other meals he'd had with Laura, at other restaurants. In particular, he recalled their first drink together. That had been at a particularly low point in his life — and yet it was also the moment he realized just how much he was attracted to her. They worked well together. She challenged him — in a good way. The irony of the situation was painful: he'd won his disciplinary hearing, kept his job, but it seemed that he'd lost Laura.
He cleared his throat. 'So tell me about this promotion you're getting.'
'I haven't gotten it yet.'
'Come on, I've heard the scuttlebutt. It's just a question of formalities now.'
She took a sip of water. 'It's a special task force they're setting up. One — year trial period. A few members of the chief's staff will be appointed to interface with the mayor on terror response, quality — of — life issues, that kind of thing. Big public concerns.'
'Visibility?'
'Extremely high.'
'Wow. Another feather in your cap. Just wait, you'll be chief in a couple of years.'
Laura smiled. 'Not likely.'
D'Agosta hesitated. 'Laura. I really miss you.' The smile faded. 'I miss you, too.'
He looked across the table at her. She was so pretty his heart ached: pale skin, hair so black it was almost blue. 'So why don't we try again? Start over?'
She paused, then shook her head. 'I'm just not ready.'
'Why not?'
'Vinnie, I don't trust many people. But I trusted you. And you hurt me.'
'I know that, and I'm sorry. Really sorry. But I've explained all that. I had no choice, surely you see that now.'
'Of course you had a choice. You could have told me the truth. You could have trusted me. As I trusted you.'
D'Agosta sighed. 'Look — I'm sorry.'
There was a loud beep as his cell phone started ringing. When it continued, Laura said, 'I think you should answer that.'
'But—'
'Go ahead. Take it.'
D'Agosta reached into his pocket, flipped the phone open. 'Yes?'
'Vincent,' drawled the mellifluous southern voice. 'Did I catch you at a bad time?'
He swallowed. 'No, not really.'
'Excellent. We have an appointment with a certain Mr. Kline.'
'On my way.'
'Good. Oh, one other thing — care to take a drive with me tomorrow morning?'
'Where to?'
'Whispering Oaks Mausoleum. The exhumation order came through. We're opening Fearing's crypt tomorrow at noon.'
Chapter 13
Digital Veracity Inc. was located in one of the giant glass office towers that lined Avenue of the Americas in the lower fifties. D'Agosta met Pendergast in the main lobby and, after a brief stop at the security station, they made their way to the thirty — seventh floor.
'Did you bring a copy of the letter?' Pendergast asked.
D'Agosta patted his jacket pocket. 'You got anything on Kline's background I should know?'
'Indeed I do. Our Mr. Lucas Kline grew up in a poor family from Avenue J in Brooklyn, childhood unremarkable, grades excellent, always the last chosen for the team, a 'nice boy.' He matriculated from NYU, began work as a journalist — which, by all accounts, was where his heart lay. But it worked out badly: he got scooped on an important story — unfairly, it seems, but when was journalism a fair field? — and was fired as a result. He drifted a bit, ultimately becoming a computer programmer for a Wall Street bank. Apparently he had a talent for it: he started DVI a few years later and seems to have carried it a fair distance.' He glanced at D'Agosta. 'Are you considering a search warrant?'
'I thought I'd see how the interview goes first.'
The elevator doors rolled back on an elegantly furnished lobby. Several sofas clad in black leather sat on antique Serapi rugs. Half a dozen large pieces of African sculpture — warriors with imposing headpieces, large masks with dizzyingly complex traceries — decorated the space.
'It would appear our Mr. Kline has come farther than a 'fair distance,' ' D'Agosta said, looking around.
They gave their names to the receptionist and sat down. D'Agosta hunted in vain for a copy of
'Mr. Kline will see you now,' she said, standing and leading the way through an unmarked door.
They walked down a long, softly lit hallway that terminated in another door. The receptionist ushered them through an outer office where a gorgeous secretary sat typing at a computer. She gave them a furtive look before returning to her work. She had the tense, cowed manner of a beaten dog.
Beyond, yet another pair of doors opened onto a sprawling corner office. Two walls of glass offered dizzying views of Sixth Avenue. A man of about forty stood behind a desk covered with four personal computers. He was standing while speaking into a wireless telephone headset, his back to them, looking out the windows.
D'Agosta examined the office: more black leather sofas, more tribal art on the walls: Mr. Kline, it seemed, was a collector. A polished glass case held several dusty artifacts, clay pipes and buckles and twisted pieces of iron, labeled as coming from the original Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam. A few recessed bookcases contained books on finance and computer programming languages, in sharp contrast with the leering, slightly unsettling masks.
Finishing the phone call, the man hung up and turned to face them. He had a thin, remarkably youthful face that still bore traces of a struggle with adolescent acne. D'Agosta noticed he was relatively short, no taller than five foot five. His hair stuck up in the back, like a kid's. Only his eyes were old — and very cool.
He looked from Pendergast to D'Agosta and back again. 'Yes?' he asked in a soft voice.
'I will have a seat, thank you,' Pendergast said, taking a chair and throwing one leg over the other. D'Agosta followed suit.
The man smiled slightly but said nothing.
'Mr. Lucas Kline?' D'Agosta said. 'I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD.'
'I knew you had to be D'Agosta.' Kline looked at Pendergast. 'And you must be the special agent. You already know who I am. Now, what is it you want? I happen to be busy.'
'Is that so?' D'Agosta asked, lounging back in the leather, making it creak in a most satisfying way. 'And just what is it you busy yourself with, Mr. Kline?'
'I'm CEO of DVI.'
'That doesn't really tell me anything.'
'If you want my rags — to — riches story, read that.' Kline pointed to half a dozen identical books sitting together on one of the shelves. 'How I went from a lowly DBA to head of my own company. It's required reading for all my employees: a volume of brilliance and insight for which they are privileged to pay forty — five dollars.' He bestowed a deprecating smile on them. 'My secretary will accept your cash or check on the way out.'
'DBA?' D'Agosta asked. 'What's that?'
'Database administrator. Once upon a time I massaged databases for a living, kept them healthy. And on the side, I wrote a program to automatically normalize large financial databases.'
'Normalize?' D'Agosta echoed.
