going to be?"

Smithback was ready with his answer. This was Davies's favorite question, and it was a rhetorical one: his way of letting reporters know he didn't want any grass growing under their feet.

"I was planning a local-interest angle," he said. "You know, the effect of the killing on the building, the neighborhood, friends and family of the victim. And, of course, I was planning a follow-up story on the progress of the investigation. The detective in charge, Hayward, is the youngest homicide captain in the force and a woman to boot."

Davies nodded slowly, allowing a meditative
hmmmm
to escape his lips. As usual, the response communicated nothing about what he was really thinking.

Smithback, his nervousness heightened, elaborated. "You know the drill: unnatural death comes to the Upper West Side, matrons afraid to walk their poodles at night. I'll weave in a sketch of the victim, his work, that sort of thing. Might even do a sidebar on Captain Hayward."

Davies nodded again, picked up a pen, rolled it slowly between his palms.

"You know, something that could run on the first page of the Metro Section," Smithback said gamely, still pitching.

Davies put down the pen. "Bill, this is bigger than a Metro story, the biggest homicide in Manhattan since the Cutforth murder, which Bryce here covered when he was at the
Post."

Bryce here.
Smithback kept his face pleasant.

"It's a story with a lot of angles. Not only do we have the sensational manner of death, but we also have-as you point out-the posh location. Then we have the man himself. An artist. And the female homicide detective." He paused. "Aren't you biting off a little more than you can chew-for a single story, that is?"

"I could make it two, even three. No problem."

"No doubt you could, but then the stretched-out time frame becomes problematic."

Smithback licked his lips. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was standing and Harriman was sitting.

Davies went on. "I personally had no idea that Duchamp was, in his own quiet way, a painter of some renown. He wasn't trendy or popular with the SoHo crowd. More of a Sutton Place style of artist, a Fairfield Porter. Bryce and I were just talking about it last night."

"Bryce," Smithback repeated. The name tasted like bile in his mouth. "Last night?"

Davies waved his hand with studied nonchalance. "Over drinks at the Metropolitan Club."

Smithback felt himself stiffen. So that was how the smarmy prick had managed it. He'd taken Davies for drinks at his father's fancy club. And Davies, it seemed, like any number of editors Smithback had known, was a sucker for that kind of thing. Editors were the worst social climbers, always hanging around the fringes of the rich and famous, hoping to catch a few scraps that dropped from the table. Smithback could just imagine Davies being ushered into the cloistered fastness of the Metropolitan Club; shown to a luxurious chair in some gilded salon; served drinks by deferential men in uniform; all the while exchanging hushed greetings with various Rockefellers, De Menils, Vanderbilts-that was just the thing to turn Davies's Maplewood, New Jersey, head all the way around.

Now, at last, he glanced again in Harriman's direction. The scumbag was sitting there, one leg tucked primly over the other, looking as nonchalant as if he did this every day. He didn't bother returning Smithback's look. He didn't need to.

"We haven't just lost a citizen here," Davies went on. "We've lost an artist. And New York is a poorer place for his loss. See, Bill, you just never know who lives in that apartment next door. It could be a hot dog vendor or a sanitation worker. Or it could be a fine artist whose paintings hang in half the apartments in River House."

Smithback nodded again, frozen smile on his lips.

Davies smoothed his tie. "It's a great angle. My friend Bryce here will handle it."

Oh, God.
For a bleak and terrible moment, Smithback thought he was about to be reassigned to the Dangler.

"He'll cover the society aspect of the story. He knows several of Duchamp's important former clients, he's got the family connections. They'll talk to him, whereas..."

His voice trailed off, but Smithback got the message:
whereas they won't talk to you.

"In short, Bryce can give us the silk-stocking view that
Times
readers appreciate. I'm glad to see you have a handle on the cop and street angle. You keep that up."

The cop and street angle.
Smithback felt his jaw muscles flex involuntarily.

"It goes without saying that you'll both share information and leads. I'd suggest regular meetings, keeping in touch. This story is certainly big enough for the both of you, and it doesn't look like it's going away any time soon."

Silence descended briefly over the office.

"Was there anything else, Bill?" Davies asked mildly.

"What? Oh, no. Nothing."

"Then don't let me keep you."

"No, of course not," Smithback said. He was practically stammering now with shock, mortification, and fury. "Thanks." And as he turned to leave the office, Harriman finally glanced in his direction. There was a smug half-smile on his shit-eating face. It was a smile that seemed to say: See
you around, partner.

And watch your back.

NINETEEN

"SO how was your first day back?" Hayward asked, gamely sawing away at a chicken breast.

"Fine," D'Agosta replied.

"Singleton didn't give you a hard time?"

"Nope."

"Well, you were just out two days, which probably helped matters. He's intense-sometimes too intense-but he's a hell of a cop. So are you. That's why I know you two will get along."

D'Agosta nodded, pushed a piece of plum tomato around his plate, then lifted it to his mouth. Chicken cacciatore was the one recipe he could pull off without thinking-barely.

"This is pretty good, Vinnie. Really. I'll have to let you into the kitchen more often." And she smiled across the table.

D'Agosta smiled back. He put down his fork for a moment and just watched her eat.

She'd made a special effort to get home on time. She praised his cooking even though he'd overcooked the chicken. She hadn't even asked about his hasty departure from breakfast that morning. She was clearly making a special effort to give him some space and let him work out whatever he was working out. He realized, with a sudden upwelling of affection, that he really loved this woman.

That made what he was about to do all the harder.

"Sorry I can't do your dinner justice," she said. "It deserves to be lingered over. But I've got to rush out again."

"New developments?"

"Not really. The ligature specialist wants to brief us on the knots. Probably just a way of covering his ass-he hasn't been much help."

"No?"

"He thinks the knots are Asiatic, maybe Chinese, but that isn't narrowing it down very much."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. "Have you looked into the possibility I mentioned at the diner? That Pendergast's brother might be behind these murders?"

Hayward paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "There's so little evidence to support that theory that it verges on crank. You know I'm a professional. You have to trust me to conduct this case in the best way possible. I'll look into it when I have time."

There was nothing D'Agosta could say to this. They ate for a moment in silence.

"Vinnie," she said, and something in her tone made him look up at her again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's all right."

She was smiling again, and her dark eyes shone in the artificial light. "Because the fact is, I'm really happy you're back on the job."

D'Agosta swallowed. "Thanks."

"This crazy posthumous case of Pendergast's has just been a distraction for you at the worst possible time. He may have been a productive agent, but he wasn't-well,
normal.
I know you were a friend of his, but I think-" She paused. "I think he had an unhealthy influence on you. And then, this request from beyond the grave, all this stuff about his brother ... I have to tell you, I resent that."

Despite everything, D'Agosta felt a stab of irritation. "I know you never liked the guy. But he got results."

"I know, I know. I shouldn't criticize the dead. Sorry."

The irritation was swept away by a sudden flood of guilt. D'Agosta said nothing.

"Anyway, all that's past. The Dangler case is high-profile, a great starter case. You're going to shine, Vinnie, I know you are. It'll be just like old times."

D'Agosta cut into a chicken thigh, then dropped his knife on the plate with a clatter. This was agony. He couldn't put it off any longer.

"Laura," he began. "There's no easy way to say this."

"Say what?"

He took a deep breath. "I'm moving out."

She froze, as if uncomprehending. Then a look slowly crept over her face: a look of disbelief and pain, like a child who had just been unexpectedly struck by a beloved parent. Seeing that expression, D'Agosta felt just about as bad as he'd ever felt in his life.

"Vinnie?" she asked, dazed.

D'Agosta lowered his eyes. There was a long, excruciating silence.

"Why?"

He didn't know what to say. He knew only that the one thing he could not do was tell her the truth.
Laura, honey, I may be in danger. You're not a target, but I definitely am. And by staying here, I could put you in danger, as well.

"Is it something I've done? Something I haven't done?"

"No," he said immediately. He had to make up something, and with Laura Hayward, that something had better be good.

"No," he said again, more slowly. "You've been great. It has nothing to do with you. I really care about you. It has to do with me. Our relationship ... maybe we started off just a little too fast."

Hayward did not reply.

D'Agosta felt like he was walking himself off a cliff. There was nothing he wanted more right now than to stay with this woman- this beautiful, caring, supportive woman. He'd rather hurt himself than her. And yet he
was
hurting her, hurting her deeply, with every word. It was an awful thing to do, but he had no choice.
Vincent, you must take every precaution possible.
D'Agosta knew that the only way to save this relationship-and, perhaps, Laura Hayward's life-was by interrupting it.

"I just need a little space, that's all," he went on. "To think things through. Get some perspective on my life." The platitudes sounded hollow, and rather than continue, he stopped short.

He sat there, waiting for Hayward to blow up, curse him out, order him to leave. Yet there was only another long, awful silence. Finally, he looked up. Laura was sitting there, hands in her lap, dinner growing cold, her face pale and her eyes cast downward. Her beautiful blue-black hair had fallen forward, covering one eye. This wasn't the reaction he'd expected. This surprise, this hurt, was even worse than anger.

At last, she sniffed, rubbed a finger beneath her nose, pushed away her plate. Then she rose.

"I've got to get back to work," she said, so quietly D'Agosta barely heard her. He sat motionless as she brushed her hair away from her face. Then she turned and walked quickly toward the door. It wasn't until her hand was on the doorknob that she stopped, realizing she'd forgotten her coat and her briefcase. She turned, walked slowly to the closet, shrugged into her coat, picked up the case. And then she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

She did not look back.

D'Agosta sat at the dinner table for a long time, listening to the tick of the clock, to the faint street noises filtering up from below. Finally, he stood, brought the dishes into the little kitchen, threw the half-eaten dinners into the garbage, and washed up.

Then he turned and-feeling very old-headed for the bedroom to pack.

TWENTY

AT three o'clock in the morning, the boarded-up Beaux Arts mansion at 891 Riverside Drive looked asleep, perhaps even dead. But deep below the shuttered windows and double-locked doors, activity flickered in one of the basement tunnels cut into the Manhattan bedrock beneath the old house. The longest tunnel-actually a series of connected basement rooms-lay in a line due west, drilling beneath Riverside Drive and Riverside Park toward the Hudson River. At the end, a crude staircase spiraled down a natural cavity to a stone quay, where a watery tunnel led out past a small, weed-draped opening onto the river itself. More than two centuries before, the river pirate who owned the mansion's earlier incarnation had used this secret passage on nocturnal errands of mischief. Today, only a handful of people knew of the hidden entrance.