SIXTY-NINE
THE ambulance crew had already taken away Kaplan and Viola. D'Agosta remained behind, cuffed to a chair in the holding area of the NYPD's Madison Square Garden substation, guarded by six cops. His head was down, eyes on the floor, trying to avoid eye contact with his former peers and subordinates as they stood around, making forced small talk. It turned out to be easy: everybody was assiduously avoiding looking at him. It was as if he no longer existed, as if he'd turned into some kind of vermin that didn't even merit a glance.
He heard a burst of radio talk and saw, through the substation's glassed-in partition, a large group of cops moving through the ticketing area of Penn Station. In the middle, still walking tall, was the slender, black-suited figure of Pendergast, hands cuffed behind his back, two burly cops on either side. Pendergast glanced neither to the left nor to the right, and his back was straight, his face untroubled. For the first time in many days, he looked-if it was possible, under the circumstances-almost like his old self. No doubt they were leading him to a waiting paddy wagon at the station's Eighth Avenue entrance. As Pendergast passed, he glanced in D'Agosta's direction. Even though the partition was made of mirrored glass, it seemed that Pendergast nevertheless looked directly at him, with what seemed to be a quick, grateful nod.
D'Agosta turned away. His whole world, everything he cared about, had been destroyed. Because of Pendergast's insistence that he inform Hayward of their whereabouts, his friend was on his way to prison, probably for life. There was only one thing that could make him feel worse, and that would be if Hayward herself made an appearance.
As if on cue, there she was: walking with Singleton, approaching from the far side of the substation.
He dropped his head and waited. He heard footsteps approach. His face burned.
"Lieutenant?"
He looked up. It wasn't Hayward, just Singleton. Laura had simply passed him by.
Singleton glanced around, exchanged greetings with the cops guarding D'Agosta. "Uncuff him, please."
One of the cops uncuffed him from the chair.
"I'd like to have a private word with the lieutenant, if you fellows don't mind."
The cops evacuated the holding area with visible relief. When they were gone, Singleton put a hand on his shoulder. "You're in deep shit, Vinnie," he said, not unkindly.
D'Agosta nodded.
"Needless to say, they'll be convening a board of inquiry, and a preliminary internal affairs hearing will be held as soon as possible, probably the day after tomorrow. Your future in law enforcement is a big question mark at this point, but, frankly, that's the least of your worries. It looks like we're dealing with four felony charges: kidnapping two, grand auto, reckless endangerment, accessory after."
D'Agosta put his head in his hands.
Singleton squeezed his shoulder. "The thing is, Vinnie, despite all this, in the end you came through. You dropped a dime on Pendergast, and we nailed him. A few cars were wrecked, but nobody got hurt. We might even be able to argue that this was the plan allalong-you know, you were working undercover, setting Pendergast up."
D'Agosta didn't respond. The sight of Pendergast being led off in cuffs was still working its way into his head. Pendergast, the untouchable.
"The point is, I'm going to see what I can do about these charges, maybe knock some of them down to misdemeanors before they get written up and filed, if you know what I mean. No promises."
D'Agosta swallowed and managed to say, "Thanks."
"There's a bit of a twist here. The kidnap victim's preliminary statement seems to indicate that this Diogenes Pendergast is alive- and maybe even responsible for the diamond heist at the museum. Seems we just missed him down there in the railroad tunnels. The fact that Pendergast had Lucifer's Heart in his pocket is also damned puzzling. This sort of… well, opens up the case. We're going to have to take a second look at some of our assumptions."
D'Agosta looked up sharply. "I can explain everything."
"Save it for the interrogation. Hayward already told me about your theory that Diogenes framed his brother for those killings. The fact is, we now know that Pendergast impersonated Kaplan and stole the diamond. Whatever the precise details are, he's going to do hard time, no question about it. If I were you-and I'm speaking to you now as a friend, not as a supervisor-I'd worry about your own skin and quit interesting yourself in his. That FBI bastard's caused you enough trouble."
"Captain, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't speak of Agent Pendergast in that way."
"Loyal to the end, eh?" Singleton shook his head.
The sound of a loud, angry voice came echoing down the substation. A solid mass of federal agents, led by a tall, glowering, sunburned man, came into view outside the holding area. D'Agosta stared hard: the man at the front looked familiar, very familiar. He tried to clear his mind, cut through the fog. Coffey. Special Agent Coffey.
Spying Singleton, Coffey veered in the direction of the holding area.
"Captain Singleton?" His fleshy face was red even through the tan.
Captain Singleton looked up, his expression mild. "Yes, Agent Coffey?"
"What the hell's gone down here? You made the collar without us?"
"That's right."
"You know this is our case."
Singleton waited a minute before responding. When he did, his voice was calm and low, almost as if he were talking to a child. "The information came in fast and we had to act on it immediately. The perp slipped your Suffolk County dragnet and made his way back into the city. We couldn't wait. I'm sure you'll understand, given the circumstances, why we had to move without you."
"You didn't contact the Southern District of Manhattan Field Office at all. There were agents standing by in the city, ready to move at a moment's notice."
Another pause. "That was certainly an oversight, for which I take full responsibility. You know how easy it is, in the heat of action, to neglect to dot an i somewhere along the way. My apologies."
Coffey stood in front of Singleton, breathing hard. A few NYPD officers snickered in the background.
"There was an unexpected bonus in collaring Pendergast," Singleton added.
"And what the hell was that?"
"He had the diamond, Lucifer's Heart, in his pocket."
Singleton took advantage of Coffey's momentary speechlessness to glance at his men. "We're done here. Let's head downtown."
And, propelling D'Agosta gently to his feet, he turned on his heel and walked away.
SEVENTY
Wednesday dawned brilliant and dear, the morning sun blazing in through the single window of the dining nook of the small apartment on West End Avenue. Nora Kelly heard the door to the bathroom slam. A few minutes later, Bill Smithback emerged in the hallway, dressed for work, his tie unknotted and his jacket slung over one shoulder. The expression on his face was dark.
"Come and have some breakfast," she said.
His face brightened slightly as he saw her, and he came over and sat down at the table.
"What time did you get in last night?"
"Four." He leaned over and gave her a kiss.
"You look like hell."
"It isn't for lack of sleep."
Nora pushed the paper over to him. "Page one. Congratulations."
Smithback glanced at it. His story of the theft of Lucifer's Heart by an unknown assailant was front page, above the fold: the dream of every journalist. It was a stupendous scoop, and along with the arrest of Pendergast, it had pushed Harriman's story of the Dangler capture to B3 of the Metro Section-an old woman had seen the Dangler exposing himself in front of an ATM and, righteously indignant, had whacked him into semiconsciousness with her cane. For the first time, Nora thought, Bill didn't seem interested in Harriman's misfortune.