Dance Of Death

back. He'd been so vague. And it had all happened so suddenly. Was this what it was like to be married to a reporter? What had happened to the murder he was covering? And wasn't he on the city desk? She supposed that a casino story in New Jersey might qualify for the city desk, but still… He'd sounded so strange on the telephone, so breathless, so tense.

She sighed, shook her head. It was probably for the better, given that she'd hardly been able to see him with all the craziness surrounding the opening. Everything was, as usual, behind schedule, and Ash-ton was on the warpath. She could hear the chief curator's voice, pitched high in querulous complaint in some far corner of the hall.

The guard issued another ostentatious sigh behind her, breaking her reverie.

'Just a minute,' she said over her shoulder. 'As soon as we get this sealed.' She glanced at her watch. Three- thirty already. And she'd been going since six. She was going to be working at least until midnight, and every minute she wasted now was a minute of sleep lost at the end of the day.

Nora turned to the foreman, who had been nearby, waiting for this moment. 'Ready to seal the case.'

Soon a group of exhibition assistants, under the foreman's direction, began fitting the monstrously heavy sheet of glass over the tomb, accompanied by grunts and curses.

'Nora?'

She turned. It was Margo Green. Bad timing, as usual.

'Hello, Margo,' she said.

'Wow. Beautiful exhibit.'

Nora saw out of the corner of her eye the scowling face of the guard, the gaggle of laborers sealing up the tomb.

'Thanks. We're really under the gun here, as you can see.'

'I can.' She hesitated. 'I don't want to take up any more of your time than I have to.'

Then don't, thought Nora, trying to maintain her fake smile. She had four other cases to mount and seal. She couldn't help but watch as the workers struggled to seat the glass. If they dropped it…

Margo stepped closer, lowered her voice. 'I wanted to apologize for my snarky comment in the meeting.'

Nora straightened. This was unexpected.

'It was uncalled-for. Your points were all well taken and totally within professional bounds. I was the one who acted unprofessionally. It's just…' Margo hesitated.

'Just what?'

'You're so damned… competent. And articulate. I was intimidated.'

Nora didn't quite know how to answer this. She looked closely at Margo, who was reddening from the effort to apologize. 'You're not exactly a pushover yourself,' she finally said.

'I know. We're both kind of stubborn. But stubborn is good-especially if you're a woman.'

Nora couldn't help but smile, this time for real. 'Let's not call it stubbornness. Let's call it the courage of our convictions.'

Margo smiled in turn. 'That sounds better. Although a lot of people might call it plain old bitchiness.'

'Hey,' said Nora. 'Bitchy is good, too.'

Margo laughed. 'Anyway, Nora, I just wanted to say I was sorry.'

'I appreciate the apology. I really do. Thank you, Margo.'

'See you around.'

Nora paused, the case temporarily forgotten in her surprise, as she watched Margo's slender form make its way back through the barely controlled chaos of the exhibition.

TWENTY-THREE

Captain Laura Hayward sat in a plastic chair in the trace evidence lab on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, making a conscious effort not to glance at her watch. Archibald Quince, chief scientist of the fiber analysis unit, was holding forth: walking back and forth before a crowded evidence table, hands clasped behind the white lab coat one minute, then gesticulating the next. It was a rambling, repetitious tale, full of sound and fury, and yet it all came down to one easily grasped point: the man didn't have shit.

Quince paused in midstep, then turned toward her, his tall, bony frame all angles and elbows. 'Allow me to summarize.'

Thank God, Hayward thought. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel.

'Only a handful of fibers were recovered that were foreign to the site. A few were stuck to the ropes used to bind the victim; another was found on the couch where the victim was placed, peri-mortem. We can thus reasonably assume a fiber exchange between the murderer and the murder scene. Correct?'

'Correct.'

'Since all fibers were the same-length, composition, spinning method, and so forth-we can also assume they are primary rather than secondary fiber transfers. In other words, they're fibers from the killer's clothes rather than fibers that happened to be on the killer's clothes.'

Hayward nodded, forcing herself to pay attention. All day, as she'd gone about her work, she'd felt the strangest sensation: as if she were floating, detached, just outside her own body. She didn't know if it was due to weariness or to the shock of Vincent D'Agosta's abrupt, unexpected departure. She wished she could get mad about it, but somehow anger wouldn't come-just grief. She wondered where he was, what he was doing now. And, more urgently, she wondered how in his mind such a good thing could have suddenly gone so wrong.

'Captain?'

Hayward realized there was a question hanging in the air, unanswered. She looked up quickly. 'Excuse me?'

'I said would you like to see a sample?'

Hayward rose. 'Sure.'

'It's an extremely fine animal fiber, one I've never seen before. We've identified it as an exceptionally rare kind of cashmere, blended with a small percentage of merino. Very, very expensive. As you'll notice, both fiber types were dyed black prior to being spun together. But take a look for yourself.' Stepping back, Quince gestured toward the stereoscopic microscope that stood beside the lab table.

Hayward came forward and glanced through the oculars. Half a dozen slender black threads were displayed against a light background, sleek and glossy and very even.

Very, very expensive. Though she was still waiting for Psych to deliver the profile, a few things about the perp were already obvious. He-or perhaps she-was very sophisticated, highly intelligent, and had access to funds.

'The dye has also proven elusive to identification. It's made from a natural vegetative pigmentation, not synthetic chemicals, but we haven't yet been able to track down the coloring agent. It's not in any database we've checked. The closest we've come is a certain rare berry grown on the mountain slopes of Tibet, used by local tribesmen and Sherpas.'

Hayward stepped back from the scope. As she listened, she felt afaint frisson of recognition. She had excellent instincts, and normally that little tingle meant two pieces of a puzzle coming together. But at the moment, she couldn't imagine what those pieces might be. She was probably even more tired than she thought. She would go home, have an early dinner, then try to get some sleep.

'Despite their fineness, the fibers are very tightly woven,' Quince said. 'Do you know what that means?'

'An extremely soft and comfy garment?'

'Yes. But that's not the point. Such a garment doesn't shed easily. It isn't usually a donor garment. Hence the small number of fibers.'

'And, perhaps, evidence of a struggle.'

'My thought as well.' Quince frowned. 'Normally, the fact that the fabric is uncommon is important to a fiber examiner. It's helpful in identifying the suspect. But here the fabric is so uncommon it's actually proving to be the opposite. There's nothing exactly like it in any of the textile fiber databases. Then there's another odd thing: the