He believed he was basically a fair human being. If somebody treated him with even a modicum of respect, he'd reciprocate. But when somebody acted like a dick, that was a different story. Lucas Kline had been a dick — a Grade A, first — class, USDA Choice dick. And now he was going to learn what a bad idea it was to really piss off a cop.

He turned to the squad. "Remember the briefing," he said. "I want this thorough. Thorough and dirty. Work in teams of two — I don't want any problems with the chain of evidence. And if you encounter any shit, any obstructionism, anything at all, shut it down fast and hard."

A murmur rippled through the group, followed by a chorus of snaps and clicks as Maglites were checked and batteries slotted into cordless screwdrivers.

The elevator doors opened on the expansive lobby of Digital Veracity. It was late in the afternoon — four thirty — but D'Agosta noticed there were still a couple of clients seated on the leather sofas, waiting for appointments.

Good.

He stepped out of the elevator and into the center of the lobby, the team spreading out behind him. "I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD," he said in a loud, clear voice. "I have a search warrant to execute on these premises." He glanced toward the waiting clients. "I would suggest you come back some other time."

They stood quickly, white — faced, scooped up their jackets and briefcases, and scampered gratefully for the elevator bank. D'Agosta turned to the receptionist. "Why don't you go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee?"

In fifteen seconds, the lobby was empty except for D'Agosta and his squad. "We'll use this as a staging area," he said. "Leave the evidence boxes here and let's get started." He pointed to the sergeants. "I want you three with me."

It was the work of sixty seconds to reach Kline's outer office. D'Agosta glanced at the frightened — looking secretary. "Nothing more's going to get done here today," he said quietly, smiling at her. "Why don't you knock off early?"

He waited until she had gone. Then he opened the door to the inner office. Kline was once again on the phone, his feet on the broad desk. When he saw D'Agosta and the uniformed officers, he nodded, as if unsurprised. "I'll have to call you back," he said into the phone.

"Take all the computers," D'Agosta told the sergeants. Then he turned to the software developer. "I've got a search warrant here." He pushed it toward Kline's face, then let it drop to the floor. "Oops. There it is, you can read it when you've got time."

"I thought you might be back, D'Agosta," Kline said. "I've had a talk with my lawyers. That search warrant has to specify what it is you're looking for."

"Oh, it does. We're looking for evidence that Bill Smithback's murder was either planned, committed, or perhaps paid for by you."

"And why, precisely, would I plan, commit, or pay for such an act?"

"Because of a psychotic rage against high — profile journalists — such as the one that got you fired from your first job on a newspaper."

Kline's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"The information could be concealed in any of these offices," D'Agosta continued. "We'll have to search the entire suite."

"It could be anywhere," Kline replied. "It could be at my home."

"That's where we'll be going next." D'Agosta sat down. "But you're right — it could be anywhere. That's why I'll have to confiscate all CDs, DVDs, hard disks, PDAs, anything on the premises that can store information. You have a BlackBerry?"

"Yes."

"Now it's evidence. Hand it over, please."

Kline reached his hand into his pocket, pulled out the device, laid it on his desk.

D'Agosta glanced around. One of the sergeants was taking paintings off the cherrywood walls, carefully scrutinizing their backs, then placing them on the floor. Another was plucking books off the shelves, holding them by the spines and shaking them, then dropping them onto growing piles. The third was pulling the expensive rugs from the floor, searching underneath, then leaving them bunched up in a corner. Watching, D'Agosta reflected how convenient it was that no law required you to clean up after a search.

From other offices down the hallway, he could hear drawers slamming, dragging noises, crying, voices raised in protest. The sergeant had finished with the rugs and was starting in on the file cabinets, opening them, removing manila folders, leafing through them, then dumping the papers onto the floor. The sergeant who'd examined the oil paintings was now dismantling the PCs on the desk. "I need those for my business," Kline said.

"They're mine now. Hope you backed everything up." This reminded D'Agosta of something — something Pendergast had recommended. "Would you mind loosening your tie?" he asked.

Kline frowned. "What?"

"Indulge me, please."

Kline hesitated. Then, slowly, he reached up and tugged down his tie.

"Now unbutton the top button of your shirt and spread the collar."

"What are you up to, D'Agosta?" Kline asked, doing as instructed.

D'Agosta peered at the scrawny neck. "That cord — draw it out, please."

Even more slowly, Kline reached in and pulled out the cord. Sure enough: dangling from its end was a small flash drive.

"I'll take that, please."

"It's encrypted," Kline said.

"I'll take it anyway."

Kline stared. "You'll regret this, Lieutenant."

"You'll get it back." And D'Agosta held out his hand. Kline raised it over his head and placed it on the desk beside the Black — Berry. His expression, his manner, betrayed nothing. The only sign of what might be going on inside his head was a faint rising of pink on his acne — scarred cheeks.

D'Agosta looked around. "We'll need to take some of these African masks and statues, as well."

"Why?"

"They may relate to certain, ah, exotic elements of the case."

Kline began to speak, stopped, began again. "They are extremely valuable works of art, Lieutenant."

"We won't break anything."

The sergeant had finished with the books and was now unscrewing ceiling ducts with a screwgun. D'Agosta stood up, walked to the closet, opened the door. Today Chauncy was absent. He glanced back at Kline. "Do you have a safe?"

"In the far office."

"Let's take a walk, shall we?"

The journey down the hallway took in half a dozen scenes of devastation. His team was disassembling monitors, searching cabinets with Maglites, pulling drawers out of desks. Kline's employees had assembled in the lobby, where an ever — growing mountain of paper stood beside the evidence boxes. Kline looked left and right with hooded eyes. The pinkish cast to his face had deepened somewhat. "Vincent D'Agosta," he said as they walked. "Do your pals call you Vinnie?"

"Some of them do."

"Vinnie, I believe we might have friends in common."

"I don't think so."

"Well, the person I'm referring to isn't exactly a friend as of yet. But I feel as though I know her. Laura Hayward."

It took all the force of will D'Agosta could muster not to check his stride.

"You see, I've done quite a bit of looking into that girlfriend of yours — or ex — girlfriend, I should say. What's the matter, Viagra no longer working?"

D'Agosta kept his eyes locked straight ahead.