The computer seemed to have frozen. “What’s it doing now?” D’Agosta asked.

“Rendering the composite.”

A few minutes passed. Then the computer gave a chirrup and a small window appeared on the screen that read RENDERING PROCESS COMPLETE. Bonomo clicked a button and a nearby printer stirred into life, spooling out a sheet containing a grayscale image. Bonomo plucked it from the tray, glanced over it, then showed it to Sandoval.

“That him?” he asked.

Sandoval looked at the picture in amazement. “My God. That’s the guy! Unbelievable. How’d you do that?”

“You did it,” said Bonomo, clapping him on the shoulder.

D’Agosta peered over Bonomo’s picture at the sheet. The facial portrait it contained was almost photographic in its clarity.

“Terry, you’re the man,” he murmured.

Bonomo beamed, then printed half a dozen more copies and passed them over.

D’Agosta squared up the sheets on the edge of the table and put them in his case. “Email me the image, okay?”

“Will do, Vinnie.”

As D’Agosta left with Sandoval in tow, he thought that now it was just a question of trying to match this sketch to the twelve thousand people who came and went from the Museum on the day of the murder. That was going to be fun.

Interrogation Room B of the California State Holding Facility at Indio was a spacious room with beige cinder-block walls and a single table with four chairs: three on one side, one on the other. A boom mike descended from the ceiling, and video cameras sprouted from two corners. Along the far wall ran a dark rectangle of one-way glass.

Special Agent Pendergast sat in the center of the three chairs. His hands rested on the table, fingers interlocked. The room was perfectly silent. His pale eyes were fixed at some faraway point in space, and he remained as still as a marble statue.

Now sounds of footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. There was a rolling noise as a security bolt was drawn back, then the door opened inward. Pendergast glanced over to see John Spandau, senior corrections officer, enter the room.

Pendergast rose, a little stiff from the previous day’s struggle, and extended his hand. “Mr. Spandau,” he said.

Spandau smiled faintly, nodded. “He’s ready if you are.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Not a word.”

“I see. Bring him in, by all means.”

Spandau stepped back out into the corridor. There was a brief murmur of conversation. Then Pendergast’s attacker from the Salton Fontainebleau entered, wearing an orange jumpsuit, escorted by two prison guards. The man had a cast on one wrist and a brace on one knee, and he walked slowly, with a limp. He was in cuffs and leg-chains. The guards directed him to the lone chair on the far side of the table, sat him down.

“Do you want us to be present?” Spandau asked.

“No, thank you.”

“They’ll be right outside if you need anything.” Spandau nodded to the guards, then all three men left the interrogation room. There was the sound of the security bolt sliding home, then a key being turned in a lock.

Pendergast’s gaze rested on the closed door for a moment. Then he sat down and turned to regard the man opposite the table. The man returned the look. His face was absolutely impassive. He was tall and muscular, with a broad face, high forehead, and heavy brows.

For a long time, the two men just stared at each other without speaking. Finally, Pendergast broke the silence. “I’m in a position to help you,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”

The man did not reply.

“You’re a victim, just as much as I am. You were as surprised as I was when the sedative agent was injected into that room.” His tone was gentle, understanding, almost deferential. “You’ve been made into — in the parlance of the day — a ‘fall guy’ or ‘stooge.’ Not very agreeable. Now, I don’t know why you undertook this job, why you agreed to attack me, or how you were to be compensated. I only know that it must have been a job, not any personal grievance, because I’ve never seen you before in my life. You were set up, played, used — and then thrown to the wolves.” He paused. “I told you that I could help. And I will — if you tell me who you are and who you’re working for. That’s all I want from you: two names. I shall do the rest.”

The man merely looked back at him with the same impassive expression.

“If you are maintaining your silence out of some misguided sense of loyalty, let me clarify: you have already been sacrificed. Do you understand? Whoever your puppeteer is — whoever has been guiding your actions — clearly meant from the very beginning for you to be incapacitated as well as myself. So why remain silent?”

Still, silence.

“Let me tell you a story. One of my fellow agents put a mobster in jail seven years ago for extortion and blackmail. The mobster was given many opportunities to provide the names of his bosses in exchange for leniency. But he remained a loyal soldier. He did the whole stretch, all seven years of his sentence. This man was released just two weeks ago. The first thing he did was go home to his family, who greeted him with tears of joy. Less than an hour later, he was shot to death by the very mobsters he’d gone to prison to protect. They acted to make sure his mouth stayed closed… despite his seven years of loyal silence.”

As Pendergast spoke, the man blinked infrequently, but made no other movement.

“Are you keeping silent out of the hope you will be rewarded? That will never happen.”

Nothing. Now Pendergast fell silent for a time, staring appraisingly at the man across the table. At last, he spoke again.

“Perhaps you are protecting your family. Perhaps you fear that, if you speak, they will be killed.”

The man did not respond to this, either.

Pendergast rose. “If this is the case, then the only hope for your family and for you is to speak. We can protect them. Otherwise, both you and they will be lost — utterly. Trust me: I’ve seen it happen many times.”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes — perhaps.

“Good day.”

With this, he called for the guards. The door was unlocked, the bolt thrust back, and the guards entered, along with Spandau. Pendergast remained standing while the two guards led the prisoner away.

Pendergast hesitated. “I’ll be heading back to New York. Will you arrange for me to obtain his mug shots, fingerprints, DNA, and the medical report from the admitting doctor?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve been most cooperative.” He paused. “Tell me, Mr. Spandau — you are something of a wine connoisseur, are you not?”

The man looked back at him with veiled surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“A pamphlet detailing Bordeaux futures on your desk, which I noticed yesterday.”

Spandau hesitated. “I am a bit of an enthusiast, I admit.”

“You’re familiar, then, with Château Pichon Longueville Comtesse de Lalande.”

“Sure.”

“Do you like it?”

“I’ve never tasted it.” Spandau shook his head. “Nor will I, on a correction officer’s salary.”

“Pity. It just so happens that this morning I was able to procure a case of the 2000 vintage. An excellent year, quite drinkable already. I’ve arranged for it to be delivered to your home.”

Spandau frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I would take it as a great personal favor if you could call me right away should our friend start to talk. All for a good cause — solving this case.”

Spandau considered this in silence.

“And if you could arrange for a transcript to be made of what he says — officially, of course — that would be simply icing on the cake. It’s possible I might be of assistance. Here’s my card.”

Spandau remained still another moment. And then a smile spread across his normally unemotional features. “Agent Pendergast,” he said, “I believe it would be my pleasure.”