He realized somebody was standing in his office doorway and glanced up to see a young woman staring back at him. She was maybe nineteen or twenty, petite, dressed in jeans and an aging Ramones T-shirt. A black leather bag, studded with small metal points, hung from one arm. Her hair was dyed a severe black and he could see a tattoo on her upper arm peeking out from beneath her shirt, which he recognized as an M. C. Escher design.

A Goth.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked. Where was the damn secretary to screen these people?

“Do I look like a ma’am to you?” came the reply.

D’Agosta sighed. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re Vincent D’Agosta, right?”

He nodded.

She stepped into the office. “He mentioned you a few times. I’m usually bad with names, but I remembered that one because it was so Italian.”

“So Italian,” D’Agosta repeated.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that where I come from, in Kansas, nobody has a name like that.”

“The Italians never made it that far inland,” D’Agosta replied dryly. “Now, who’s this ‘he’ you mentioned?”

“Agent Pendergast.”

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yup. I was his assistant out in Medicine Creek, Kansas. The ‘Still Life’ serial murders?”

D’Agosta stared. Pendergast’s assistant? The girl was delusional.

“He must have mentioned me. I’m Corrie Swanson.”

D’Agosta frowned. “I’m vaguely familiar with the Still Life killings, but I don’t recall him mentioning your name.”

“He never talks about his cases. I drove him around, helped him scope out the town. With that black suit and all he stuck out like a sore thumb — he needed an insider like me.”

D’Agosta was surprised to hear this but realized she was probably telling the truth — if exaggerated. Assistant? He found his irritation give way to a darker emotion. “Come in,” he said belatedly. “Have a seat.”

She sat down, metal jingling, and swept back her raven hair, revealing a streak of purple and another of yellow. D’Agosta leaned back in his chair, carefully disguising his reaction. “So. What’s up?”

“I’m in New York for the year. Got here in September. I’m a sophomore, and I’ve just transferred to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice.”

“Go on,” D’Agosta said. The John Jay part impressed him. She was no idiot, although she was doing her damnedest to look like one.

“I’m taking a class called Case Studies in Deviance and Social Control.”

“Deviance and Social Control,” D’Agosta repeated. Sounded like a course Laura might have taken — she’d been big on sociology.

“As part of this, we’re supposed to do a case study ourselves and write a paper. I chose the Still Life killings.”

“I’m not sure Pendergast would approve,” D’Agosta said carefully.

“But he did approve. That’s the problem. Back when I first arrived, I set up a lunch with him. It was supposed to be for yesterday. He never showed. Then I went to his apartment at the Dakota — nothing, all I got was the runaround from a doorman. He’s got my cell number, but he never called me to cancel or anything. It’s like the guy vanished into thin air.”

“That seems odd. Perhaps you got the appointment wrong?”

She fished in her little bag, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over.

D’Agosta extracted a letter from the envelope and began to read.

The Dakota

1 West 72nd Street

New York, NY 10023

5 September

Ms. Corrie Swanson

844 Amsterdam Avenue, Apt. 30B

New York, NY 10025

My dear Corrie,

I’m pleased to hear that your studies are going well. I approve of your choice of courses. I believe you will find the Introduction to Forensic Chemistry to be most interesting. I’ve given some thought to your project and agree to take part, provided I may vet the final product and that you agree not to reveal certain minor details in your paper.

By all means let’s get together for lunch. I will be out of the country later this month, but I should be back by mid-October. October 19 agrees with my calendar. Allow me to suggest Le Bernardin on West 51st Street at 1

PM

The reservation will be in my name.

I look forward to seeing you then.

Kind regards,

A. Pendergast

D’Agosta read the letter twice. It’s true he hadn’t heard from Pendergast in a month or two, but that in itself wasn’t especially unusual. The agent frequently disappeared for long periods of time. But Pendergast was a stickler about keeping his word; not showing up for lunch, after making plans, was out of character.

He handed the letter back. “Was there a reservation?”

“Yes. It had been made the day after he sent the letter. He never called to cancel.”

D’Agosta nodded, covering up his own growing concern.

“I was hoping you might know something about his whereabouts. I’m worried. This isn’t like him.”

D’Agosta cleared his throat. “I haven’t spoken to Pendergast in a while but I’m sure there’s an explanation. He’s probably deep in a case.” He ventured a reassuring smile. “I’ll check into it, get back to you.”

“Here’s my cell number.” Pulling a pad of paper across the desk toward her, she scribbled a number onto it.

“I’ll let you know, Ms. Swanson.”

“Thank you. And it’s Corrie.”

“Fine. Corrie.” The more D’Agosta thought about it, the more worried he became. He almost didn’t notice her picking up her bag and heading out the door.

Cairn Barrow

THE HIGH STREET RAN THROUGH THE CENTER of the village, crooking slightly east at the square and running down into the green folds of the hills surrounding Loch Lanark. The shops and houses were of identical earth-colored stone, with steeply gabled roofs of weathered slate. Primroses and daffodils peeked out from freshly painted window boxes. The bells in the squat belfry of the Wee Kirk o’ the Loch sleepily tolled ten AM.

It was, even to Chief Inspector Balfour’s jaundiced eye, an almost impossibly picturesque scene.

He walked quickly down the street. A dozen cars were parked in front of the town pub, The Old Thistle — practically a traffic jam this late in the season, long after the summer day-trippers and the foreign tourists had departed. He stepped inside, nodding to Phillip, the publican, then pushed through the door beside the telephone box and mounted the creaking wooden stairs to the Common Room. The largest public space for twenty miles around, it was now filled almost to capacity with men and women — witnesses and curious spectators — sitting on long benches, all facing the rear wall, where a large oak table had been placed. Behind the table sat Dr. Ainslie, the local coroner, dressed in somber black, his dry old face with its deeply scored frown lines betraying perpetual dismay at the world and its doings. Beside him, at a much smaller table, sat Judson Esterhazy.

Ainslie nodded curtly to Balfour as the inspector took a seat. Then, glancing around, he cleared his throat.

“This court of inquiry has been summoned to establish the facts surrounding the disappearance and possible demise of Mr. Aloysius X. L. Pendergast. I say ‘possible’ due to the fact that no body has been recovered. The only witness to Mr. Pendergast’s death is the person who may have killed him — Judson Esterhazy, his brother-in-law.” Ainslie’s scowl deepened, his face so desiccated it almost looked as if it might flake off from the effort. “Since Mr. Pendergast has no living relations, one could say that Judson Esterhazy appears here not only as the person responsible for Mr. Pendergast’s accident but as his family representative, as well. As a result, this proceeding is not — and cannot be — a standard inquest, because in this case there is no body and the fact of death remains to be established. We shall, however, follow the form of an inquest. Our purpose then is to establish the facts of the disappearance as well as the proximate circumstances, and to rule, if the facts allow, on whether a death has or has not occurred. We will hear testimony from all concerned, then make a determination.”