Dance Of Death

age of the fiber.'

'Which is?'

'Our tests have indicated the fabric was spun at least twenty years ago. Yet there is no evidence the clothing itself is old. The fibers aren't worn. There isn't the kind of fading or damage you'd expect from years of usage and dry cleaning. It's as if the fabric came off the store rack yesterday.'

At last, Quince shut up. He stretched out his arms, palms up, as if in supplication.

'And?' Hayward asked.

'That's it. As I said, all our searches have come up empty. We've checked with textile mills, clothing manufacturers, everything. Foreign and domestic. It's the same as with the rope. This fabric seems to have been made on the moon, for all we can learn.'

For all we can learn? 'I'm sorry, but that's just not good enough.' Fatigue and impatience gave her tone a sudden edge. 'We have only a handful of evidence in this case, Dr. Quince, and these fibers are some of the most important of that evidence. You said yourself the fabric is extremely rare. If you've already checked with the mills and the manufacturers, then you should be checking with individual tailors.'

Quince shrank back at this scolding. His large, moist, houndlike eyes blinked back at her, full of hurt. 'But, Captain Hayward, with all the tailors in the world, that would be like looking for a needle in-'

'If the fabric's as fine as you say it is, then you'd need to contact only the most exclusive and expensive tailors. And in only three cities: New York, London, and Hong Kong.'

Hayward realized she was breathing heavily and that her voice had risen. Calm down, she told herself.

In the uncomfortable silence that settled over the lab, Hayward heard a throat being tactfully cleared. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Captain Singleton standing in the doorway.

'Glen,' she said, wondering how long he'd been standing there.

'Laura.' Singleton nodded. 'Mind if we have a word?'

'Of course.' Hayward turned back to Quince. 'Give me a follow-up report tomorrow, please.' Then she followed Singleton out into the corridor.

'What's up?' she asked as they paused in the bustling hallway. 'It's almost time for Rocker's state-of-the-force meeting.'

Singleton waited a moment before answering. He was dressed in a dapper chalk-stripe suit, and despite its being late afternoon, his white shirt was still as crisp as if he'd just put it on.

'I got a call from Special Agent in Charge Carlton of the New York field office,' he said, motioning her to step to one side, out of the traffic. 'He was following up on a request from Quantico.'

'What request is that?'

'Have you heard the name Michael Decker?'

Hayward thought a moment, shook her head.

'He was a top FBI honcho, lived in a classy D.C. neighborhood. The man was murdered yesterday. Speared through the mouth with a bayonet. Nasty piece of business, and, as you can imagine, the FBI are on the case hammer and tongs. They're following up with Decker's colleagues, trying to find out if there might be any bad guys in the man's past who had a score to settle.' Singleton shrugged. 'It seems one of Decker's colleagues, and closest friends, was a man named Pendergast.'

Hayward glanced at him abruptly. 'Agent Pendergast?'

'That's right. You worked with him on the Cutforth murder, right?'

'He's been involved in a few priors of mine.'

Singleton nodded. 'Since Agent Pendergast is missing and presumed dead, Carlton asked me to check with any associates of his in the NYPD. See if he ever talked about Decker, maybe mentioned enemies the man might have had. I figured you might know something.'

Hayward thought a moment. 'No, Pendergast never spoke of Decker to me.' She hesitated. 'You might talk to Lieutenant D'Agosta, who worked with him on at least three cases going back seven years.'

'That so?'

Hayward nodded, hoping that her expression remained professionally neutral.

Singleton shook his head. 'The thing is, I can't find D'Agosta. He hasn't reported in since lunch, and nobody else working his case has seen him. And for some reason, we can't raise him on his radio. You wouldn't happen to know where he is, would you?' As Singleton spoke, he kept his voice studiously neutral, his eyes fixed on the people walking past them.

In that moment, Hayward realized he knew about her and D'Agosta. She felt a sudden, consuming embarrassment. So it's not the big secret we thought it was. She wondered how soon Singleton would learn D'Agosta had moved out.

She licked her lips. 'Sorry. I've no idea where Lieutenant D'Agosta might be.'

He hesitated. 'Pendergast never mentioned Decker to you?'

'Never. He was the kind of guy who really kept his cards close, never talked about anyone, least of all himself. Sorry I can't be of more help.'

'Like I said, it was a long shot. Let the FBI take care of their own.'

Now, at last, he looked directly at her. 'Can I buy you a cup of coffee? We've got a few minutes before that meeting.'

'No, thanks. I need to make a couple of quick phone calls first.'

Singleton nodded, shook her hand, then turned away.

Hayward watched his receding form, thinking. Then, slowly, she turned the other way, preparing to head back to her office. As she did so, everything else suddenly fell away: the murmur of conversations, the people walking past; even the fresh and painful ache in her heart.

She had made the connection.

TWENTY-FOUR

William Smithback Jr. paced around his sumptuous third-floor room at River Oaks. He had to admit that Pendergast was right: the place was gorgeous. His room was luxuriously furnished, albeit in a style that went out with the Victorians: dark crushed-velvet wallpaper, oversize bed with canopy, hulking mahogany furniture. Paintings in gilt frames hung on all four walls: a still life of fruit in a bowl; sunset over the ocean; a pastoral countryside of cows and hayricks. They were real oils, too, not reproductions. While nothing had been actually screwed to the floors or walls, Smithback had noticed an absence of sharp implements, and he'd had the indignity of having his belt and tie taken away upon entrance. There was also a marked absence of telephones.

He strolled thoughtfully over to the large window and stared out. It was snowing, the fat flakes ticking against the glass. Outside, in the dying light, he could see a vast lawn deep in snow, bordered with hedges and gardens- all lumps and mounds of white-and dotted with icicled statuary. The garden was surrounded by a high stone wall, beyond which stood forest and a winding road that led down the mountain to the nearest town, six miles away. There were no bars on the window, but the small, thick leaded panes looked like they'd be very difficult to break.

Just for the hell of it, he tried to push the window open. Although there was no visible lock, it refused to budge. Smithback tried a little harder. Nothing. He turned away with a shrug.

River Oaks was a huge and rambling structure, perched atop one of the lower peaks of the Catskills: the country retreat of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt in the days before Newport, now converted to a mental hospital for the ultra-privileged. The orderlies and nurses wore discreet black uniforms instead of the usual white, and were ready to attend to every need of the 'guests.' Aside from light work duty and the daily hour of therapy, he had no set schedule. And the food was fantastic: Smithback, whose work duty was in the kitchen, had learned the head chef was a Cordon Bleu graduate.

But still, Smithback felt miserable. In the few hours he'd been here, he had tried to convince himself to take it easy, that this was for his own good, that he should wallow in luxury. It was a kind of lifestyle that, under other circumstances, he'd almost welcome. He'd told himself to treat it as drama, one he could maybe turn into a book