Cemetery Dance

Kline waved his hand dismissively. 'Don't even ask. In any case, my program worked very, very well. It turned out there was a large market for normalizing databases. I put a lot of other DBAs out of jobs. And created all this.' His chin tilted slightly upward, the self — satisfied smile still lingering at the edges of his pink, girlish lips.

The man's egghead egotism set D'Agosta's teeth on edge. He was going to enjoy this. He leaned back casually in his seat, to more protesting of expensive leather. 'Actually, we're more interested in your extracurricular activities.'

Kline looked more closely at him. 'Such as?'

'Such as your penchant for hiring pretty secretaries, intimidating them into having sex with you, then bullying them or paying them off to keep quiet about it.'

The expression on Kline's face did not change. 'Ah. So you're here about the Smithback murder.'

'You used your position of power to abuse and dominate those women. They were too afraid of you, too afraid of losing their jobs, to say anything. But Smithback wasn't afraid. He exposed you to the world.'

'He exposed nothing,' Kline said. 'Allegations were made, nothing was proven, and any settlements, if they exist, are sealed forever. Alas for you and Smithback, nobody went officially on the record.'

D'Agosta shrugged as if to say,

Doesn't matter, the cat's still out of the bag.

Pendergast stirred in his seat. 'How unpleasant it must have been for you that after Smithback's article was published, DVI's stock market capitalization dropped by fifty percent.'

Kline's face remained serene. 'You know the markets. So fickle. DVI is almost back up to where it was.'

Pendergast folded his hands. 'You're a CEO now, and nobody's going to kick sand in your face again or take your lunch money. Nobody's going to disrespect you and get away with it these days — am I right, Mr. Kline?' Pendergast smiled mildly and glanced at D'Agosta. 'The letter?'

D'Agosta reached into his pocket, slipped out the letter, and began to quote: ' I promise that, no matter how much time it takes or how much it costs, you will regret having written that article. You cannot know how I will act, or when, but rest assured: I will act.' He looked up. 'Did you write that, Mr. Kline?'

'Yes,' he said, his face remaining utterly under control.

'And did you send that to William Smithback?'

'I did.'

'Did you—'

Kline interrupted. 'Lieutenant, you are such a bore. Let me ask myself the questions and save us all some time. Was I serious? Absolutely. Was I responsible for his death? It's a possibility. Am I glad he's dead? Delighted, thank you.' He winked.

'You—' D'Agosta began.

'The thing is' — Kline rode over him again—'you'll

never

know. I have the finest lawyers in town. I know precisely what I can say and cannot say. You'll never touch me.'

'We can take you in,' D'Agosta said. 'We could do it right now.'

'Of course you could. And I will sit silently where you take me until my lawyer arrives, and then I will leave.'

'We could book you for probable cause.'

'You're bloviating, Lieutenant.'

'The letter is a clear threat.'

'All my movements at the time of the killing can be accounted for. The finest legal minds in the country vetted that letter. There's nothing in there that is actionable on your part.'

D'Agosta grinned. 'Why, hell, Kline, we could have a little fun, perp — walking you out the lobby downstairs — after we tip off the press.'

'Actually, it would be excellent publicity. I would be back in my office within the hour, you would be embarrassed, and my enemies would see that I am untouchable.' Kline smiled again. 'Remember, Lieutenant: I was trained as a programmer. It was my job to write long, complicated routines in which faultless logic was of paramount importance. That's the first thing you learn as a programmer, the most vital thing. Thinkeverything through, forward and backward. Make sure you've made provisions for any unexpected output. And don't leave any holes. Not a one.'

D'Agosta could feel himself doing a slow burn. A silence settled over the large office. Kline sat there, arms folded, looking back at D'Agosta.

'Dysfunctional,' D'Agosta said. At least he'd wipe that smug smile off this little bastard's face.

'Excuse me?' Kline asked.

'If I wasn't so disgusted, I could almost feel sorry for you. The only way you can get laid is to brandish money and power, to harass and force. That doesn't sound dysfunctional to you? No? How about another word, then: pathetic. That girl in the outer office — when are you planning to rotate her out for this year's model?'

'Kick your fucking ass' came the response.

D'Agosta rose. 'That's a threat of violence, Kline. Made against a police officer.' He put his hands on his cuffs. 'You think you're so smart, but you just crossed the line.'

'Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta,' came the voice again.

D'Agosta realized it wasn't Kline who had spoken. The voice was slightly different. And it hadn't come from behind the desk: it had come from beyond a door set into the opposite wall.

'Who's that?' D'Agosta said. He had grown so angry, so quickly, that he could feel himself shaking.

'That?' Kline replied. 'Oh, that's Chauncy.'

'Get him out here. Now.'

'I can't do that.'

'What?' D'Agosta said through clenched teeth.

'He's busy.'

'Kick your fucking ass,' came the voice of Chauncy.

'Busy?'

'Yes. Eating his lunch.'

Without another word, D'Agosta strode to the door, flung it open.

Beyond lay a small room, barely bigger than a closet. It held nothing but a wooden T — bar about chest high — and sitting on it was a huge, salmon — colored parrot. A Brazil nut was in one claw. It regarded him mildly, massive beak coyly hidden by cheek feathers, the crest atop its head raised slightly in inquiry.

'Lieutenant D'Agosta, meet Chauncy,' Kline said.

'Kick your fucking ass, D'Agosta,' said the parrot.

D'Agosta took a step forward. The parrot gave out an ear — piercing shriek and dropped the nut, flapping its wide wings and showering D'Agosta with feathers and dander, its crest flaring wildly.

'Now look what you've done,' said Kline in a tone of mild reproof. 'You've disturbed his lunch.'

D'Agosta stepped back again, breathing heavily. Abruptly, he realized there was nothing — absolutely nothing — he could do. Kline had broken no law. What was he going to do, cuff a Moluccan cockatoo and haul it downtown? He'd be laughed out of Police Plaza. The little prick really had thought everything through. His hand tightened over the letter, crumpling it. The frustration was agonizing.

'How does it know my name?' he muttered, flicking a feather off his jacket. 'Oh, that,' said Kline. 'You see, Chauncy and I were, um, discussing you before you came in.'

* * *

As they stepped into the elevator for the ride back down to the lobby, D'Agosta glanced over at Pendergast. The special agent was shaking with what appeared to be silent mirth. D'Agosta looked away, frowning. At length Pendergast composed himself and cleared his throat.

'I think, my dear Vincent,' he said, 'you might consider obtaining that search warrant with all possible haste.'