"Yes, sir." D'Agosta glanced at him. Rocker wore his usual dark suit, a small NYPD pin set into one lapel. The commissioner returned the glance, looking even wearier than usual.

"You remember what I said: no Kline."

D'Agosta swallowed. Forget all the coffee — he could use a double bourbon right about now. He hadn't planned to mention Kline anyway; he didn't want to get sued for defamation.

As they walked out into the briefing room and ascended the podium, the volume of noise grew even louder. Explosions of light peppered the room as a dozen flash units went off. The commissioner stepped toward the lectern and put out his hands for silence. It took a good thirty seconds for the crowd to settle down. At last, the commissioner cleared his throat.

"Detective Lieutenant D'Agosta, who is in charge of the Smith — back homicide, will say a few words about the current state of his investigation. We will then open the floor for questions. Before Lieutenant D'Agosta speaks, I would just ask all of you to please be responsible in how you report this case to the public. This is an exceptionally sensational crime, and the city is already on edge as a result. Causing additional unrest can only lead to further damage. And now, Lieutenant, if you would?"

"Thank you." D'Agosta approached the microphone with trepidation. He gazed out over the sea of faces, swallowed painfully. "As you are all aware," he began, "William Smithback, a resident of the Upper West Side, was the victim of a homicide one week ago. Members of law enforcement, under my direction, have been aggressively investigating the case. As a result, numerous lines of inquiry have been opened. We are pursuing several leads, and we feel confident that those responsible will be identified and apprehended in the very near future. In the meantime, we would ask that if anybody has any information of value to the investigation, they contact the NYPD immediately." He paused. "I'll take your questions now."

Instantly, the hubbub resumed. D'Agosta held up his hands for order. "Quiet, please!" he said into the microphone. "Quiet!" He stepped back, waiting for a semblance of order to return. "Thank you. You, in front." He nodded at a middle — aged woman in a yellow blouse.

"What can you tell us about this Ville? Are they really performing animal sacrifices?"

"There have been several complaints about animal noise emanating from that location. This is one of the areas under active investigation. I might add that we have found no direct connection between the Ville and the Smithback homicide."

"Speaking of the Smithback homicide," the woman went on, "are the autopsy results back? What was the cause of death?"

"The cause of death was a stab wound to the heart."

He surveyed the crowd: the hands straining in the air, the lights and cameras and digital recorders. It seemed strange not to see Smith — back among the eager faces, shouting and gesticulating, cowlick bobbing.

"Yes," he said, pointing to a man in the third row wearing a large, gaudy bow tie.

"Have you confirmed the identity of Smithback's killer? Was it Fearing, his neighbor?"

"Fearing wasn't a neighbor. He lived in the same building. Tests are still ongoing, but at present all evidence indicates that, yes, Fearing is definitely a person of interest in our investigation. He is currently at large and considered a fugitive from justice."If a possible stiff can be considered a fugitive, that is.

"What's Fearing's connection to the Ville?"

"We have not established a connection between Fearing and the Ville."

This was going better than he'd hoped: under the circumstances, the press seemed controlled, almost respectful. He nodded at another upraised hand.

"What about the search of Kline's office. Is he a suspect?"

"He's not a suspect at this time." D'Agosta avoided glancing at Rocker. Jesus, how did the press always seem to know everything?

"Then why the search?"

"I'm sorry, I can't go into that aspect of the investigation."

He began to point to another reporter, but suddenly one voice cut over the others. D'Agosta turned toward it, frowning. A man had stood up near the front: tall and preppie looking, with short sandy hair, a repp tie, and a chin cleft you could park a truck in.

"I want to know what real progress has been made," he said in a loud, stentorian voice. The question was so vague, yet so aggressive, that for a moment D'Agosta was stunned into silence.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I'm Bryce Harriman," the man said. "Of the Times. A fellow member of the New York journalist corps — mygood friend Bill Smithback — has been brutally murdered. A week has gone by. So let me put it a different way: why has so little real progress been made?"

A murmur ran through the crowd. A few heads nodded their agreement.

"We have made real progress. Obviously, I am not at liberty to go into all the details." D'Agosta knew how lame it sounded, but it was the best he could do.

But Harriman paid no attention. "This was an attack on a journalist for doing his job," he said with a flourish. "An attack on us, on our profession."

The assenting murmurs increased. D'Agosta began to call on another, but Harriman refused to be silent. "What's going on at the Ville?" he said, raising his voice.

"As I said, there is no evidence implicating the Ville in—"

Harriman cut him off. "Why are they allowed to keep openly torturing and killing animals — and maybe not just animals? Lieutenant, surely you must be aware that a lot of New Yorkers are asking the same question: Why have the police done absolutely nothing? "

All at once the crowd was in full cry — demanding, gesticulating, their expressions angry. And — as one by one they rose to their feet — Harriman sat back down again, a look of smug satisfaction creasing his patrician face.

The Rolls passed through a large white gate and continued up a cobbled driveway, which ran among ancient oaks before opening suddenly onto a grand mansion surrounded by outbuildings: a carriage house, a gazebo, a greenhouse, and a vast, shingled red barn built on ancient stone foundations. Beyond, a sweep of manicured lawn led down to the waters of Long Island Sound, sparkling in the morning light.

D'Agosta whistled. "Jesus, what a spread."

"Indeed. And we can't even see the caretaker's house, helipad, and trout hatchery from our current vantage point."

"Remind me why we're here again," D'Agosta said.

"Mr. Esteban is one of the people who complained most vocally about the Ville. I'm curious to hear his sentiments on the place firsthand."

At a word from Pendergast, Proctor brought the vehicle to a stop before the barn. Its doors were wide open, and without a word the agent stepped quickly out of the Rolls and disappeared into the cavernous structure.

"Hey, the house is that way…" D'Agosta's voice faltered. He looked around nervously. What on earth was Pendergast up to this time?

He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.

The man came over, still holding the ax.

"Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here," D'Agosta murmured as the agent rejoined him.

The man was tall, with a short salt — and — pepper beard, longish hair falling below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as Anglo as they came — in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a walking advertisement for Lands' End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos, checked shirt, work gloves — lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.