'She's an orphan. My great-uncle had taken her in, looked after her welfare, educated her.'
'Yeah? He sounds like a saint.'
'Hardly. As it happens, Constance was the only person he ever cared for. In fact, he continued caring for her long after he'd stopped caring even about himself. He was a misanthrope, but she was the exception that proved his rule. In any case, it seems I'm her only family now. But I must ask you not to mention any of this in her presence. The last six months have been exceptionally . trying for her.'
'How so?'
'That is something better left in the past. Suffice it to say, Vincent, that Constance is the innocent beneficiary of a set of diabolical experiments conducted long ago. Seeing how her own family was victimized early on by those experiments, I feel bound to look after her well-being. It's a complication I certainly did not anticipate. However, her knowledge of this house and its library is proving invaluable. She will make an excellent research assistant and curator.'
'At least she's not hard to look at.' When he felt Pendergast's un-amused gaze on him D'Agosta cleared his throat and added hastily, 'How did your own interviews go?'
'Montcalm could add little to what we already know. He was away until yesterday, traveling. It seems that Grove left a frantic message with his assistant: How does one break a contract with the devil? The assistant threw the note away-apparently Montcalm is a magnet for cranks and gets many such messages. He could add nothing else. Fosco, on the other hand, proved to be most interesting.'
'I hope you really sweated him.'
'I'm not sure who sweated who.'
D'Agosta could not imagine anyone sweating Pendergast. 'Is he involved?'
'That depends on what you mean by involved. He is a remarkable man, and his recollections proved to be invaluable.'
'Well, the jury's still out on both Cutforth and Bullard.'
'You said Cutforth was a liar, as well as Bullard. How do you know?'
'He told me Grove had called him in the middle of the night, wishing to buy some piece of rock memorabilia. I bluffed him by saying Grove hated rock music. His look gave him away immediately.'
'A crude lie.'
'He's a crude man, and pretty stupid to boot. I imagine he's good at what he does, though, given all the dough he's made.'
'Intelligence, culture, and education are not qualities generally associated with the popular music business.'
'Well, Bullard's on another level. He's crude, too, but highly intelligent. I wouldn't underestimate him. The fact is they both know a lot more about Grove's death than they're telling. We can crack Cutforth, I'm pretty sure-he's a wuss-but Bullard's going to be a tough nut.'
Pendergast nodded. 'The forensic report on Grove's body should be ready tomorrow. That may give us badly needed information. The critical thing now is to find the connection between Bullard, Cutforth, and Grove. If we find that connection, Vincent, we'll have the key to this entire mystery.'
{ 17 }
Dr. Jack Dienphong cast his eye about his laboratory: examining the metal tables, the chemical hoods and glove boxes, microscopes, SEMs, microtomes, and titration setups. It wasn't pretty, but it was organized and functional. Dienphong was chief of the FBI's Forensic Science Division on Congress Street, and he was very curious to meet-at last-this Special Agent Pendergast he had heard so much about.
He glanced down at the scribbled index card in his hand, running through his notes one more time. Most of it was in his head: the index card was more for comfort than anything else. He felt a disquieting sense of apprehension. He didn't like what he was going to have to report, and he just hoped the famous-some said infamous-agent would understand. In Dienphong's opinion, the worst mistake one could make in forensic chemistry was to over interpret results. Do that enough times, and eventually you'd send an innocent man to prison. It was Dienphong's greatest fear. He wouldn't stretch results for anyone, not even someone as formidable as Pendergast.
There was a stir at the door, and Dienphong glanced at his watch. On time almost to the second, already confirming one thing he'd heard Pendergast was famous for. A moment later the door opened, and a slender man in a black suit entered, followed by Special Agent in Charge Carlton, chief of the Southern District Field Office, and a hushed group of junior agents and assistants. There was an almost palpable excitement in the air, the kind of excitement high-profile cases always generated. And only a high-profile case like this would bring somebody like Carlton in on a Sunday. All the pertinent evidence had been forwarded to the FBI by local police for in-depth analysis. And now it was up to Dienphong to piece everything together for them. His feeling of apprehension did not diminish.
Dienphong observed the stranger carefully. Pendergast was just as people had described him, moving with the efficiency and grace of a cat. His hair was so blond it was almost white, his face cool and patrician, his pale eyes restlessly taking in everything. Dienphong had met many FBI agents in his time, but this one was in another category altogether.
Those ice cool eyes alighted on Dienphong, and the agent came striding over. 'Dr. Dienphong,' the man said in the buttery tones of the Deep South.
'A pleasure.' Dienphong took the dry hand.
'I thought your piece in the Journal of Forensics on the maturation rate of blowfly larvae in the human cadaver
