D'Agosta could feel himself doing a slow burn. A silence settled over the large office. Kline sat there, arms folded, looking back at D'Agosta.

"Dysfunctional," D'Agosta said. At least he'd wipe that smug smile off this little bastard's face.

"Excuse me?" Kline asked.

"If I wasn't so disgusted, I could almost feel sorry for you. The only way you can get laid is to brandish money and power, to harass and force. That doesn't sound dysfunctional to you? No? How about another word, then: pathetic. That girl in the outer office — when are you planning to rotate her out for this year's model?"

"Kick your fucking ass" came the response.

D'Agosta rose. "That's a threat of violence, Kline. Made against a police officer." He put his hands on his cuffs. "You think you're so smart, but you just crossed the line."

"Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta," came the voice again.

D'Agosta realized it wasn't Kline who had spoken. The voice was slightly different. And it hadn't come from behind the desk: it had come from beyond a door set into the opposite wall.

"Who's that?" D'Agosta said. He had grown so angry, so quickly, that he could feel himself shaking.

"That?" Kline replied. "Oh, that's Chauncy."

"Get him out here. Now."

"I can't do that."

"What?" D'Agosta said through clenched teeth.

"He's busy."

"Kick your fucking ass," came the voice of Chauncy.

"Busy?"

"Yes. Eating his lunch."

Without another word, D'Agosta strode to the door, flung it open.

Beyond lay a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It held nothing but a wooden T — bar about chest high — and sitting on it was a huge, salmon — colored parrot. A Brazil nut was in one claw. It regarded him mildly, massive beak coyly hidden by cheek feathers, the crest atop its head raised slightly in inquiry.

"Lieutenant D'Agosta, meet Chauncy," Kline said.

"Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta," said the parrot.

D'Agosta took a step forward. The parrot gave out an ear — piercing shriek and dropped the nut, flapping its wide wings and showering D'Agosta with feathers and dander, its crest flaring wildly.

"Now look what you've done," said Kline in a tone of mild reproof. "You've disturbed his lunch."

D'Agosta stepped back again, breathing heavily. Abruptly, he realized there was nothing — absolutely nothing — he could do. Kline had broken no law. What was he going to do, cuff a Moluccan cockatoo and haul it downtown? He'd be laughed out of Police Plaza. The little prick really had thought everything through. His hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. The frustration was agonizing.

"How does it know my name?" he muttered, flicking a feather off his jacket. "Oh, that," said Kline. "You see, Chauncy and I were, um, discussing you before you came in."

As they stepped into the elevator for the ride back down to the lobby, D'Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The special agent was shaking with what appeared to be silent mirth. D'Agosta looked away, frowning. At length Pendergast composed himself and cleared his throat.

"I think, my dear Vincent," he said, "you might consider obtaining that search warrant with all possible haste."

Caitlyn Kidd nosedher car into a bus — only zone across the street from the New York Museum of Natural History. Before getting out, she draped a copy of yesterday'sWest Sider — with the headline and her byline prominently displayed — on the dash. That, along with her press plates, just might help her avoid a second parking ticket in as many days.

She walked briskly across Museum Drive, inhaling the frosty fall air. It was quarter to five, and as she suspected a number of people were exiting purposefully from an unmarked door set into the ground floor of the vast structure. They carried bags and briefcases — employees, not visitors. She threaded her way through them toward the door.

Beyond the door lay a narrow corridor, leading to a security station. A few people were showing their museum IDs and being waved past the station by a pair of bored — looking guards. Caitlyn rummaged in her bag, plucked out her press ID.

She stepped up and showed the pass to the guard. "Staff only," he said.

"I'm with the West Sider," she replied. "I'm doing a story on the museum."

"Got an appointment?"

"I've got an interview set up with…" She glanced at the badge of a curator just passing the little guard station. It would be at least a few minutes before he reached his office. "Dr. Prine."

"Moment." The guard checked a phone book, lifted the phone, dialed a number, let it ring a few times. Then he raised his sleepy eyes to her. "He ain't in. You'll have to wait here."

"May I sit down?" She indicated a bench a dozen yards off.

The guard hesitated.

"I'm pregnant. I'm not supposed to be on my feet."

"Go ahead."

She sat down, crossed her legs, opened a book, keeping an eye on the guard station. A knot of employees arrived and began piling up around the entrance — janitors by the look of them, arriving for the night shift. As the guards became fully engrossed in checking IDs and ticking off names, Caitlyn quickly rose and joined the stream of employees already through the security checkpoint.

The room she was looking for was in the basement — a five — minute search on the Internet had secured an employee directory and layout of the museum — but the place was a rabbit warren of intersecting passages and endless, unmarked corridors. Nobody challenged her access or even seemed to notice her, however, and a few well — placed queries finally led her to a long, dimly lit hallway, opposing walls punctuated every twenty feet by doors with frosted windows set into them. Caitlyn made her way slowly down the corridor, glancing at the names on the doors. A smell lingered in the air, faintly unpleasant, that she couldn't identify. Some of the doors were open, and beyond she could see laboratory setups, cluttered offices, and — bizarrely — jars of pickled animals and fierce — looking beasts, stuffed and mounted.

She paused outside a door labeled kelly, n. The door was ajar, and Caitlyn heard voices within. One voice, she realized: Nora Kelly was on the phone.

She edged forward, listening.

"Skip, I can't," the voice was saying. "I just can't come home now."

There was a pause. "No, it's not that. If I went back to Santa Fe right now, I might never return to New York. Don't you understand? Besides, it's vital for me to find out what really happened, track down Bill's killer. That's the only thing keeping me going right now."

This was too personal. Caitlyn pushed the door wider, clearing her throat as she did so. The lab beyond was cramped yet orderly. Half a dozen pottery fragments lay on a worktable beside a laptop computer. In one corner, a woman on the telephone looked up at her. She was slim, attractive, with bronze — colored hair spilling down over her shoulders, a haunted look in her hazel eyes.

"Skip," the woman said. "I'm going to have to call you back. Yes. Okay, tonight." She hung up, stood up from the desk. "Can I help you?"

Caitlyn took a deep breath. "Nora Kelly?"

"That's right."

Caitlyn pulled the press ID from her bag, held it open. "I'm Caitlyn Kidd, from the West Sider."