That was when he gave up and went to McFeeley's.
His cheeseburger arrived and he began to eat, barely tasting it. His investigation wasn't even forty-eight hours old, and already he'd just about run out of leads. Pendergast's vast resources seemed of little use against a ghost.
He took a few more halfhearted bites from his burger, finished his drink, dropped some bills on the bar, nodded to Patrick, and left. Get all the information you can from Detective Captain Laura Hayward, but for her own sake minimize her involvement. D'Agosta had, in fact, told her little of his investigations since their visit to Great-Aunt Cornelia. In a perverse way, it seemed best.
Why?
He thrust his hands into his pockets, bent into the chill January wind. Was it because of the levelheaded things he was certain she'd say? Vinnie, this is crazy. A letter containing nothing but a date. Some half-baked threats made twenty, thirty years ago. I can't believe you'rewasting your time.
And maybe-just maybe-he was afraid she'd convince him it was crazy, too.
Strolling along, he approached the intersection of 77th and First Avenue. The ugly white brick apartment building he shared with Laura Hayward rose at the corner. Shivering, he glanced at his watch. Eight o'clock. Laura wouldn't be home yet. He'd set the table for her, put what was left of the lasagna napoletana in the microwave. He was curious to hear more about this new murder case she was working. Anything to keep his mind from running in circles.
The doorman made a belated, insolent attempt to open the door for him. D'Agosta walked past into the narrow lobby, sounding his pocket for the key. Ahead, one of the elevators stood open invitingly. D'Agosta stepped in, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor.
Just as the elevator doors were closing, a gloved hand shot in, forcing them open. It was the obnoxious doorman. He stepped in, then turned to face forward, crossing his arms before him and ignoring D'Agosta. The unpleasant smell of body odor filled the small space.
D'Agosta glanced at him with irritation. He was a swarthy-looking fellow with a fleshy face, brown eyes, overweight. Strange: he hadn't pressed a floor button of his own. D'Agosta looked away, losing interest, directing his gaze to the floor indicator as the elevator rose. Five, six, seven…
The doorman leaned forward, pressed the stop button. The elevator came to an abrupt halt.
D'Agosta glanced over. "What's your problem?"
The doorman didn't bother looking at him. Instead, he pulled an override key from his pocket, inserted it into the control panel, turned it, and withdrew it. With a jerk, the elevator began descending again.
Laura's right, D'Agosta thought. This jerk's got a serious attitude problem. "Look, I don't know where the hell you think you're going, but you can wait until I've reached my floor." D'Agosta pressed the button marked 15 again.
The elevator didn't respond. It was still descending, past the lobby now and heading for the basement.
In a heartbeat, D'Agosta's irritation turned to alarm. His cop radar went off full blast. The cautionary words of Pendergast's note suddenly flashed through his mind: Diogenes is consummately dangerous. Do not gain his attention any earlier than you have to. Almost without thinking, he reached into his coat and yanked out his service piece.
But even as he did so, the doorman spun toward him and, with an amazing, lightninglike move, thrust him up against the elevator wall, pinning his arms behind his back in a viselike grip. D'Agosta struggled, only to find he had been expertly restrained. He drew breath to yell for help, but-almost as if by telepathy-a gloved hand clamped down hard over his mouth.
D'Agosta struggled briefly again, hardly believing how swiftly and totally he had been disarmed and immobilized.
And then the doorman did a strange thing. He leaned forward, brought his lips directly to D'Agosta's ear. When he spoke, it was in the faintest of whispers.
"My sincerest apologies, Vincent…"
ELEVEN
Detective Captain Laura Hayward walked across the living room and glanced out the window, careful not to brush against the table that had been placed beneath it. Through the shattered hole, she could see that, far below, Broadway was finally quiet. She'd given her men strict orders to seal off the scene, and they'd done a good job: the injured had been quickly removed by ambulance, the gawkers and rubberneckers had eventually grown tired and cold and had drifted away. The press had been more tenacious, but they, too, had eventually settled for the terse statement she'd given late in the afternoon. It had proved a complicated, messy crime scene, involving the apartment and the restaurant below, but she'd coordinated all the investigative teams personally and now-at last-the on-site forensic work was wrapping up. The fingerprint examiners, photo technicians, and crime scene analysts had already left. Only the evidence custodian remained, and she would be gone within the hour.
Laura Hayward derived immense satisfaction from a well-worked homicide. Violent death was a disorderly affair. But as a scene was analyzed-as wave after wave of forensic investigators, medical examiners, technicians, and criminalists went about their jobs in the scripted fashion-the chaos and horror were compartmentalized, ordered, and labeled. It was as if the investigation itself restored some of the natural order that the act of murder had overturned.
And yet, as she looked over this scene, Hayward felt no satisfaction. She felt instead an inexplicable sense of unease.
She shivered, blew on her hands, buttoned the top button of her coat. What with the broken window, and her instructions to touch nothing (not even the heat), the room was only a few degrees warmer than outside. For a moment, she found herself wishing D'Agosta were there. No matter: she'd tell him about the case when she got home. He'd be interested, she knew, and he often surprised her with practical, creative suggestions. Maybe it would get his mind off his unhealthy obsession with Pendergast's brother. Just when he'd gotten over Pendergast's death, just when his sense of guilt had seemed to ease, he'd been summoned by that damned chauffeur…
"Ma'am?" a sergeant said, popping his head into the living room. "Captain Singleton is here."
"Show him in, please." Singleton was the local precinct captain, and Hayward expected he would show up personally. He was one of those old-fashioned captains who felt their place was with their men, working cases, on the street or at the scene of a crime. Hayward had worked with Singleton before and found him one of the best captains in the city when it came to working with Homicide-cooperative, deferring when it came to forensics, but involving himself usefully in every step of the investigation.
And now in the doorway the man himself appeared, natty in a long camel's-hair coat, his carefully trimmed hair impeccable as always. He paused, eyes moving about restlessly, taking in the scene. Then he smiled, stepped forward, and offered his hand. "Laura."
"Glen. Nice to see you." The handshake was brief and businesslike. She wondered if Singleton knew about her and D'Agosta, decided immediately that he didn't: they had both been careful to keep their relationship out of the NYPD rumor mill.
Singleton waved his hand around the room. "Beautiful work, as usual. Hope you don't mind my sticking my nose in."
"Not at all. We're just about squared away."
"How's it going?"
"Just fine." She hesitated. No reason not to tell Singleton: unlike most police brass, he got no joy out of backstabbing potential rivals for advancement-nor was he threatened by being upstaged by Homicide. Besides, he was a captain, too-she could rely on his discretion.
"Actually, I'm not so sure," she said in a quieter tone.