"Mr. Lille?" D'Agosta asked after a moment.

"The… mort?"

"You know," said the tech. "The stiff. We don't got all day."

Lille shook himself out of his shock. "Yes. Yes, of course. Please, follow me into the mausoleum."

He led the way to the front door, punched a code into a keypad, and the faux — bronze door clicked open, revealing a high, white space with crypts rising from floor to ceiling on all four walls. Two enormous bunches of plastic flowers spilled out of a pair of gigantic Italianate plaster urns. Only a few of the crypts were marked with black, incised lettering giving names and dates. D'Agosta couldn't help but test the air for that smell he knew so well, but it was clean, fresh, perfumed. Definitely perfumed.Place like this, he thought,must have one hell of a forced — air system.

"I'm sorry. You did say it was Colin Fearing?" Despite the excessive air — conditioning, Lille was sweating.

"That's right." D'Agosta glanced with irritation at Pendergast, who had gone off on a stroll, hands behind his back, lips pursed, looking around the place. He always seemed to disappear at the wrong time.

"Just a moment, please." Lille went through a glass door that led to his office and came back out clutching a clipboard, looking up at the vast wall of crypts, his lips moving as if counting. After a moment, he stopped.

"There it is. Colin Fearing." He pointed at one of the marked crypts, then stepped back, the grimace of an attempted smile on his face.

"Mr. Lille?" said D'Agosta. "The key?"

"Key?" A look of panic took hold. "You want me to open it?"

"That's what an exhumation is all about, right?" said D'Agosta.

"But, you see, I'm not authorized. I'm just a salesman."

D'Agosta exhaled. "You'll find all the paperwork in that envelope. All you have to do is sign the top page — and get us the key."

Lille looked down and discovered, as if for the first time, the manila envelope he was clutching in his hand.

"But I'm not authorized. I'll have to call Mr. Radcliffe."

D'Agosta rolled his eyes.

Lille went back into his office, leaving the door open. D'Agosta listened. The conversation started off low, but soon Lille's shrill voice was echoing through the mausoleum like the cries of a kicked dog. Mr. Radcliffe, apparently, was not interested in cooperation.

Lille came back out. "Mr. Radcliffe is coming in."

"How long will that take?"

"An hour."

"Forget it. I already explained this to Radcliffe. Open the crypt. Now."

Lille wrung his hands, his face contorted. "Oh dear. I just… can't."

"That's a court order in your hand, pal, not a permission request. If you don't open that crypt, I'll cite you for obstructing a police officer in the performance of his duty."

"But Mr. Racliffe will fire me!" Lille wailed.

Pendergast swung back around from his self — guided tour, strolling casually up to the group. He approached the face of Fearing's crypt and read aloud: "Colin Fearing, age thirty — eight.Sad when they die young, don't you think, Mr. Lille?"

Lille didn't seem to hear. Pendergast laid a hand on the marble, as if caressing it. "You say no one came to the funeral?"

"Just the sister."

"How sad. And who paid for it?"

"I'm… I'm not sure. The sister paid the bill, I think from the mother's estate."

"But the mother is non compos mentis." The agent turned to D'Agosta. "I wonder if the sister had a power of attorney? Worth looking into."

"Good idea."

Pendergast's white fingers continued to stroke the marble, drawing back a small, hidden plate, exposing a lock. His other hand dipped into his breast pocket and emerged with a small object, like a comb with only a few short teeth at one end. He inserted it into the lock, gave it a wiggle.

"Excuse me, what do you think you're…" Lille began, his voice dying away as the crypt door swung open noiselessly on oiled hinges. "No, wait, you mustn't do this—"

The med techs pushed the gurney forward, raising it with a little shake to the level of the crypt. A small flashlight appeared in Pendergast's hand, and he aimed it into the darkness, peering inside.

There was a short silence. Then Pendergast said: "I don't think we'll be needing the gurney."

The two med techs paused, uncertain.

Pendergast straightened up and turned to Lille. "Pray tell, who keeps the keys to these crypts?"

"The keys?" The man was shaking. "I do."

"Where?"

"I keep them locked up in my office."

"And the second set?"

"Mr. Radcliffe keeps them off site. I don't know where."

"Vincent?" Pendergast stepped back, motioned toward the open crypt.

D'Agosta stepped up and peered in the dark cavity, his eye following the narrow beam of the flashlight.

"The damn thing's empty!" he said.

"Impossible," quavered Lille. "I saw the body put in there with my own eyes…" His voice choked off and he clutched at his tie.

The carroty — haired med tech peered in, to see for himself. "Well fuck me twice on Sunday," he said, staring.

"Not quite empty, Vincent." Pendergast snapped on a latex glove and reached inside, gingerly withdrawing an object and displaying it to the others in the palm of his hand. It was a tiny coffin, crudely fashioned from papier — mâché and bits of cloth, its folded — paper lid ajar. Inside lay a grinning skeleton composed of tiny, white — painted toothpicks.

"There is an interment in here — of sorts," he said in his mellifluous voice. There was a gasp, followed by a soft, collapsing sound. D'Agosta turned. Maurice Lille had fainted.

Midnight. Nora Kelly walked briskly through the dark heart of the museum's basement, her heels tapping softly against the polished stone floor. The corridors were on after — hours lighting, and shadows yawned from open doorways. There was nobody around: even the most hard — core curator had left for home hours ago, and most of the guards' rounds were through the museum's public spaces.

She came to a halt at a stainless — steel door labeled PCR LAB. As she'd hoped, the door's wire — covered window was dark. She turned to the keypad lock, typed in a sequence of numbers. An LED set into the pad turned from red to green.

She pushed open the door, ducked inside, and turned on the light, stopping to look around. She had been in the lab only a few times on casual visits, on the occasions she'd dropped off samples for testing. The thermal cycler for the PCR stood on a spotless stainless — steel table, shrouded in plastic. She stepped up, pulled away the plastic, folded it and laid it aside. The machine — an Eppendorf Master — cycler 5330—was made of white plastic, its ugly, low — tech appearance belying its sophisticated innards. She rummaged in her bag and removed a printed document she had downloaded from the Internet with directions on how to use it.

The door had locked behind her automatically. She took a deep breath, then hunted around behind the machine with one hand, at last locating the power switch and turning it on. The manual stated it would take a full fifteen minutes to warm up.

Laying her bag on the table, she removed a Styrofoam container, took off the lid, and began carefully withdrawing pencil — thin test tubes and racking them. One tube contained a bit of hair, another a fiber, another a piece of Kleenex, still another freeze — dried fragments of blood, all of which Pendergast had given her.