Her eye settled on the closest bar, the Neptune Room: a loud, ostentatious seafood place she had never been into. Never wanted to go into. Never expected to go into.
She went in, settled on a stool. The bartender came over right away. 'What'll it be?'
'Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, twist.'
'Coming right up.'
As she sipped the oversize, ice — cold drink, she upbraided herself for acting like a psycho. The dream was only a dream and the homeless man wasn't Fearing. She was shaken up; she needed to get a grip, calm down, and put her life back together as best she could.
She finished her drink. 'How much?'
'On the house. And I hope' — the bartender said with a wink—'that whatever devil you saw before you came in is gone now.'
She thanked him and rose, feeling the calming effects of the liquor. Devil, the bartender had said. She had to face her devils, and do it now. She was falling apart, seeing things, and that was unacceptable. That wasn't her.
A few minutes' walk brought her back to her apartment building. She briskly passed through the door, ran the gauntlet of another barrage of well — meaning comments by the doorman, and entered the elevator. In another moment, she was standing at her door. She slid in the key, unlocked it, and felt around the corner for the light switch, which she immediately found.
Double — locking the door and sliding home its newly installed bolt, she glanced around. Everything was perfectly neat, cleaned, polished, repainted. Quickly but methodically, she searched the entire apartment, including the closets and under the bed. Then, opening the curtains of the living room and the bedroom, she turned off the lights again. The glow of the city filtered in, throwing the apartment into shadow, giving a soft, gauzy focus to its surfaces.
She could stay here tonight, she knew now; she could wrestle with her devils. Just so long as she didn't have to look at anything.
Chapter 12
The waitress brought their orders: pastrami on rye with Russian dressing for D'Agosta, a BLT for Laura Hayward.
'More coffee?' she asked.
'Please.' D'Agosta watched as the harassed — looking waitress refilled his cup. Then he turned back to Hayward. 'And that's about where we stand,' he concluded.
He'd invited Captain Hayward to lunch to bring her up to speed on the investigation so far. Hayward was no longer a homicide captain — she'd been given a lateral shift and was now working in the police commissioner's office, where she was in line for a plum promotion. If anybody deserved it, he thought ruefully, Laura did.
'So,' he said, 'you read it?'
She glanced at the newspaper he'd brought. 'Yes.'
D'Agosta shook his head. 'Can you believe they print this stuff? Now we've got all kinds of jackasses calling in sightings, anonymous letters that have to be followed up, phone calls from psychics and tarot card readers… You know what this town is like whenever a weird story like this breaks. This is just the sort of shit I don't need right now.'
A small smile played about Hawyard's lips. 'I understand.'
'And people believe this trash.' He shoved the paper out of the way and took another sip of coffee. 'So… what do you make of it?'
'You have four eyewitnesses swearing Fearing is the killer?'
'Five — including the victim's wife.'
'Nora Kelly.'
'You know her, right?'
'Yes. I knew Bill Smithback, too. A little unorthodox in his methods, but a good reporter. What a tragedy.'
D'Agosta took a bite of his sandwich. The pastrami was lean, the dressing warm — just the way he liked it. It always seemed that when a case was pissing him off, he started to overeat.
'Well,' she continued, 'either it's Fearing or somebody disguised as him. He's dead or he isn't. Simple enough. Got any DNA results?'
'Blood from two people was found at the scene — Smithback's and somebody as yet unidentified. We've obtained samples of DNA from Fearing's mother and we're running them against the unknown blood now.' He paused, wondered if he should tell her about the unusual way they were getting the DNA tests done, decided against it. It might not be legal, and he knew what a stickler Hayward was for the proverbial book. 'The thing is, if it wasn't Fearing, why would anybody go to the trouble of trying to look like him?'
Hayward took a sip of water. 'Good question. What does Pendergast think?'
'Since when does anybody know what that guy thinks? But I'll tell you one thing: he's more interested in that voodoo crap found at the scene than he wants to let on. He's spending an awful lot of time going over it.'
'That stuff mentioned in the article?'
'Right. Sequins, a bunch of feathers tied together, a little parchment bag full of dust.'
'Gris — gris,' Hayward murmured.
'I'm sorry?'
'Voodoo charms used to ward off evil. Or sometimes to inflict it.'
'Please. We're dealing with a psychopath. The crime couldn't have been more disorganized and poorly planned. On the security tape the guy looks like he's on drugs.'
'You want my opinion, Vinnie?'
'You know I do.'
'Exhume Fearing's body.'
'In process.'
'I'd also see if any of Smithback's news stories have made somebody mad recently.'
'Also in process. It seems
'You're doing well, Vinnie. Let me just add that the crime might not be as 'disorganized' as you think — it might have been very carefully planned and executed.'
'I don't think so.'
'Hey — no snap judgments.' 'Sorry.'
'One other thing.' Hayward hesitated. 'You remember my saying that, before taking the job with the transit police, I worked on the New Orleans PD for eighteen months?'
'Sure.'
'Pendergast is from New Orleans.'
'So?'
Hayward took another sip of water. 'A minute ago, I said that either Fearing's dead or he isn't. Well, there are those on the NOPD who would say otherwise. That there might be a third possibility.'
'Laura, don't tell me you buy that zombii crap.'
Hayward finished the half of her sandwich, pushed the plate aside. 'I'm full. Want some?'
'I'm good, thanks. You didn't answer my question.'
'I don't 'buy' anything. Just talk to Pendergast about it. He knows a lot more about that… particular subject than you or I ever will. All I'm saying is, don't make up your mind too fast. It's one of your faults, Vinnie. And you know it.'
D'Agosta sighed; she was right, as usual. He looked around the luncheonette: at the bustling waitresses; at the other diners reading papers, talking on cell phones, or chatting with lunch companions. He was reminded of
