Dance Of Death

Several flights had recently arrived, and streams of travelers were crowding into baggage claim. All carousels were running full-bore, packed with luggage, and skycaps were coming and going busily.

Carter stopped one of them. 'Saunders take an extra shift?'

The man shook his head. 'He's off until midnight.'

Looking past the skycap, D'Agosta noticed four Port Authority cops on the landing above the baggage claim concourse, scanning the crowd. Immediately, he nudged Pendergast. 'I don't like that.'

'Neither do I.'

Carter's radio went off and he grabbed it.

'We better get the hell out of here,' murmured D'Agosta.

They began walking briskly toward the exit.

'Hey!' came a distant shout. 'Wait!'

D'Agosta glanced back to see the officers spilling into the crowd, pushing their way through. 'You two! Wait!'

Pendergast broke into a run, darting through the throngs of people and heading back out to the curb. The P.A. cop was still beside the idling Rolls, talking on his radio. Pendergast shot past him, and D'Agosta half jumped, half tumbled into the passenger seat. The man's protest was lost in the roar of the big engine and the tremendous screech of rubber as the Rolls shot away from the pickup area at high speed.

As they accelerated onto the JFK Expressway, Pendergast pulled the printouts from his suit coat.

'Boot up my laptop, there in the carrier, and do a make on a Lincoln Town Car, New York license 453A WQ6. Radio the milepost 11 toll plaza on the Van Wyck Expressway and talk someone into reviewing the security tapes for between twelve-thirty and one a.m., going both east and west.'

'What about us?'

'We're going east.'

'East? You don't think he took her into the city?'

'That's exactly what I do think he did. But given that Diogenes seems to be able to anticipate what I think, I'm going east-to the far end of the island.'

'Right.'

'Another thing: we're going to need to trade down.' And Pendergast abruptly pulled off the airport expressway into the returns lot of a Hertz office, steered the big car into an empty spot, and killed the engine.

D'Agosta looked up from the laptop. 'What, rent something?'

'No. Steal something.'

FORTY-NINE

Once again, Smithback entered the gracious confines of Dr. Tisander's office, a load of textbooks under one arm. It was eight o'clock, well past the barbaric 5:30 p.m. dinner hour of River Oaks. He found the psychiatrist seated behind his desk, but this evening the usual look of genteel condescension was marred by an irritated flash in the eyes.

'Edward,' Dr. Tisander said. 'Although I am extremely busy, I am happy to give you five minutes of my undivided attention.'

Smithback seated himself without an invitation and thumped the load of books onto the man's desk.

'I've been thinking about something you said in our conversation the day before yesterday,' he began. 'You told me: 'It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with total scrupulosity''

'I may have said something like that, yes.'

'You said exactly that. It made me curious to know just what that process is.'

Tisander nodded condescendingly. 'You seem to have found our library to your satisfaction.'

'Very much so. In fact, I found exactly what I was looking for.'

'How nice,' said Tisander, feigning interest while taking a surreptitious glance at his watch.

Smithback patted the top book. 'The laws of New York State regarding the involuntary commitment of the mentally ill are among the strictest in the nation.'

'I am well aware of that. It's one reason why we have so many homeless people on the street.'

'It isn't enough for a family to sign the documents in order to commit someone against his will. There's a whole process involved.'

Another sage nod from Tisander.

'Isn't it true, for example, that a judge has to declare the person non compos mentis?'

'Yes.'

'And even a judge cannot make that declaration unless two conditions are met. Do you recall those two conditions, Dr. Tisander?'

This time the psychiatrist gave a genuine smile, delighted to show off his erudition. 'I certainly do. The person is either a danger to himself-mentally or physically-or a danger to society.'

'Right. In the first case, suicide ideation or an actual attempt must usually be present, which must be attested to by a signed letter from a doctor. In the case of a person being a danger to society, it's usually necessary for the person to have been arrested.'

'You have been busy, Edward,' said Tisander.

'And then, after the declaration of non compos mentis, there must be a psychiatric evaluation recommending involuntary commitment.'

'All standard procedure. Now, Edward, it's after eight, and it isn't long until lights-out, so if you'd-'

Smithback pulled one of the books from the pile. 'I'll be done in a minute.'

Tisander rose, squaring papers on his desk. 'If you make it quick.' He nodded imperceptibly, and an orderly emerged from the shadows near the door.

Smithback hastily pulled a sheet of paper from the book and handed it over the desk. 'I drew up a list of documents that must, by law, be in my file.'

Tisander took the list, scanned it with a frown. 'A judge's declaration. A suicide-attempt report-signed by a doctor-or an arrest record. A psychiatric evaluation.' He read them off. 'I've no doubt they're all there. Now, Edward, it's time.'

The orderly advanced.

'One other thing,' Smithback said.

'Thank you, Edward.' A note of exasperation had crept into Tisander's orotund voice.

'A question. That psychiatric evaluation that must be in the file- who administers it?'

'We do. Always. Surely, Edward, you remember the interview and tests you took on admittance.'

'There's where you blew it, Tisander.' Smithback dropped the heavy tome back on the desk, for effect. 'It says right in here-'

'Jonathan?'

The orderly appeared at Smithback's elbow, a hulking presence. 'This way, Mr. Jones.'

'-by law,' Smithback went on loudly, 'the psychiatric evaluation can't be done by anyone on the staff of the admitting institution.'

'Rubbish. Show Mr. Jones to his room, Jonathan.'

'It's true!' Smithback cried as the orderly took his arm. 'Back in the fifties, a young man was committed by his family in collusion with the asylum. They stole his inheritance. In the aftermath, a law was passed stating the evaluation had to be done by an independent psychiatrist. Check it out. Page 337, Romanski v. Reynauld State Hospital!'

'This way, Mr. Jones,' said the orderly, propelling him firmly across the Persian carpet.

Smithback dug in his heels. 'Tisander, when I get out, I'm going to sue River Oaks and you personally. If you can't produce that independent evaluation, you'll lose the suit-and it'll cost you dearly.'

'Good night, Edward.'