Blue Labyrinth (3 page)

Back at the Riverside Drive mansion, Pendergast strode purposefully through the reception hall and into the library. Moving toward one of the tall bookcases full of leather-bound volumes, he pulled aside
a wooden panel, exposing a laptop computer. Typing quickly, using passwords when necessary, he first accessed the NYPD file servers, then the database of open homicide cases. Jotting down certain reference numbers, he moved next to the force’s DNA database, where he quickly located the forensic test results for DNA samples collected from the supposed Hotel Killer, who had traumatized the city with brutal murders in upscale Manhattan hotels a year and a half earlier.

Even though he was logged in as an authorized user, the data was locked and would not allow for alteration or deletion.

Pendergast stared at the screen for a moment. Then, plucking his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed a long-distance number in River Pointe, Ohio. It was answered on the first ring.

“Well,” came the soft, breathless voice. “If it isn’t my favorite Secret Agent Man.”

“Hello, Mime,” Pendergast replied.

“How can I be of assistance today?”

“I need some records removed from an NYPD database. Quietly, and without a trace.”

“Always happy to do what I can to subvert our boys in blue. Tell me: does this have anything to do with—what was that name again—Operation Wildfire?”

Pendergast paused. “It does. But please, Mime: no further questions.”

“You can’t blame me for being curious. But never mind. Do you have the necessary reference numbers?”

“Let me know when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now.”

Slowly and distinctly, eyes on the screen, fingers on the laptop’s trackpad, Pendergast began reciting the numbers.

I
t was six thirty that evening when Pendergast’s cell phone rang. The screen registered
UNKNOWN NUMBER
.

“Special Agent Pendergast?” The voice was anonymous, monotonal—and yet familiar.

“Yes.”

“I am your friend in need.”

“I’m listening.”

A dry chuckle. “We met once before. I came to your house. We drove beneath the George Washington Bridge. I gave you a file.”

“Of course. Regarding Locke Bullard. You’re the gentleman from—” Pendergast stopped himself before mentioning the man’s place of employment.

“Yes. And you are wise to leave those pesky government acronyms out of unprotected cell phone conversations.”

“What can I do for you?” Pendergast asked.

“You should ask instead: What can
I
do for
you
?”

“What makes you think I need help?”

“Two words. Operation Wildfire.”

“I see. Where shall we meet?”

“Do you know the FBI firing range on West Twenty-Second Street?”

“Of course.”

“Half an hour. Firing bay sixteen.” The connection went dead.

Pendergast entered through the double doors of the long, low building at the corner of Twenty-Second Street and Eighth Avenue, showed his FBI shield to the woman at the security barrier, descended a short flight of stairs, showed his shield again to the range master, picked up several paper targets and a pair of ear protectors, and entered the range proper. He walked along the forward section, past agents, trainees, and firearms instructors, to firing bay 16. There were protective sound baffles between every two firing bays, and he noticed that both bay 16 and the one beside it, 17, were empty. The report of gunfire from the other bays was only partially muffled by the baffles, and—always sensitive to sound—Pendergast fitted the hearing protection over his ears.

As he was laying out four empty magazines and a box of ammunition on the little shelf before him, he sensed a presence enter the bay. A tall, thin, middle-aged man in a gray suit, with deep-set eyes and a face rather lined for his age, had entered it. Pendergast recognized him immediately. His hair was perhaps a little thinner than the only other time Pendergast had seen him—some four years before—but in every other way he looked unchanged, bland, still surrounded with an air of mild anonymity. He was the sort of person that, if you passed him on the street, you would be unable to furnish a description even moments later.

The man did not return Pendergast’s glance, instead pulling a Sig Sauer P229 from his jacket and placing it on the shelf of bay 17. He did not don hearing protection, and with a discreet motion—still not looking Pendergast’s way—he made a motion for the agent to remove his own.

“Interesting choice of venue,” Pendergast said, looking downrange. “Rather less private than a car under the approach to the George Washington Bridge.”

“The very lack of privacy makes it even more anonymous. Just two feds, practicing at a firing range. No phones to tap, no wires to record. And of course, with all this racket, no chance for eavesdropping.”

“The range master’s going to remember the appearance of a CIA
operative at an FBI range—especially since you fellows usually don’t carry concealed weapons.”

“I have my share of alternative identities. He won’t remember anything specific.”

Pendergast opened the box of ammo and began loading the magazines.

“I like your custom 1911,” the man said, glancing at Pendergast’s weapon. “Les Baer Thunder Ranch Special? Nice-looking piece.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell me why we’re here.”

“I’ve been keeping something of an eye on you since our first meeting,” the man said, still without making eye contact. “When I learned of your involvement in initiating Wildfire, I grew intrigued. A low-profile but intense monitoring operation, by certain members of both the FBI and CIA, for the location of a youth who may or may not be calling himself Alban, who may or may not be in hiding in Brazil or adjoining countries, who speaks Portuguese, English, and German fluently, and who above all things should be considered exceptionally capable and extremely dangerous.”

Instead of replying, Pendergast clipped a target—a marksman bull’s-eye with a red central X—to the rail and, pressing the
OUT
button on the baffle to his left, ran it out the full twenty-five yards. The man beside him clipped on an FBI qualification target—a gray bottle-like shape, without scaling or marking—and ran it out to the end of bay 17.

“And just today I get wind of an NYPD report in which you state that your son—also named Alban—was left on your doorstep, dead.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence. Hence, this meeting.”

Pendergast picked up one of the magazines, charged his weapon. “Please don’t think me rude if I ask you to get to the point.”

“I can help you. You kept your word on the Locke Bullard case and saved me a lot of trouble. I believe in reciprocation. And like I said, I’ve kept track of you. You’re a rather interesting person. It’s entirely possible that you could be of assistance to me again, down the road. A partnership, if you will. I’d like to bank that.”

Pendergast didn’t respond.

“Surely you know you can trust me,” the man said over the muffled, yet omnipresent, sound of gunfire. “I’m the soul of discretion—as are you. Any information you give me stops with me. I may have resources you wouldn’t otherwise have access to.”

After a moment, Pendergast nodded once. “I’ll accept your offer. As for background, I have two sons, twins, whose existence I only learned of a year and a half ago. One of those sons—Alban—is, or was, a sociopathic killer of a most dangerous type. He’s the so-called Hotel Killer, a case that remains open and unsolved by the NYPD. I wish the case to remain so, and have taken steps to ensure that it shall. Shortly after I became aware of his existence, he disappeared into the jungles of Brazil and was neither seen nor heard from until he appeared on my doorstep last night. I always believed that he would surface one day… and that the results would be catastrophic. For that reason, I initiated Operation Wildfire.”

“But Wildfire never received any hits.”

“None.”

The nameless man charged his own weapon, racked a bullet into the chamber, took aim with both hands, and discharged the entire magazine into the qualification target. Every shot landed within the gray bottle. The sound was deafening within the baffled space.

“Until yesterday, who knew that Alban was your son?” the man asked as he ejected his magazine.

“Only a handful of people—most of them family or house help.”

“And yet someone not only located and captured Alban, but also managed to kill him, leave him on your doorstep, and then escape practically undetected.”

Pendergast nodded.

“In short, our perp was able to do what the CIA and FBI could not, plus a lot more.”

“Exactly. The perpetrator has great ability. He may well be in law enforcement himself. Which is why I have no faith the NYPD will make any headway on this case.”

“I understand Angler’s a good cop.”

“Alas, that’s the problem. He’s just good enough to become a
gross impediment to my own effort to find the killer. Better that he were incompetent.”

“Which is why you’re being so unhelpful?”

Pendergast said nothing.

“You’ve no idea why they killed him, or what their message to you was?”

“That’s the essential horror of it: I have absolutely no clue as to either the messenger or the message.”

“And your other son?”

“I’ve arranged for him to be in protective custody abroad.”

The man loaded another magazine into the Sig, released the slide, emptied the magazine into the target, and pressed the button to reel the target in. “And what are your feelings? About the murder of your son, I mean.”

Pendergast did not answer for a long time. “In the parlance of the day, the best answer would be: I am
conflicted
. He is dead. That is a good outcome. On the other hand… he was my son.”

“What are your plans when—or if—you find the responsible party?”

Again, Pendergast did not reply. Instead he raised the Les Baer in his right hand, left hand behind his back, in an unsupported stance. Briskly, shot after careful shot, he emptied the magazine into the target, then quick-changed to a fresh magazine, shifted the gun into his left hand, turned to face the target once again, this time from the other way, and—much faster now—again fired all seven rounds. Then he pressed the
IN
button on the wall of the baffle to reel back the target.

The CIA operative looked over. “You tore the bull’s-eye completely out. One-handed, and a bladed stance, no less—using both strong and weak hands.” There was a pause. “Was that your answer to my question?”

“I was merely taking advantage of the moment to hone my skills.”

“You don’t need honing. In any case, I’ll put my resources to work immediately. As soon as I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

The operative nodded. Then, fitting his earmuffs to his head, he put the Sig Sauer to one side and began refilling his own magazines.

L
ieutenant Vincent D’Agosta began climbing the broad, granite steps of the main entrance to the New York Museum of Natural History. As he did so, he glanced up through the noon light at the vast Beaux-Arts façade—four city blocks long, in the grand Roman style. This building held very bad memories for him… and it seemed like an unpleasant twist of fate that he would find himself entering it again, now of all times.

Just the night before, he had returned from the best two weeks of his life: a honeymoon, with his new bride Laura Hayward, at the Turtle Bay Resort on the fabled North Shore of Oahu. They’d spent the time sunbathing, walking the miles of pristine beach, snorkeling Kuilima Cove—and, of course, getting to know each other even more intimately. It had been, quite literally, paradise.

So it had been a nasty shock to report to work that morning—a Sunday, no less—and find himself assigned as lead detective on the murder of a technician in the Museum’s Osteology Department. Not only was he saddled with a case the minute he got back… but he’d have to conduct his investigation in a building that he’d really, really wished he never had to enter again.

Nevertheless, he was determined to bring closure to this case and bring the perp to justice. It was exactly the kind of bullshit killing that gave New York a bad name—a random, senseless, vicious murder of
some poor guy who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He stopped to catch his breath—damn, he’d have to go on a diet after the past two weeks of poi, kalua pig, opihi, haupia, and beer. After a moment, he continued up the stairs and passed through the entrance into the vastness of the Great Rotunda. Here he paused again to pull out his iPad and refresh himself on the details of the case. The murder had been discovered late the previous evening. All the initial crime scene work had been completed. D’Agosta’s first task would be to re-interview the security guard who had discovered the body. Then he had a date with the public relations director who—knowing the Museum—would be more concerned with neutralizing bad press than solving the crime. There were another half a dozen names on his list of interviewees.

He showed his shield to one of the guards, signed in, got a temporary ID, then made his way across the echoing expanse, past the dinosaurs, past another checkpoint, through an unmarked door, and down a series of labyrinthine back corridors to Central Security—a journey he remembered all too well. A uniformed guard sat, alone, in the waiting area. As D’Agosta entered, he jumped to his feet.

“Mark Whittaker?” D’Agosta asked.

The man nodded rapidly. He was short—about five foot three—and portly, with brown eyes and thinning blond hair.

“Lieutenant D’Agosta, homicide. I know you’ve been over all this before, and I’ll try not to take up more of your time than necessary.” He shook the man’s limp, sweaty hand. In his experience, private security guards were one of two types—wannabe cops, resentful and pugnacious, or mild-mannered door shakers, cowed and intimidated by the real McCoy. Mark Whittaker was definitely of the latter breed.

“Can we chat at the crime scene?”

“Sure, yes, of course.” Whittaker seemed eager to please.

D’Agosta followed him on another lengthy journey back out of the bowels and into the public areas of the Museum. As they walked through the winding corridors, D’Agosta couldn’t help glancing at the exhibits. It had been years since he’d set foot in this place, but it didn’t
seem to have changed much. They were walking through the darkened, two-story African hall, past a herd of elephants, and from there into the Hall of African Peoples, Mexico and Central America, South America, hall after echoing hall of cases full of birds, gold, pottery, sculpture, textiles, spears, clothing, masks, skeletons, monkeys… He found himself panting and wondering how the hell it was he could hardly keep up with this fat little guard.

They made their way into the Hall of Marine Life and Whittaker finally came to a stop at one of the more distant alcoves, which had been sealed off with yellow crime scene tape. A Museum guard stood before the tape.

“The Gastropod Alcove,” D’Agosta said, reading the name off a brass plaque that stood beside the opening.

Whittaker nodded.

D’Agosta showed his shield to the guard, ducked under the tape, and motioned Whittaker to follow. The space beyond was dark and the air dead. Glass cabinets covered the three walls of the alcove, stuffed full of shells of all sizes and shapes, from snails to clams to whelks. Waist-high display cases, sporting still more shells, stood before the cabinets. D’Agosta sniffed. This had to be the least-visited place in the entire damn Museum. His eye fell on a queen conch, pink and shiny, and for a moment he was transported back to one particular evening on the North Shore of Hawaii, the sand still warm from the just-departed sun, Laura lying beside him, the creamy surf curling around their feet. He sighed and hauled himself back to the present.

He glanced below one of the display cases, where a chalk outline and several evidence tags were visible, along with a long, long rivulet of dried blood. “When did you find the body?”

“Saturday night. About eleven ten.”

“And you came on duty at what time?”

“Eight.”

“This hall was part of your normal shift?”

Whittaker nodded.

“When does the Museum close on Saturdays?”

“Six.”

“How often do you patrol this hall, after hours?”

“It varies. The rotation can be anywhere from half an hour to every forty-five minutes. I have a card I have to swipe as I go along. They don’t like us to make our rounds on a regular schedule.”

D’Agosta took out of his pocket a floor plan of the Museum he had grabbed on the way in. “Could you draw on here your rounds of duty or whatever you call it?”

“Sure.” Whittaker fumbled a pen out of his pocket and drew a wandering line on the map, encompassing much of the floor. He handed it back to D’Agosta.

D’Agosta scrutinized it. “Doesn’t look like you normally go into this particular alcove.”

Whittaker paused for a moment, as if this might be a trick question. “Not usually. I mean, it’s a cul-de-sac. I walk past it.”

“So what made you look into it at eleven
PM
last night?”

Whittaker dabbed at his brow. “The blood had run out into the middle of the floor. When I shone my light in, the… the beam picked it up.”

D’Agosta recalled all the blood from the SOC photographs. A reconstruction of the crime indicated that the victim, an older technician named Victor Marsala, had been bludgeoned over the head with a blunt instrument in this out-of-the way alcove, his body stuffed beneath the display case, minus watch, wallet, and pocket change.

D’Agosta consulted his tablet. “Any special events going on yesterday evening?”

“No.”

“No sleepovers, private parties, IMAX shows, after-hours tours? Things of that nature?”

“Nothing.”

D’Agosta already knew most of this, but he liked to go over familiar ground with a witness, just in case. The coroner’s report indicated that the time of death had been around ten thirty. “In the forty minutes leading up to your discovery of the body, did you see anyone
or anything unusual? A tourist after hours, claiming to be lost? A Museum employee out of his or her normal working area?”

“I didn’t see anything odd. Just the usual scientists and curators working late.”

“And this hall?”

“Empty.”

D’Agosta nodded out past the alcove, toward a discreet door in the far wall with a red
EXIT
sign over it. “Where does that lead?”

Whittaker shrugged. “Just the basement.”

D’Agosta considered. The South American gold hall wasn’t far away, but it hadn’t been touched, nothing had been stolen or disturbed. It was possible Marsala, on his way out after completing a late-night assignment, had disturbed some bum, taking a catnap in this desolate corner of the Museum, but D’Agosta doubted the story was even that exotic. What was unusual about the case was that the killer had apparently managed to leave the Museum without notice. The only way out at that time of the night was through a heavily guarded checkpoint on the lower level. Was the killer a Museum employee? He had a list of everyone working late that night, and it was surprisingly long. Then again, the Museum was a big place with a staff of several thousand.

He asked Whittaker a few more perfunctory questions, then thanked him. “I’m going to look around, you can head back on your own,” he said.

He spent the next twenty minutes poking around the alcove and adjoining areas, regularly referring to the crime scene photos on his tablet. But there was nothing new to see, nothing to find, nothing that appeared to have been overlooked.

Fetching a sigh, D’Agosta stuffed the iPad back into his briefcase and headed off in the direction of the public relations department.