“Jesus Christ. You’re using.”
“Using?” Pendergast murmured.
“On drugs.”
A drawn-out silence.
D’Agosta felt a sudden welling of anger. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. You’re on drugs.”
Pendergast made a small gesture with his hand. “And?”
“And? And?” D’Agosta rose from his chair. He flushed. He had seen so much bullshit, so much death and murder and ridiculously pointless suffering caused by drugs. He hated drugs.
He faced Pendergast. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were smarter than this. Where are they?”
No answer. Just a grimace.
D’Agosta couldn’t stand it. “Where are the drugs?” he asked, his voice louder. When Pendergast didn’t respond, he felt rage take over. He was standing by the bookshelves and pulled a book off a shelf, another. “Where are the drugs?” He knocked one of the bonsais with the back of his hand, sweeping it off its table. “Where are the drugs? I’m not leaving here until I have them. You fucking idiot!”
“Your working-class expletives have lost their charm.”
At least this was a flash of the old Pendergast. D’Agosta stood there, shaking, and realized he had better get a handle on his anger.
“This apartment is very large, and most of the doors are securely locked.”
D’Agosta felt crazy. He struggled to maintain control. “Listen, about Helen. I know what a horrible tragedy—”
At this Pendergast interrupted him, his voice cold. “Do not mention Helen’s name or what happened. Ever again.”
“Right. Okay. I won’t, but you can’t just… I mean…” He shook his head, truly at a loss for words.
“You mentioned you needed help with a murder case. I have told you I’m not interested. Now, if there’s nothing else, may I ask you to leave?”
Instead, D’Agosta sat down heavily, put his head in his hands. Maybe the murder investigation would be the thing Pendergast needed to snap him out of this, although he doubted it. He rubbed his face, raised his head. “Let me just tell you about the case—okay?”
“If you must.”
D’Agosta smoothed his hands down over his legs, took a couple of breaths. “Have you been following the papers?”
“No.”
“I have a summary of the case here.” D’Agosta removed the three-page brief he had printed out earlier and handed it to Pendergast. The agent took it and scanned it perfunctorily, his eyes dull, unresponsive. But he didn’t hand it back right away; he continued looking at it, flipping the pages. Then, after a moment, he started from the beginning and began reading again, this time more closely.
When he looked up, D’Agosta thought he caught a gleam of something in the agent’s eyes. But, no—it was his imagination.
“Um, I thought the case was sort of up your alley. We’ve got this special agent from the BSU assigned. A fellow named Gibbs. Conrad Gibbs. You know him?”
Pendergast slowly shook his head.
“He’s got a lot of theories. All very pat. But this case… well, it seemed custom-made for you. I’ve got a binder here with the preliminary crime-scene analysis, lab reports, autopsy, forensics, DNA—the works.” He slipped it out of his briefcase and held it up, questioningly. When there was no response, he laid it down on a table.
“Can I count on your help? Even if it’s just an informal opinion?”
“I regret I won’t have time to look through this material before I leave.”
“Leave? Where are you going?”
Pendergast rose, ponderously, his black dressing gown cloaking him like a figure of the grim reaper himself. That gleam D’Agosta imagined he saw had certainly been a figment of his hopes: the eyes were duller than ever.
Pendergast offered D’Agosta his hand. It was as cold as a dead mackerel. But then it unexpectedly tightened and, in a much warmer voice, if strained, Pendergast said: “Good-bye, my dear Vincent.”
Pendergast closed the door to his apartment. He walked toward the door leading out of the reception room, but paused, then turned, hesitating. His face betrayed an extreme inner turmoil. Finally, he seemed to make a decision. He walked over to the table, picked up the thick binder, and flipped it open, beginning to read.
For two hours he stood there, stock-still. And then he laid it down. His lips moved and he spoke a single word.
“Diogenes.”
15
THE 1959 ROLLS-ROYCE SILVER WRAITH PURRED UP THE northern reaches of Riverside Drive, the glow of the streetlamps and traffic lights reflecting off its polished surfaces. Passing 137th Street, it slowed, then turned in to a driveway bordered by a tall wrought-iron fence, its gate standing open. Moving past barren ailanthus and sumac bushes, the vehicle came to a stop beneath the porte cochere of a large Beaux-Arts mansion, its marble-and-brick façade rising four stories into the gloom, mansard roof topped by a crenellated widow’s walk. There was a flicker of lightning overhead, followed by a growl of thunder. A cold wind swept off the Hudson. It was only six PM, but early December in New York City was already under cover of night.
Agent Pendergast got out of the car. In the dim light, his face was pale, and even in the chill air it was beaded with sweat. As he stepped toward an oaken door set into the pillared entrance, there was a rustle in the shrubbery at the rear of the carriage drive. He turned toward the noise to see Corrie Swanson emerge from the gloom. She looked inexpressibly dirty, her clothes creased and muddy, her hair matted, her face smudged. A torn, frayed knapsack hung from one shoulder. She glanced both ways, like a skittish colt, then darted up to him.
“Agent Pendergast!” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Where have you been? I’ve been freezing my ass here for days waiting for you! I’m in trouble.”
Without waiting to hear more, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside.
He closed the heavy door, then snapped on a light, revealing an entryway with a polished marble floor and walls of dark velvet. He led the way into a long, refectory-like space of carved gothic fixtures, and then beyond to a large reception hall, lined by glass-fronted cabinets. Proctor, Pendergast’s chauffeur, stood stiffly in a bathrobe, leaning on a crutch, apparently roused by the sound of their entrance.
“Proctor, please have Mrs. Trask run a bath for Miss Swanson,” Pendergast said. “And have her clothes washed and pressed, please.”
Corrie turned toward him. “But—”
“I’ll await you in the library.”
Ninety minutes later, feeling renewed, Corrie walked into the library. The room was dark, and no fire had been laid on. Pendergast was seated in a wing chair in a far corner, motionless and almost invisible. There was something about his presence—a restless stillness, if such a thing were possible—that gave her an odd feeling.
She took a seat opposite him. Pendergast sat, his fingers tented, his eyes half closed. Feeling unaccountably nervous, she hurried into her story. She told him about Betterton, his accusations and theories about Pendergast, the yacht, and her crazy decision to break into the house on East End he had mentioned to her.
While she spoke, Pendergast had seemed distant, almost as if he wasn’t listening. But the mention of the house seemed to catch his attention.
“You engaged in breaking and entering,” he said.
“I know, I know.” Corrie colored. “I’m stupid, but you already know that…” She tried to laugh and found no corresponding amusement—or even reaction—in him. Pendergast was weirder than usual. She took a deep breath and went on. “The place looked like it’d been deserted for years. So I broke in. And you won’t believe what I found. It’s some kind of Nazi safe house. Stacks of Mein Kampf in the basement, old radio equipment, and even a torture room. Upstairs it looked like they were packing up to leave. I found a room full of documents in the process of being shredded.”