Blue Labyrinth (6 page)

D
eep within the stately German Renaissance confines of the Dakota, at the end of a succession of three interconnected and very private apartments, beyond a sliding partition of wood and rice paper, lay an
uchi-roji
: the inner garden of a Japanese teahouse. A path of flat stones wound sinuously between dwarf evergreens. The air was full of the scent of eucalyptus and the song of unseen birds. In the distance sat the teahouse itself, small and immaculate, barely visible in the simulacrum of late-afternoon light.

This near-miracle—a private garden, in exquisite miniature, set down within the fastness of a vast Manhattan apartment building—had been designed by Agent Pendergast as a place for meditation and rejuvenation of the soul. He was now sitting on a bench of carved
keyaki
wood, set just off the stone path and overlooking a tiny goldfish pond. He remained motionless, gazing into the dark waters, where orange-and-white fish moved in desultory fashion, mere shadows.

Normally, this sanctuary afforded him relief from the cares of the world, or at least a temporary oblivion. But this afternoon, no peace was to be found.

A chirp came from the pocket of his suit jacket. It was his cell phone, its number known to less than half a dozen people. He glanced at the incoming call and saw
UNKNOWN NUMBER
displayed.

“Yes?”

“Agent Pendergast.” It was the dry voice of the unnamed CIA operative he had met with at the firing range two days before. On prior occasions, the man’s voice had contained a trace of wryness, as if detached from the workaday goings-on of the world. Today the irony was absent.

“Yes?” Pendergast repeated.

“I’m calling because I knew you’d want to hear the bad news sooner rather than later.”

Pendergast gripped the phone a little tighter. “Go on.”

“The bad news is that I have no news at all.”

“I see.”

“I’ve deployed some serious assets, expended a great deal of currency, and called in favors both locally and abroad. I’ve had several undercover operatives risk exposure, on the chance that certain foreign governments might be hiding information related to Operation Wildfire. But I’ve come up empty-handed. No sign that Alban ever surfaced in Brazil or elsewhere abroad. No records of his entering the country—I’ve had facial-recognition server farms at both Customs and Homeland Security working on it, without a hit. No local or federal law enforcement bread-crumb trails that have led anywhere.”

Pendergast took this in without a word.

“It’s still possible something will surface, of course—some nugget from an unexpected quarter, some database we overlooked. But I’ve exhausted everything in the standard bag of tricks—and then some.”

Still Pendergast said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” came the voice over the cell phone. “It’s… it’s more than a little mortifying. In my job, with the tools at my disposal, one gets used to success. I fear I may have seemed overconfident at our last meeting, raised your hopes.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Pendergast said. “My hopes were not raised. Alban was formidable.”

There was a brief silence before the man spoke again. “One thing you might want to know. Lieutenant Angler, the NYPD’s lead investigator on your son’s homicide… I took a look at his internal reports. He’s got a decided interest in you.”

“Indeed?”

“Your lack of cooperation—and your behavior—aroused his curiosity. Your appearance at the autopsy, for example. And your interest in that lump of turquoise, which you convinced the NYPD to loan you and which is now, I understand, overdue. You may be heading for a problem with Angler.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“Don’t mention it. Again, I’m sorry I don’t have more. I still have eyes on the ground. If there’s any way I can be of further assistance, call the main number at Langley and ask for Sector Y. Meanwhile, I’ll let you know of any change in status.”

The line went dead.

Pendergast sat for a moment, staring at the cell phone. Then he slipped it back into his pocket, stood up, and made his way down the stone walkway and out of the tea garden.

In the large kitchen of the apartment’s private quarters, Pendergast’s housekeeper, Kyoko Ishimura, was at work chopping scallions. As the FBI agent passed through, she glanced over and—with a deaf person’s economy of gesture—indicated there was a telephone message waiting. Pendergast nodded his thanks, then continued down the hall to his office, stepped inside, picked up the phone, and—without taking a seat at the desk—retrieved the message.

“Um, ah, Mr. Pendergast.” It was the rushed, breathy voice of Dr. Paden, the mineralogist at the Museum. “I’ve analyzed the sample you left me yesterday with X-ray diffraction, brightfield microscopy, fluorescence, polarization, diascopic and episcopic illumination, among other tests. It is most definitely natural turquoise: hardness 6, refractive index is 1.614 and the specific gravity is about 2.87, and as I mentioned earlier there is no indication of stabilization or reconstitution. However, the sample exhibits some, ah, curious phenomena. The grain size is most unusual. I’ve never seen such semi-translucence embedded in a large spiderweb matrix. And the color… it doesn’t come from any of the well-known mines, and there is no record of its chemical signature in the database… In short, I,
ah, fear it is a rare sample from a small mine that will prove difficult to identify, and that more time than I expected will be needed, perhaps a lot more time, so I’m hoping that you will be patient and won’t ask for the return of the painite while I…”

Pendergast did not bother to listen to the rest of the message. With a jab of his finger, he deleted it and hung up the phone. Only then did he sit down behind his desk, put his elbows on the polished surface, rest his chin on tented fingers, and stare off into space, seeing nothing.

Constance Greene was seated in the music room of the Riverside Drive mansion, playing softly on a harpsichord. It was a gorgeous instrument, made in Antwerp in the early 1650s by the celebrated Andreas Ruckers II. The beautifully grained wood of the case had been edged in gilt, and the underside of the top was painted with a pastoral scene of nymphs and satyrs cavorting in a leafy glade.

Pendergast himself had little use for music. But—while Constance’s own taste was by and large limited to the baroque and early classical periods—she was a superb harpsichordist, and Pendergast had taken enjoyment in acquiring for her the finest period instrument available. Other than the harpsichord, the room was simply and tastefully furnished. Two worn leather armchairs were arranged before a Persian carpet, bookended by a brace of identical standing Tiffany lamps. One wall had a recessed bookcase full of sheet music of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century composers in urtext editions. The opposite wall held half a dozen framed pages of faded handwritten scores, original holographs of Telemann, Scarlatti, Handel, and others.

Not infrequently, Pendergast would glide in, like a silent specter, and take a seat in one of the chairs while Constance was playing. This time, Constance glanced up to see him standing framed in the doorway. She arched an eyebrow, as if to ask whether she should cease playing, but he simply shook his head. She continued with the Prelude no. 2 in C-sharp Minor from Bach’s
Well-Tempered Clavier
. As she worked her way effortlessly through the short piece, wickedly fast and dense with ostinato passages, Pendergast did not take his accustomed seat, but instead roamed restlessly around the room, plucking
a book of sheet music from the bookcase, leafing through it idly. Only when she was done did he move over to one of the leather armchairs and sit down.

“You play that piece beautifully, Constance,” he said.

“Ninety years of practice tends to improve one’s technique,” she replied with a ghost of a smile. “Any further word about Proctor?”

“He’ll pull through. He’s out of the ICU. But he’ll need to spend a few more weeks in the hospital, and then a month or two more in rehabilitation.”

A brief silence settled over the room. Then Constance rose from the harpsichord and took a seat in the opposite armchair. “You’re troubled,” she said.

Pendergast did not immediately reply.

“Naturally, it’s about Alban. You haven’t said anything since—since that evening. How are you doing?”

Still Pendergast said nothing, continuing to leaf idly through the book of sheet music. Constance, too, remained silent. She, more than anyone, knew that Pendergast intensely disliked discussing his feelings. But she also sensed instinctively that he had come to ask her advice. And so she waited.

At last, Pendergast closed the book. “The feelings I have are those that no father would ever wish for. There’s no grief. Regret—perhaps. Yet I’m also conscious of a sense of relief: relief that the world will be spared Alban and his sickness.”

“Understandable. But… he
was
your son.”

Abruptly, Pendergast flung the volume aside and stood up, pacing back and forth across the carpet. “And yet the strongest sensation I feel is bafflement. How did they do this? How did they capture and kill him? Alban was, if anything, a
survivor
. And with his special gifts… it must have taken enormous effort, expenditure, and planning to get him. I’ve never seen such a well-executed crime, one that left only the evidence meant to be left and no more. And most puzzling of all—
why?
What is the message being conveyed to me?”

“I confess I’m as mystified as you are.” Constance paused. “Any results from your inquiries?”

“The only real evidence—a piece of turquoise found in Alban’s stomach—is resisting identification. I just had a call about it from Dr. Paden, a mineralogist at the Museum of Natural History. He doesn’t seem confident of success.”

Constance watched the FBI agent as he continued to pace. “You mustn’t brood,” she said at last in a low voice.

He turned, made a dismissive motion with one hand.

“You need to throw yourself into a fresh case. Surely there are plenty of unsolved homicides awaiting your touch.”

“There is never a shortage of jejune murders out there, unworthy of mental application. Why should I bother?”

Constance continued to watch him. “Consider it a distraction. Sometimes I enjoy nothing more than playing a simple piece written for a beginner. It clears the mind.”

Pendergast wheeled toward her. “Why waste my time with some trifle, when the great mystery of Alban’s murder is staring me in the face? A person of rare ability seeks to draw me into some sort of malevolent game of his own devising. I don’t know my opponent, the name of his game—or even the rules.”

“And that’s exactly why you should immerse yourself in something totally different,” Constance said. “While awaiting the next development, take up some small conundrum, some simple case. Otherwise… you’ll lose your equilibrium.”

These last five words were spoken slowly, and with conviction.

Pendergast’s gaze drifted to the floor. “You’re right, of course.”

“I suggest this because—because I care for you, and I know how obsessive and unhappy this bizarre case could make you. You’ve suffered enough.”

For a moment, Pendergast remained still. Then he glided forward, bent toward her, took her chin in one hand, and—to her great astonishment—kissed her gently.

“You are my oracle,” he murmured.

V
incent D’Agosta sat at the table in the small area he had claimed as his forward office in the New York Museum of Natural History. It had taken a heavy hand to pry it loose from the Museum’s administration. Grudgingly they had given up a vacant cubby deep within the Osteology Department, which was thankfully far from the reeking maceration tanks.

Now D’Agosta listened as one of his men, Detective Jimenez, summarized their review of the Museum’s security tapes for the day of the murder. In a word: zip. But D’Agosta put on a show of listening intently—he didn’t want the man to think his work wasn’t appreciated.

“Thank you, Pedro,” D’Agosta said, taking the written report.

“What next?” Jimenez asked.

D’Agosta glanced at his watch. It was quarter past four. “You and Conklin knock off for the day, go out and have a cold one, on me. We’ll be holding a status meeting in the briefing room tomorrow morning at ten.”

Jimenez smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

D’Agosta watched his departing form. He’d have given just about anything to join the guys in hoisting a few. But no: there was something he had to do. With a sigh, he flipped quickly through the pages
of Jimenez’s report. Then, putting it aside, he pulled his tablet from his briefcase and began preparing a report of his own—for Captain Singleton.

Despite his team’s best efforts, and two days during which more than a hundred man-hours of investigative work had been expended, not a single decent lead had surfaced in the murder of Victor Marsala. There were no eyewitnesses. The Museum’s security logs had picked up nothing unusual. The big question was how the damn perp had gotten out. They’d been beating their heads against that question from the beginning.

None of the enormous amount of forensic evidence they’d gathered was proving relevant. There appeared to be no good motive for murder among Marsala’s co-workers, and those who bore even the faintest grudge against him had ironclad alibis. His private life was as boring and law abiding as a damn bishop’s. D’Agosta felt a prickling of personal affront that, after all his time on the job, Captain Singleton should toss him an assignment like this.

He began drafting his interim report for Singleton. In it, he summarized the steps the investigation had taken, the persons interviewed, the background checks on Marsala, the forensic and SOC data, the analysis of the Museum’s security tapes, and the statements of the relevant security guards. He pointed out that the next step, should Singleton decide to authorize it, would be an expansion of the interview process beyond the Osteology Department. It would mean the wholesale interviewing, cross-correlation, and background examination of all the Museum staff who had worked late that evening—in fact, perhaps the entire Museum staff, whether they had worked late or not.

D’Agosta guessed Singleton wouldn’t go for that. The expense in time, manpower, and cost was too high, given the small chance a lead would turn up. No: he would likely assign a reduced force to the case, let it move to the back burner. In time, that force, too, would be reassigned. Such was the way of the cold case.

He finished the report, read it over quickly, transmitted it to
Singleton, and then shut down his tablet computer. When he looked up, he saw—with a sudden shock—that Agent Pendergast was seated in the lone chair across from the tiny desk. D’Agosta had neither seen nor heard him come in.

“Jesus!” D’Agosta said, taking a deep breath to recover from the surprise. “You just love creeping up on people, don’t you?”

“I admit to finding it amusing. Most people are about as aware of their surroundings as a sea cucumber.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. So what brings you here?”

“You, my dear Vincent.”

D’Agosta looked at him intently. He had heard, the day before, about the murder of Pendergast’s son. In retrospect, D’Agosta understood why Pendergast had been so short with him in the Museum’s rotunda.

“Look,” he began a little awkwardly, “I was really sorry to hear about what happened. You know, when I approached you the other day, I didn’t know about your son, I’d just returned from my honeymoon and wasn’t up on departmental business—”

Pendergast raised a hand and D’Agosta fell silent. “If anyone should apologize, it should be me.”

“Forget it.”

“A brief explanation is in order. Then I would deem it appropriate if the subject was not raised again.”

“Shoot.”

Pendergast sat forward in his chair. “Vincent, you know I have a son, Alban. He was deeply sociopathic. I last saw him a year and a half ago, when he disappeared into the Brazilian jungle after perpetrating the Hotel Killings here in New York.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Since then, he never surfaced… until his corpse was placed upon my doorstep four nights ago. How this was effected and who did it, I have no idea. A Lieutenant Angler is investigating, and I fear he is inadequate to the task.”

“Know him well. He’s a damned good detective.”

“I have no doubt he is competent—which is why I had an associate with excellent computer skills delete all DNA evidence of the Hotel Killer from the NYPD files. You may recall that you once made an official report that Alban and the Hotel Killer were one and the same. Luckily for me, that report was never taken seriously. Be that as it may, it would not do to have Angler run my son’s DNA against the database and come up with a hit.”

“Jesus Christ, I don’t want to hear any more.”

“In any case, Angler is up against a most unusual killer and will not succeed in finding him. But that is my concern, not yours. Which brings me to why I’m here. When last we spoke, you had a case you wished to solicit my advice on.”

“Sure. But you must have more important things to do—”

“I would be glad of the diversion.”

D’Agosta stared at the FBI agent. He was as gaunt as usual, but he seemed perfectly composed. The ice-chip eyes returned the look, regarding him coolly. Pendergast was the strangest man he’d ever met, and God only knew what was going on below the surface.

“Okay. Great. I warn you, though, it’s a bullshit case.” D’Agosta went over the details of the crime: the discovery of the body; the particulars of the scene; the mass of forensic evidence, none of which seemed germane; the reports of the security guards; the statements of the curators and assistants in the Osteology Department. Pendergast took it all in, utterly motionless save for the occasional blink of his silvery eyes. Then a shadow appeared in the cubicle, and Pendergast’s eyes shifted.

D’Agosta looked over his shoulder, following Pendergast’s gaze, and saw the tall, heavyset form of Morris Frisby, head of the department. When D’Agosta had first interviewed him, he had been surprised to find not the slope-shouldered, nearsighted curator he’d expected, but a man who was powerful and feared by his staff. D’Agosta had felt a little intimidated himself. The man was wearing an expensive pin-striped suit with a red tie, and he spoke with a crisp, upper-class New York accent. At well over six feet in height,
he dominated the tiny space. He looked from D’Agosta to Pendergast and back, radiating irritation at the continued presence of the police in his domain.

“You’re still here,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question.

“The case hasn’t been solved,” said D’Agosta.

“Nor is it likely to be. This was a random crime committed by someone from the outside. Marsala was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The murder has nothing to do with the Osteology Department. I understand you’ve been repeatedly interviewing my staff, all of whom have a great deal of work, important work, on their plates. Can I assume that you’ll be finishing up your investigation in short order and allowing my staff to continue their work in peace?”

“Who is this man, Lieutenant?” Pendergast asked mildly.

“I am Dr. Morris Frisby,” he said crisply, turning to Pendergast. He had dark-blue eyes with very large whites, and they focused on a person like klieg lights. “I am the head of the anthropology section.”

“Ah, yes. Promoted after the rather mysterious disappearance of Hugo Menzies, if I’m not mistaken.”

“And who might you be? Another policeman in mufti?”

With a languid motion, Pendergast reached into his pocket, removed his ID and shield, and waved them at Frisby
à la distance
.

Frisby stared. “And how is it the feds have jurisdiction?”

“I am here merely out of idle curiosity,” said Pendergast breezily.

“A busman’s holiday, I presume. How nice for you. Perhaps you can tell the lieutenant here to wrap up his case and cease his pointless interruptions of my department’s time and taxpayer dollars, not to mention the occupation of our departmental space.”

Pendergast smiled. “My idle curiosity might lead to something more official, if the lieutenant feels his work is being hindered by an officious, small-minded, self-important bureaucrat. Not you, of course. I speak in general terms only.”

Frisby stared at Pendergast, his large face turning an angry red.

“Obstruction of justice is a serious thing, Dr. Frisby. For that reason I’m so glad to hear from the lieutenant how you’ve been extending your full cooperation to him and will continue to do so.”

Frisby remained rigid for a long moment. And then he turned on his heel to leave.

“Oh, and Dr. Frisby?” Pendergast continued, still in his most honeyed tone.

Frisby did not turn around. He merely paused.

“You may continue your cooperation by digging up the name and credentials of the visiting scientist who recently worked with Victor Marsala and giving them to my esteemed colleague here.”

Now Frisby did turn back. His face was almost black with rage. He opened his mouth to speak.

Pendergast beat him to it. “Before you say anything, Doctor, let me ask you a question. Are you familiar with game theory?”

The chief curator did not answer.

“If so, you would be aware that there is a certain subset of games known to mathematicians and economists as zero-sum. Zero-sum games deal with resources that neither increase nor decrease in amount—they only shift from one player to the other. Given your present frame of mind, were you to speak now, I’m afraid you might say something rash. I would feel it incumbent to offer a rejoinder. As a result of this exchange, you would be mortified and humiliated, which—as dictated by the rules of game theory—would increase my influence and status at your expense. So I’d suggest the most prudent course of action would be for you to remain silent and go about securing the information I asked for with all possible haste.”

While Pendergast had been speaking, an expression quite unlike any D’Agosta had ever seen before crept slowly over Frisby’s face. He said nothing, merely swayed a little, first backward, then forward, like a branch caressed by a breeze. Then he gave what might have been the smallest of nods and disappeared around the corner.

“Ever so obliged!” Pendergast said, leaning over in his seat and calling after the curator.

D’Agosta had watched this exchange without a word. “You just put your boot so far up his ass, he’ll have to eat his dinner with a shoehorn.”

“I can always count on you for a suitable bon mot.”

“I’m afraid you made an enemy.”

“I’ve had long experience with this Museum. There is a certain subset of curators who behave in their little fiefdoms like a liege lord. I tend to be severe with such people. An annoying habit, but very hard to break.” He rose from his chair. “And now, I’d very much like to have a word with that Osteological technician you mentioned. Mark Sandoval.”

D’Agosta heaved himself to his feet. “Follow me.”