Cold Vengeance

She turned to Felder. “So nice to carry on the family tradition here.”

Despite the warmth of the room, Felder felt a cold thrill of dismay course down his spine.

CHAPTER 9

LIEUTENANT VINCENT D’AGOSTA STARED DOWN at his desk, trying not to feel depressed. Ever since he’d come off sick leave, his boss, Captain Singleton, had placed him on modified duty. All he seemed to do was push paper from one side of the desk to the other. He glanced out the door into the squad room. There, people were busily coming and going; phones were ringing; criminals were being processed. Stuff was happening. He sighed, glanced back down at the desk. D’Agosta hated paperwork. But the fact was, Singleton had done it for his own good. After all, just half a year ago he’d been lying in a hospital bed in Baton Rouge, fighting for his life, a bullet having nicked his heart. He was lucky to be alive at all, let alone vertical and back at work. Anyway, desk duty wouldn’t last forever. He just had to fully recover his old strength.

Besides, he told himself, he should be looking on the bright side. His relationship with Laura Hayward had never been better. Almost losing him had changed her somehow, softened her, made her more affectionate and demonstrative. In fact, once he was back to one hundred percent he was seriously thinking of proposing. He didn’t think the average relationship counselor would recommend getting shot in the chest, but it had sure worked for him…

He realized somebody was standing in his office doorway and glanced up to see a young woman staring back at him. She was maybe nineteen or twenty, petite, dressed in jeans and an aging Ramones T-shirt. A black leather bag, studded with small metal points, hung from one arm. Her hair was dyed a severe black and he could see a tattoo on her upper arm peeking out from beneath her shirt, which he recognized as an M. C. Escher design.

A Goth.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked. Where was the damn secretary to screen these people?

“Do I look like a ma’am to you?” came the reply.

D’Agosta sighed. “What can I do for you?”

“You’re Vincent D’Agosta, right?”

He nodded.

She stepped into the office. “He mentioned you a few times. I’m usually bad with names, but I remembered that one because it was so Italian.”

“So Italian,” D’Agosta repeated.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that where I come from, in Kansas, nobody has a name like that.”

“The Italians never made it that far inland,” D’Agosta replied dryly. “Now, who’s this ‘he’ you mentioned?”

“Agent Pendergast.”

“Pendergast?” D’Agosta couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

“Yup. I was his assistant out in Medicine Creek, Kansas. The ‘Still Life’ serial murders?”

D’Agosta stared. Pendergast’s assistant? The girl was delusional.

“He must have mentioned me. I’m Corrie Swanson.”

D’Agosta frowned. “I’m vaguely familiar with the Still Life killings, but I don’t recall him mentioning your name.”

“He never talks about his cases. I drove him around, helped him scope out the town. With that black suit and all he stuck out like a sore thumb — he needed an insider like me.”

D’Agosta was surprised to hear this but realized she was probably telling the truth — if exaggerated. Assistant? He found his irritation give way to a darker emotion. “Come in,” he said belatedly. “Have a seat.”

She sat down, metal jingling, and swept back her raven hair, revealing a streak of purple and another of yellow. D’Agosta leaned back in his chair, carefully disguising his reaction. “So. What’s up?”

“I’m in New York for the year. Got here in September. I’m a sophomore, and I’ve just transferred to the John Jay College of Criminal Justice.”

“Go on,” D’Agosta said. The John Jay part impressed him. She was no idiot, although she was doing her damnedest to look like one.

“I’m taking a class called Case Studies in Deviance and Social Control.”

“Deviance and Social Control,” D’Agosta repeated. Sounded like a course Laura might have taken — she’d been big on sociology.

“As part of this, we’re supposed to do a case study ourselves and write a paper. I chose the Still Life killings.”

“I’m not sure Pendergast would approve,” D’Agosta said carefully.

“But he did approve. That’s the problem. Back when I first arrived, I set up a lunch with him. It was supposed to be for yesterday. He never showed. Then I went to his apartment at the Dakota — nothing, all I got was the runaround from a doorman. He’s got my cell number, but he never called me to cancel or anything. It’s like the guy vanished into thin air.”

“That seems odd. Perhaps you got the appointment wrong?”

She fished in her little bag, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over.

D’Agosta extracted a letter from the envelope and began to read.

The Dakota

1 West 72nd Street

New York, NY 10023

5 September

Ms. Corrie Swanson

844 Amsterdam Avenue, Apt. 30B

New York, NY 10025

My dear Corrie,

I’m pleased to hear that your studies are going well. I approve of your choice of courses. I believe you will find the Introduction to Forensic Chemistry to be most interesting. I’ve given some thought to your project and agree to take part, provided I may vet the final product and that you agree not to reveal certain minor details in your paper.

By all means let’s get together for lunch. I will be out of the country later this month, but I should be back by mid-October. October 19 agrees with my calendar. Allow me to suggest Le Bernardin on West 51st Street at 1

PM

The reservation will be in my name.

I look forward to seeing you then.

Kind regards,

A. Pendergast

D’Agosta read the letter twice. It’s true he hadn’t heard from Pendergast in a month or two, but that in itself wasn’t especially unusual. The agent frequently disappeared for long periods of time. But Pendergast was a stickler about keeping his word; not showing up for lunch, after making plans, was out of character.

He handed the letter back. “Was there a reservation?”

“Yes. It had been made the day after he sent the letter. He never called to cancel.”

D’Agosta nodded, covering up his own growing concern.

“I was hoping you might know something about his whereabouts. I’m worried. This isn’t like him.”

D’Agosta cleared his throat. “I haven’t spoken to Pendergast in a while but I’m sure there’s an explanation. He’s probably deep in a case.” He ventured a reassuring smile. “I’ll check into it, get back to you.”

“Here’s my cell number.” Pulling a pad of paper across the desk toward her, she scribbled a number onto it.

“I’ll let you know, Ms. Swanson.”