Nora Kelly abruptly flushed. "The author of that piece of garbage?" Her voice was sharp with anger and grief.

"Ms. Kelly—"

"That was quite a piece of work. Another one like that and you might get an offer from the Weekly World News. I suggest you leave before I call security."

"Did you actually read my story?" Caitlyn blurted out hastily.

A look of uncertainty crossed Nora's face. Caitlyn had guessed right: the woman hadn't read it.

"It was a good story, factual and unbiased. I don't write the headlines, I just report the news."

Nora took a step forward, and Caitlyn instinctively moved back. For a moment, Nora stared at her, eyes flashing. Then she turned back toward the desk, picking up the phone.

"What are you doing?" Caitlyn asked.

"Calling security."

"Ms. Kelly, please don't do that."

She finished dialing and waited while it rang.

"You're only hurting yourself. Because I can help you find your husband's murderer."

"Yes?" Nora spoke into the phone. "This is Nora Kelly, in the anthro lab."

"We both want the same thing," Caitlyn hissed. "Please let me show you how I can help you. Please."

A silence. Nora stared at her, and then said into the phone, "I'm sorry, I dialed the wrong number." She slowly replaced the phone in its cradle.

"Two minutes," she said.

"Okay. Nora — can I call you Nora? I knew your husband. Did he ever mention that? We used to run into each other at journalistic events, press conferences, crime scenes. Sometimes we were after the same story but, well… it was kind of hard for me, a cub reporter with a throwaway tabloid like theWest Sider, to compete with theTimes. "

Nora said nothing. "Bill was a good guy. It's like I said: you and I have a common goal — find his murderer. We each have unique resources at our disposal; we should use them. You know him better than anyone. And I've got a paper. We could pool our talents, help each other."

"I'm still waiting to hear how."

"You know that story Bill was working on, the animal rights piece? He mentioned it to me a few weeks ago."

Nora nodded. "I already told the police about that." She hesitated. "You think it's connected?"

"That's what my gut tells me. But I don't have enough information yet. Tell me more about it."

"It was that business of animal sacrifice up in Inwood. There was a flurry of stories and then it got dropped. But it held Bill's interest. He kept it on the back burner, kept looking for new angles."

"Did he tell you much about it?"

"I just got the sense that some people weren't thrilled about his interest in the subject, but what else is new? He was never happier than when he was pissing off people. Unpleasant people in particular. And there was no one he hated more than an animal abuser." She glanced at her watch. "Thirty seconds left. You still haven't told me how you can help me."

"I'm a tireless researcher. Ask any of my colleagues. I know how to work the police, the hospitals, the libraries, the morgue — I mean, the newspaper's morgue. My press card gets me in places you can't go. I can devote my nights and my days to this, twenty — four/seven. It's true, I want a story. But I also want to do right by Bill."

"Your two minutes are up."

"Okay, I'll leave now. I want you to do something — for yourself as much as for me." Caitlyn tapped her head. "Get out his notes on that piece. The animal rights piece. Share them with me. Remember: we reporters look after our own. I want to get to the bottom of this almost as much as you do. Help me do that, Nora."

And with that, she smiled briefly, gave Nora her card, then turned and let herself out of the lab.

The Rolls passed through a pair of gates set into a faux — brick wall, decorated with plastic ivy stapled haphazardly across its front. A sign amid the ivy informed visitors that they had arrived at Whispering Oaks Cemetery and Mausoleum. Beyond the wall lay an expanse of green lawn, bordered by freshly planted oak trees kept vertical by guy wires. Everything was new and raw. The graveyard itself was virtually empty, and D'Agosta could still see the seams where the turf had been rolled down. Half a dozen gigantic, polished granite gravestones were clustered in one corner. Ahead, a mausoleum rose up from the center of the greensward, bone white, stark, and charmless.

Proctor guided the Rolls up the asphalt drive and came to a halt in front of the building. A strip of flower bed before the mausoleum was bursting with flowers, despite the fall season, and as he emerged from the car D'Agosta prodded one with his foot.

Plastic.

They stood in the parking lot, looking around. "Where is everybody?" D'Agosta asked, looking at his watch. "The guy was supposed to be here at noon."

"Gentlemen?" A man had emerged, ghost — like, from the rear of the mausoleum. D'Agosta was startled by his appearance: slender, wearing a well — cut black suit, his skin unnaturally white. The man hurried over, hands clasped obsequiously in front of him, and went straight up to Pendergast. "How may I help you, sir?"

"We are here with regard to the remains of Colin Fearing."

"Ah, yes, the poor fellow we interred, what, almost two weeks ago?" The man beamed, looking Pendergast up and down. "You must be in the business. I can always tell a man in the business!"

Pendergast slowly dipped a hand into his pocket.

"Yes, yes," the man went on, "I remember the interment well. Poor fellow, there was just his sister and the priest. I was surprised — the young ones usually draw a crowd. Well! What mortuary are you gentlemen from, and how can I be of service?"

Pendergast's hand had finally withdrawn a leather case from his pocket, which he held up, allowing it to drop open.

The man stared. "What — what's this?"

"Alas, we are not 'in the business,' as you so charmingly put it."

The man paled even further, saying nothing.

D'Agosta stepped up and handed him an envelope. "We're here about the court — ordered exhumation of Colin Fearing. The papers are all in there."

"Exhumation? I don't know a thing about it."

"I talked to a Mr. Radcliffe about it last night," said D'Agosta.

"Mr. Radcliffe didn't tell me anything. He never tells me anything." The man's voice rose in querulous complaint.

"That's too bad," said D'Agosta, the foul mood he had been in since the murder surfacing again. "Let's get this over with."

The man was clearly frightened. He seemed to sway in place. "We've… we've never had this sort of thing happen before."

"Always a first time, Mr. — " "Lille. Maurice Lille."

Now the M.E.'s much — abused van came rattling down the drive, laying down a cloud of blue smoke. It swung around the curve too fast — D'Agosta wondered why they always drove like maniacs — and came to a halt with a little screech, the vehicle rocking back and forth on a bad suspension. A couple of med techs in white overalls got out, walked to the back, threw open the doors, and slid out a gurney on which lay an empty body bag. Then they approached across the parking lot, pushing the gurney in front.

"Where's the mort?" bawled the thinner of the two, a freckle — faced kid with carroty hair.

Silence.