"Glad to be working with you again." The voice was crisp, devoid of morbid curiosity. D'Agosta felt relieved. There would be no chitchat, no prying questions. Totally professional.

"I, for one, am happy to see the case in such capable hands," Pendergast said.

"Thank you."

"You always struck me as an officer who could be relied on to conduct a vigorous investigation."

"Thanks again. And if I can be frank, you always struck me as somebody who never worried much about the chain of command or who let the formalities of standard police procedure get in your way."

If Pendergast was surprised by this, he gave no sign. "True."

"Well then, let's get this chain of command clear at the outset-shall we?"

"Excellent idea."

"This is my case. Bench warrants, subpoenas, whatever must be cleared through my office first, unless we're dealing with an emergency. Any communication with the press will be coordinated through my office. Perhaps that's not how you operate, but that's how I operate."

Pendergast nodded. "Understood."

"People talk about how the FBI sometimes has trouble getting along with local law enforcement. That's not going to happen here. For one thing, we're not 'local law enforcement.' We're the New York Police Department, Homicide Division. We will work with the Federal Bureau of Investigation as full equals and in no other way."

"Certainly, Captain."

"We will, naturally, return the courtesy."

"I should expect no less."

"I do things by the book, even when the book is stupid. You know why? That's how we get the conviction. Any funny business at all, and a New York jury will acquit."

"True, very true," Pendergast said.

"Tomorrow morning, 8A.M. sharp, and every Tuesday thereafter for the duration of the case, we'll be meeting at One Police Plaza, seventeenth-floor situation room, you, me, and Lieutenant-I mean Sergeant-D'Agosta. All cards on the table."

"Eight A.M. ," Pendergast repeated.

"Coffee and Danish on us."

A look of distaste settled on Pendergast's features. "I shall have already breakfasted, thank you."

Hayward looked at her watch. "How much more time do you gentlemen need?"

"I believe five more minutes should do it," said Pendergast. "Any information you can share with us now?"

"An elderly woman in the apartment below was the witness, or as close as we have to a witness. The murder occurred shortly after eleven. She seems to have heard the deceased having convulsions and screaming. She assumed he was having a party." A dry smile flickered across her face. "It grew quiet. And then, at 11:22, a substance began leaking through her ceiling: melted adipose tissue from the deceased."

Melted adipose tissue.  D'Agosta began to write this down, then stopped. It didn't seem likely he'd forget it.

"About the same time, the smoke alarms and sprinklers went off-that would be at 11:24 and 11:25 respectively. Maintenance went up to check, found the door locked, no answer, and a foul smell emanating from the apartment. They opened the door with a master key at 11:29 and found the deceased as you see him now. The temperature in the apartment was almost one hundred degrees when we arrived, fifteen minutes later."

D'Agosta exchanged a glance with Pendergast. "Tell me about the adjacent neighbors."

"The man above heard nothing until the alarms went off but complained of a bad smell. There are only two apartments on this floor: the other one has been purchased but is still empty. The new owner is an Englishman, a Mr. Aspern." She pulled a pad from her breast pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Pendergast. "Here are their names. Aspern is currently in England. Mr. Roland Beard is in the apartment above, and Letitia Dallbridge is in the apartment below. Do you wish to interview either of them now?"

"Not necessary." Pendergast glanced at her, then looked at the burn mark on the wall.

Hayward's lip curled, whether in amusement or something else D'Agosta wasn't sure. "You noticed it, I see."

"I did. Any thoughts?"

"Wasn't it you, Mr. Pendergast, who once cautioned me against forming premature hypotheses?"

Pendergast returned the smile. "You learned well."

"I learned from a master." She looked at D'Agosta as she spoke.

There was a brief silence.

"I'll leave you to it, gentlemen." She nodded to her men, who followed her out the door.

Pendergast turned to D'Agosta. "It seems our Laura Hayward has grown up, don't you think?"

D'Agosta simply nodded.

{ 22 }

Bryce Harriman stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 67thStreet, staring up at one of those anonymous white-brick high-rises that infested the Upper East Side. It was a gray Tuesday afternoon, and Harriman had the dull ache of an old hangover pulsing somewhere behind his eyeballs. His editor, Ritts, had chewed him out for not covering the story the night before. Well, he wasn't on call, like a doctor, was he? He sure as hell wasn't being paid enough to go out sniffing up copy at three o'clock in the morning. And besides, he'd been in no condition to cover a murder. It was all he could do to find his way home on the subway.

He thought there might be some stragglers, but what he'd found instead was a crowd, generated by morning television news and the Internet. Here it was, past two in the afternoon, but at least a hundred people had converged on the block-rubberneckers, Goths, white witches, East Village weirdos, even a few Hare Krishnas, which he hadn't seen in New York in at least half a dozen years. Didn't any of these people have jobs? To his right, a bunch of satanists wearing what looked like medieval robes were drawing pentagrams on the sidewalk and chanting. To his left, a group of nuns were praying on their rosaries. A bunch of teenyboppers were holding a vigil, candles burning despite the time of day, singing to the accompaniment of a strummed guitar. It was unbelievable, something out of a Fellini film.

As he looked around, Harriman felt a swelling of excitement. He'd scored a mild success the week before with his piece about the Grove murder. Yet there had been little evidence to go on, and his story had been long on lurid speculation. But now he was here on the heels of a second murder-a murder that, from the whispered rumors that surged through the crowd like electricity, was even worse. Maybe his editor was right. Maybe he should have been here in the wee hours of the morning, despite all the single-malt Scotch he had unwisely imbibed at the Algonquin with his buddies the night before.

Another thought occurred to Harriman. This was his chance to stick it to his old nemesis Bill Smithback, busy dipping his wick on his honeymoon. Angkor Wat, of all places. Smithback, that bastard, who now had his old spot at the Times -not through brilliant journalism, or even just plain old pavement-pounding, but through sheer dumb luck. He'd happened to be at the right place at the right time, not once, but several times: during the subway murders a couple years back, and then again just last fall, with the Surgeon murders. That last was particularly bitter: Harriman owned the story-he'd already beaten Smithback to the punch-but then that stupid police captain, Custer, had stuffed him with false leads .

It wasn't fair. It was Harriman's connections that had gotten him the job at the Times , that and his distinguished last name. Harriman was the one-with his carefully pressed Brooks Brothers suits and his repp ties-who belonged in the rarefied and elevated atmosphere of the Times . Not rumpled, slovenly Smithback, who had been quite at home among the bottom-feeders at the Post .