In midstride, abruptly, he stopped and turned. “Proctor?” he said, not in a loud voice.
The shape materialized again in the doorway. “Yes?”
“On second thought, bring around the car, if you please.”
“May I ask where we’re going?”
“One Police Plaza.”
When Vincent D’Agosta was immersed in a particularly complex case, he found the hours from midnight to two to be an ideal time to gather his thoughts, reorder his files, and—most important—set up the corkboard he used as a way to arrange evidence in space and time, to connect the dots of the case. The corkboard covered half a wall, and over the years had become a bit shabby looking, but it was still serviceable. Now it was one in the morning and D’Agosta was standing before it, affixing a stack of index cards, photographs, and Post-it notes to the board with pushpins and connecting pieces of string.
“Ah, Lieutenant. One o’clock and still hard at work, I see.”
D’Agosta turned to see Special Agent Conrad Gibbs leaning on the open door frame, a smile on his face. D’Agosta tried to tamp down the bubbling spring of irritation he felt at the interruption. “Good evening, Agent Gibbs.”
They had established a formal, strictly professional relationship, which suited D’Agosta just fine.
“May I?” Gibbs gestured himself an invitation to enter.
D’Agosta couldn’t think of a way to say no. “Sure, come on in.”
Gibbs strode in, hands behind his back. He nodded at the corkboard with his nose. “Now, that’s a blast from the past. We used to do that sort of thing years ago, when I was at Quantico. We’ve switched over to computers. In fact—” Gibbs smiled—“I’ve recently started mapping cases on my trusty iPad.” He tapped his leather briefcase.
“I prefer the old-fashioned way, I guess,” said D’Agosta.
Gibbs examined the corkboard. “Nice. Except I can’t read your handwriting all that well.”
D’Agosta told himself Gibbs was just trying to be friendly. “The good sisters at Holy Cross never could beat good handwriting into me, I’m afraid.”
“Too bad.” Gibbs didn’t seem to see any humor in this. Then he brightened. “I’m glad I found you here at this late hour. I just came up to drop something off.” He laid his briefcase on top of the mess on D’Agosta’s desk, flipped the latches, opened it, and took out a fat binder. Without a word, but with a face tinged with pride, he proffered it to D’Agosta.
D’Agosta took it. The cover was emblazoned with the seals of the FBI and Behavioral Science Unit, and read:
The Federal Bureau of Investigation
Behavioral Science Unit
and
The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime
Behavioral Analysis—Unit 2
THE HOTEL KILLER:
A PRELIMINARY ASSESSMENT
Profile & Modus Operandi
Threat Assessment Perspective
“That was fast,” said D’Agosta, hefting the report. “So you’re calling him ‘the Hotel Killer’?”
“You know how we are at the FBI,” said Gibbs with a little laugh. “Always got to have a name for everything. The papers have given him a variety of names—we picked the most suitable one.”
D’Agosta wasn’t sure the hotel industry, or the mayor for that matter, was going to like the nickname, but he said nothing. He was going to get along with the FBI if it was the last thing he did.
“We’re throwing our full resources at this case,” Gibbs said. “Because, as you’ll see from that assessment, we believe the Hotel Killer is just getting started and that the killings are likely to accelerate. On top of that, we’re dealing with an exceptionally sophisticated and organized perp. This case is big now, but it’s going to be huge if we don’t stop him.”
“Is this my copy?”
“It surely is. Happy reading.”
As Gibbs turned to go, he almost collided with a gaunt, spare figure in black that had strangely materialized in the door frame.
D’Agosta glanced up. Pendergast.
He looked like a real, honest-to-God zombie. There was no other way to describe him: the clothes hanging on him like a death shroud, the eyes bleached almost to whiteness, the face hollow and cadaverous.
“Excuse me,” said Gibbs distractedly, trying to pass. But instead of letting him go, Pendergast moved to block him while extending his hand, a thin but ghastly smile forming on his death-mask features.
“Supervisory Agent in Charge Gibbs? I am Special Agent Pendergast.”
Gibbs stopped dead, quickly gathering his wits. He took Pendergast’s hand. “Good to meet you, Agent Pendergast. Um, or have we already met?”
“No, alas,” said Pendergast. His tone of voice alarmed D’Agosta, it was so unlike him.
“Well, well,” said Gibbs. “And what brings you here?”
Pendergast stepped into the office and silently pointed at the fat binder in D’Agosta’s hands.
At this, Gibbs became confused. “You’re… assigned to the Hotel Killer case? I’m sorry, this is quite a surprise—no one informed me.”
“No one informed you, Agent Gibbs, because I have not yet been assigned to the case. But I will be. Oh, yes: I most certainly will be.”
Gibbs’s confusion seemed to deepen, and he seemed to struggle to maintain a professional demeanor at unwelcome news. “I see. And your department and area of expertise are… what, if I may ask?”
Instead of answering, Pendergast laid a pseudo-friendly hand on Gibbs’s shoulder. “I can see, Agent Gibbs, that you and I are not only going to be colleagues working hand in glove, but we are also going to be goodfriends.”
“I look forward to it,” said Gibbs uneasily.
Pendergast patted Gibbs on the shoulder, and—D’Agosta thought he saw—gave it the slightest of pushes, as if propelling the man toward the door. “We shall see you tomorrow, Agent Gibbs?”
“Yes,” said Gibbs. He had recovered his equanimity, but he was clearly put out, and his face was darkening. “Yes, we shall. And then I would be glad to exchange credentials with you, hear about your background, and properly liaise our two departments.”
“We shall liaiseuntil you are surfeited,” said Pendergast, turning his back on Gibbs in a gesture of dismissal. A moment later Gibbs left.
“What the fuck?” said D’Agosta, his voice low. “You just made a big-time enemy… What’s gotten into you?”
“What the fuckindeed,” said Pendergast, the foul word sounding unnatural in his mouth. “You asked me to be involved. I am involved.” He plucked the report from D’Agosta’s hands, flipped through it in the most cursory manner, and then casually dropped it into the trash can beside D’Agosta’s desk.
“What is that charming word you are so fond of employing?” he asked. “Bullshit. Even without reading it, I can tell you that report is pure, unadulterated bullshit, still warm from the cloaca in which it formed.”
“Um, why do you say that?”
“Because I knowwho the killer is. My brother, Diogenes.”
18
THE MAN CALLING HIMSELF ALBAN LORIMER SAT BACK ON his haunches and wiped one leather-gloved hand across his forehead. He was breathing heavily—dejointing a body of this size with the relatively small tools at hand was hard work—but he was in good shape and he relished the exertion.
This one had been the best yet. The hotel—the Royal Cheshire—was glorious indeed, with its sleek, beautifully understated lobby clad in whites and blacks. It had a very intimate feel, which made his job more difficult but at the same time more of a challenge. The hotel’s personality was a little harder to describe than the first two. A member of the peerage, perhaps, the product of a great many generations of breeding and refinement, with money and style but without the least need for vulgar display. This particular fifteenth-floor suite was tasty indeed.