Fever Dream (6 page)

New York City

F
OUR AM, SATURDAY. LIEUTENANT VINCENT
D’Agosta pushed through the crowd, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and walked over to where the body lay sprawled across
the sidewalk outside one of the countless identical Indian restaurants on East 6th Street. A large pool of blood had collected
beneath it, reflecting the red and purple neon light in the restaurant’s grimy window with surreal splendor.

The perp had been shot at least half a dozen times and he was dead. Very dead. He lay crumpled on his side, one arm thrown
wide, his gun twenty feet away. A crime-scene investigator was laying a tape measure, measuring the distance from the open
hand to the gun.

The corpse was a scrawny Caucasian, thirtysomething, with thinning hair. He looked like a broken stick, his legs crooked,
one knee hitched up to his chest, the other extended out and back, the arms flung wide. The two cops who had done the shooting,
a beefy black guy and a wiry Hispanic, were off to one side, talking with Internal Affairs.

D’Agosta went over, nodded to the Internal Affairs officer, and clasped the hands of the cops. They felt sweaty, nervous.

It’s damn hard
, D’Agosta thought,
to have killed someone. You never really get over it
.

“Lieutenant,” said one of the cops in a rush, anxious to explain yet again to a fresh ear, “the guy had just robbed the restaurant
at gunpoint and was running down the street. We identified ourselves, showed our badges, and that’s when he opened on us,
motherfucker just emptied his gun, firing while he ran, there were civilians on the street and we had no choice, we
had
to take him down. No choice, man,
no choice
—”

D’Agosta grasped the man’s shoulder, gave it a friendly squeeze as he glanced at his nameplate. “Ocampo, don’t sweat it. You
did what you had to do. The investigation will show that.”

“I mean, he just opened up like there was no tomorrow—”

“For him there won’t be.” D’Agosta walked aside with the Internal Affairs investigator. “Any problems?”

“I doubt it, sir. These days, of course, there’s always a hearing. But this is about as clear-cut as they come.” He slapped
his notebook shut.

D’Agosta lowered his voice. “See those guys get some psychological counseling. And make sure they meet with the union lawyers
before they do any more talking.”

“Will do.”

D’Agosta looked thoughtfully at the corpse. “How much did he get?”

“Two hundred and twenty, give or take. Fucking addict, look at him, all eaten up by horse.”

“Sad. Any ID?”

“Warren Zabriskie, address in Far Rockaway.”

D’Agosta shook his head as he glanced over the scene. It was about as straightforward as you could ask for: two cops, both
minorities; the dead perp white; witnesses up the wazoo; everything caught on security cams. Open and shut. There would be
no protest marches or accusations of police brutality. The shooter got what he deserved—everyone would reluctantly agree on
that.

D’Agosta glanced around. Despite the cold, a pretty big crowd had developed beyond the tape, East Village rockers and yupsters
and metrosexuals and whatever the hell else you called them these days. The forensic unit was still working the body, the
EMTs waiting to one side, the owner of the victimized restaurant being interviewed by detectives. Everyone doing their job.
Everything under control.
A senseless, stupid, piece-of-shit case that would generate a blizzard of paperwork, interviews,
reports, analyses, boxes of evidence, hearings, press conferences. All because of two hundred lousy bucks for a fix.

He was wondering how long it would be before he could gracefully escape when he heard a shout and saw a disturbance at the
far edge of the cordoned area. Someone had ducked under the tape and trespassed onto the scene. He turned angrily—only to
come face-to-face with Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast, pursued by two uniformed officers.

“Hey, you—!” one of the cops shouted, grabbing Pendergast roughly by the shoulder. With a deft movement the agent freed himself,
extracted his badge, and flashed it into the officer’s face.

“What the—?” the cop said, backing off. “FBI. He’s FBI.”

“What’s he doing here?” asked the other.

“Pendergast!” D’Agosta cried, stepping toward him quickly. “What the hell brings you here? This killing isn’t exactly your
kind of—”

Pendergast silenced him with a violent gesture, slashing his hand through the air between them. In the neon gloom, his face
was so white he almost looked spectral, dressed as usual like a wealthy undertaker in his trademark tailored black suit. Except
this time he somehow looked different—very different. “I must speak with you. Now.”

“Sure, of course. As soon as I wrap things up—”

“I mean
now
, Vincent.”

D’Agosta stared. This was not the cool, collected Pendergast he knew so well. This was a side of the man he had never seen
before, angry, brusque, his movements rushed. Not only that, but—D’Agosta noticed on closer inspection—his normally immaculate
suit was creased and rumpled.

Pendergast grasped him by the lapel. “I have a favor to ask you. More than a favor. Come with me.”

D’Agosta was too surprised by his vehemence to do anything but obey. Leaving the scene under the stares of his fellow cops,
he followed Pendergast past the crowd and down the street to where the agent’s Rolls was idling. Proctor, the chauffeur, was
behind the wheel, his expression studiously blank.

D’Agosta had to practically run to keep up. “You know I’ll help you out any way I can—”

“Don’t say anything, do not
speak,
until you’ve heard me out.”

“Right, sure,” D’Agosta added hastily.

“Get in.”

Pendergast slipped into the rear passenger compartment, D’Agosta climbing in behind. The agent pulled open a panel in the
door and swung out a tiny bar. Grasping a cut-glass decanter, he sloshed three fingers of brandy into a glass and drank half
of it off with a single gulp. He replaced the decanter and turned to D’Agosta, his silvery eyes glittering with intensity.
“This is no ordinary request. If you can’t do it, or won’t do it, I’ll understand. But you must not burden me with questions,
Vincent—I don’t have time. I simply
don’t—have—time
. Listen, and then give me your answer.”

D’Agosta nodded.

“I need you to take a leave of absence from the force. Perhaps as long as a year.”

“A
year
?”

Pendergast knocked back the rest of the drink. “It could be months, or weeks. There’s no way to know how long this is going
to take.”

“What is
‘this’
?”

For a moment, the agent did not reply. “I’ve never spoken to you about my late wife, Helen?”

“No.”

“She died twelve years ago, when we were on safari in Africa. She was attacked by a lion.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry.”

“At the time, I believed it to be a terrible accident. Now I know different.”

D’Agosta waited.

“Now I know she was murdered.”

“Oh, God.”

“The trail is cold. I need you, Vincent. I need your skills, your street smarts, your knowledge of the working classes, your
way of thinking. I need you to help me track down the person—or persons—who did this. I will of course pay all your expenses
and see to it that your salary and health benefits are maintained.”

A silence fell in the car. D’Agosta was stunned. What would this mean for his career, his relationship with Laura Hayward…
his future? It was irresponsible. No—it was more than that. It was utterly crazy.

“Is this an official investigation?”

“No. It would be just you and me. The killer might be anywhere in the world. We will operate completely outside the system—
any
system.”

“And when we find the killer? What then?”

“We will see to it that justice is served.”

“Meaning?”

Pendergast sloshed more brandy into the glass with a fierce gesture, gulped it down, and fixed D’Agosta once again with those
cold, platinum eyes.

“We kill him.”

T
HE ROLLS-ROYCE TORE UP PARK AVENUE, LATE-CRUISING
cabs flashing by in blurs of yellow. D’Agosta sat in the back with Pendergast, feeling awkward, trying not to turn
a curious eye toward the FBI agent. This Pendergast was impatient, unkempt, and—most remarkable—openly emotional.

“When did you find out?” he ventured to ask.

“This afternoon.”

“How’d you figure it out?”

Pendergast did not answer immediately, glancing out the window as the Rolls turned sharply onto 72nd Street, heading toward
the park. He placed the empty brandy glass—which he had been holding, unheeded, the entire uptown journey—back into its position
in the tiny bar. Then he took a deep breath. “Twelve years ago, Helen and I were asked to kill a man-eating lion in Zambia—a
lion with an unusual red mane. Just such a lion had wreaked havoc in the area forty years before.”

“Why did
you
get asked?”

“Part of having a professional hunting license. You’re obligated to kill any beasts menacing the villages or camps, if the
authorities request it.” Pendergast was still looking out the window. “The lion
had killed a German tourist at a safari camp.
Helen and I drove over from our own camp to put it down.”

He picked up the brandy bottle, looked at it, put it back into its holder. The big car was now moving through Central Park,
the skeletal branches overhead framing a threatening night sky. “The lion charged us from deep cover, attacked me and the
tracker. As he ran back into the bush, Helen shot at him and apparently missed. She went to attend to the tracker…” His voice
wavered and he stopped, composing himself. “She went to attend to the tracker and the lion burst out of the brush a second
time. It dragged her off. That was the last time I saw her. Alive, anyway.”

“Oh, my God.” D’Agosta felt a thrill of horror course through him.

“Just this afternoon, at our old family plantation, I happened to examine her gun. And I discovered that—on that morning,
twelve years ago—somebody had taken the bullets from her gun and replaced them with blanks. She hadn’t missed the shot—because
there
was
no shot.”

“Holy shit. You sure?”

Now Pendergast looked away from the window to fix him with a stare. “Vincent, would I be telling you this—would I be here
now—if I wasn’t
absolutely
sure?”

“Sorry.”

There was a moment of silence.

“You just discovered it this afternoon in New Orleans?”

Pendergast nodded tersely. “I chartered a private jet back.”

The Rolls pulled up before the 72nd Street entrance of the Dakota. Almost before the vehicle had come to a stop Pendergast
was out. He strode past the guardhouse and through the vaulted stone archway of the carriage entrance, ignoring the fat drops
of rain that were now splattering the sidewalk. D’Agosta followed at a jog as the agent strode across a wide interior courtyard,
past manicured plants and muttering bronze fountains, to a narrow lobby in the southwest corner of the apartment building.
He pressed the elevator button, the doors whispered open, and they ascended in silence. A minute later the doors opened again
on a small space, a single door set into the far wall. It had no obvious locking mechanism, but when Pendergast moved his
fingertips across the surface in an odd gesture
D’Agosta heard the unmistakable click of a deadlock springing free. Pendergast
pushed the door open, and the reception room came into view: dimly lit, with three rose-painted walls and a fourth wall of
black marble, covered by a thin sheet of falling water.

Pendergast gestured at the black leather sofas arrayed around the room. “Take a seat. I’ll be back shortly.”

D’Agosta sat down as the FBI agent slipped through a door in one of the walls. He sat back, taking in the soft gurgle of water,
the bonsai plants, the smell of lotus blossoms. The walls of the building were so thick, he could barely hear the opening
peals of thunder outside. Everything about the room seemed designed to induce tranquility. Yet tranquil was the last thing
he felt. He wondered again just how he’d swing a sudden leave of absence—with his boss, and especially with Laura Hayward.

It was ten minutes before Pendergast reappeared. He had shaved and changed into a fresh black suit. He also seemed more composed,
more like the old Pendergast—although D’Agosta could still sense a great tension under the surface.

“Thank you for waiting, Vincent,” he said, beckoning. “Let us proceed.”

D’Agosta followed the agent down a long hallway, as dimly lit as the reception room. He glanced curiously left and right:
at a library; a room hung with oil paintings floor-to-ceiling; a wine cellar. Pendergast stopped at the only closed door in
the hallway, opening it with the same strange movement of his fingers against the wood. The room beyond was barely large enough
for the table and two chairs that it contained. A large steel bank-style vault, at least four feet in width, dominated one
of the side walls.