Then there was the bizarre shit the killer left behind. A mashed — up bundle of feathers, tied with green twine. A piece of a garment covered with gaudy sequins. A tiny parchment bag of dust with a weird design on the outside. The killer had floated them in the lake of blood, like offerings. The SOC boys had taken them all away, of course, but they were still fixed in his mind.

Still, there was the one thing the SOC boys couldn't take away: the hurriedly drawn image on the wall, two snakes curled around some strange, spiky, plant — like thing, with stars and arrows and complex lines and a word that looked like dambalah. It had clearly been drawn with Smithback's blood. D'Agosta walked into the main bedroom, taking in the bed, bureau, mirror, window looking southeast onto West End Avenue, rug, walls, ceiling. There was a second bathroom at the far end of the bedroom and the door was shut. Funny, last time he was in here the door was open.

He heard a sound from the bathroom. The water turned on and off. Somebody from the forensic team was still in the apartment. D'Agosta strode over, grasped the door handle, found it locked.

"Hey, you in there! What the hell you think you're doing?"

"Just a moment," came the muffled voice.

D'Agosta's surprise turned to outrage. The idiot was using the bathroom. In a sealed crime scene. Un — frigging — believable.

"Open the door, pal. Now."

The door popped open — and there stood Special Agent A.X.L. Pendergast, rack of test tubes in one hand, tweezers in the other, a jeweler's loupe on a headband.

"Vincent," came the familiar buttery voice. "I'm so sorry we have to meet again under such unhappy circumstances."

D'Agosta stared. "Pendergast — I had no idea you were back in town."

Pendergast deftly pocketed the tweezers, slid the rack of tubes into a Gladstone doctor's bag, followed by the loupe. "The killer wasn't in here, or the bedroom. A rather obvious deduction, but I wanted to make sure."

"Is this now an FBI matter?" D'Agosta asked, following Pendergast as the agent moved through the bedroom into the living room.

"Not exactly."

"So you're freelancing again?"

"You might say that. I would appreciate it if we kept my involvement to yourself for the moment." He turned. "Your take, Vincent?"

D'Agosta went through his reconstruction of the crime while Pendergast nodded in approval. "Not that it makes much difference," D'Agosta summed up. "We already know who the dirtbag is. We just have to find him."

Pendergast gave a quizzical rise to his eyebrows.

"He lives in the building. We got two eyewitnesses who saw the killer enter, and two who saw him leave, all covered with blood, clutching the knife. He attacked Nora Kelly on the way out of the apartment — tried to attack, I should say, but the fight had attracted neighbors and he ran away. They got a good look at him, the neighbors I mean. Nora's in the hospital now — minor concussion, but should be all right. Considering."

Another faint incline of the head.

"He's a creep named Fearing. Colin Fearing. Out — of — work British actor. Apartment two fourteen. He'd hassled Nora once or twice in the lobby. Looks to me like a rape gone bad. He probably hoped he'd find Nora home alone, got Smithback instead. Chances are he lifted the key from the super's key locker. I've got a man checking on that."

This time there was no confirming nod. Just the usual inscrutable look in those deep, silvery eyes.

"Anyway, it's an open — and — shut case," D'Agosta said, starting to feel defensive for some unknown reason. "Wasn't just Nora's ID. We got him on the building's security tapes, too, an Oscar performance. Coming in and going out. On the way out we got a full — frontal shot, knife in hand, covered with blood, dragging his sorry ass through the lobby, threatening the doorman before splitting. Gonna look beautiful in front of a jury. This is one bastard who is goingdown. "

"Open and shut, you say?"

D'Agosta felt another twinge at the doubtful note in Pendergast's voice. "Yeah," he said firmly. "Open and shut." He checked his watch. "They're holding the doorman downstairs, waiting for me. He's going to be a star witness, a reliable, solid family man — knew the perp for years. Want to ask him any questions before we send him home?"

"Delighted to. But before we go downstairs…" The agent's voice trailed off. A pair of spidery white fingers reached into the breast pocket of his black suit and withdrew a folded document. With a flourish of his wrist, he proffered it to D'Agosta.

"What's this?" D'Agosta took it and unfolded it, taking in the red notary stamp, the Great Seal of New York, the elegant engraving, the signatures.

"It is Colin Fearing's death certificate. Signed and dated ten days ago."

D'Agosta entered the security nook of 666 West End Avenue, followed by the spectral figure of Pendergast. The doorman, a plump gentleman from the Dominican Republic named Enrico Mosquea, sat on a metal stool, hammy legs spread. He sported a pencil mustache and a marcel wave. The man sprang to his feet with surprising nimbleness as they came in.

"You find this son bitch," he said passionately. "You find him. Smithback, he was a good man. I tell you—"

D'Agosta gently laid a hand on the man's neat brown uniform. "This is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI. He's going to help us out."

His eyes took in Pendergast. "Good. Very good."

D'Agosta took a deep breath. He hadn't quite absorbed the ramifications of the document Pendergast showed him. Maybe they were dealing with a twin. Maybe there were two Colin Fearings. New York was a big city, and half the Brits in town seemed to be named Colin. Or maybe the M.E.'s office had made a hideous mistake.

"I know you've already answered a lot of questions, Mr. Mosquea," D'Agosta went on, "but Agent Pendergast has a few more."

"No trouble. I answer questions ten times over, twenty times, if it help get this son bitch."

D'Agosta pulled out a notebook. What he really wanted was for Pendergast to hear what the man had to say. He was a very credible witness.

Pendergast spoke softly. "Mr. Mosquea, describe what you saw. From the beginning."

"This man, Fearing, he arrive when I was putting someone in a cab. I saw him come in. He didn't look too good, like he been in a fight. Face swollen, black eye maybe. Skin a funny color, too pale. He's walking kind of funny, too. Slow."

"When was the last time you saw him — before this?"

"Maybe two weeks. I think he been away."

"Go on."

"So he walk past me and into the elevator. A little later, Ms. Kelly come back to the building. Maybe five minutes pass. Then he is coming back out. Unbelievable. He all covered with blood, holding knife, lurching along like he been hurt." Mosquea paused for a moment. "I try to grab him, but he swing at me with knife, then turn and run. I call police."

Pendergast slid an ivory hand across his chin. "I imagine when you were putting the person in the cab — when he came in — you got a fleeting glimpse of him."

"I get good,

long

look. Not fleeting. Like I said, he was walking slow."

"You said his face was swollen? Could it have been someone else?"

"Fearing live here six years. I open door for that son bitch three, four times a day."

Pendergast paused. "And then, when he came back out, his face was covered with blood, I imagine."