somebody named Alexander Esteban, spokesman for Humans for Other Animals; an investigative piece on cockfighting in Brooklyn. Then Nora came upon the most recent article, published two weeks before, titled 'For Manhattanites, Animal Sacrifice Hits Close to Home.'
She brought up the text and scanned it quickly, her eye hovering over one paragraph in particular:
The most persistent stories of animal sacrifice come from Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood of Manhattan. A number of complaints have reached police and animal welfare agencies from the Indian Road and West 214th Street neighborhoods, in which residents claim to have heard the sounds of animals in distress. These animal cries, which residents describe as coming from goats, chickens, and sheep, allegedly issue from a deconsecrated church building at the center of a reclusive community in Inwood Hill Park known familiarly as 'the Ville.' Efforts to speak to residents of the Ville and its community leader, Eugene Bossong, were unsuccessful.
With this discovery, it seemed that Bill had secured the paper's backing for still further investigation, because the article concluded with an italicized note:
Nora sat back. Now that she thought about it, she did remember Bill coming home one evening a week or so ago, crowing about some minor coup he'd achieved in his ongoing work on the animal sacrifices story.
Perhaps the coup hadn't been so minor, after all.
Nora frowned at the screen. It had been around then that the strange little artifacts had begun showing up in their mailbox, and the creepy designs inscribed in dust started appearing outside their front door.
Closing the index of articles, she opened up Bill's information management software, scanning for the notes he always kept for upcoming stories. The most recent entries were what she was looking for. Concentrate on the Ville — follow up in next article. ARE THESE REALLY ANIMAL SACRIFICES? Need to PROVE IT — no allegations. Review police files. SEE with own eyes.
Write up Pizzetti interview. Other neighbors who've complained? Schedule second interview with Esteban, animal rights guy? Local PETA chapter, etc.
Where obtaining animals?
What is history of Ville? Who are they? Check
Possible article title: 'Ville d'Evil?' Nah,
First anniversary — don't forget reservation at Cafe des Artistes & tickets to
This final entry was so unexpected, so out of context with the others, that in a defenseless moment Nora felt hot tears spring to her eyes. She immediately closed the program and stood up from the desk.
She paced the living room once, then glanced at her watch: four fifteen. She could catch the train at 96th and Central Park West and be in Inwood in forty minutes. Firing up a new program on the computer, she typed briefly, examined the screen, then sent a document to the printer. Striding into the bedroom, she plucked her bag from the floor; took a quick look around; then headed for the front door.
A quarter of an hour before, she had felt rudderless, adrift. Now — suddenly — she found herself filled with overwhelming purpose.
Chapter 20
D'Agosta had brought an entire squad along — twelve armed and uniformed officers — and the elevator was filled to capacity. He pressed the button for thirty — seven, then turned his gaze to the illuminated display above the doors. He felt calm and cool. No, that was wrong: he felt cold. Ice cold.
He believed he was basically a fair human being. If somebody treated him with even a modicum of respect, he'd reciprocate. But when somebody acted like a dick, that was a different story. Lucas Kline had been a dick — a Grade A, first — class, USDA Choice dick. And now he was going to learn what a bad idea it was to really piss off a cop.
He turned to the squad. 'Remember the briefing,' he said. 'I want this thorough. Thorough and dirty. Work in teams of two — I don't want any problems with the chain of evidence. And if you encounter any shit, any obstructionism, anything at all, shut it down fast and hard.'
A murmur rippled through the group, followed by a chorus of snaps and clicks as Maglites were checked and batteries slotted into cordless screwdrivers.
The elevator doors opened on the expansive lobby of Digital Veracity. It was late in the afternoon — four thirty — but D'Agosta noticed there were still a couple of clients seated on the leather sofas, waiting for appointments.
Good.
He stepped out of the elevator and into the center of the lobby, the team spreading out behind him. 'I'm Lieutenant D'Agosta of the NYPD,' he said in a loud, clear voice. 'I have a search warrant to execute on these premises.' He glanced toward the waiting clients. 'I would suggest you come back some other time.'
They stood quickly, white — faced, scooped up their jackets and briefcases, and scampered gratefully for the elevator bank. D'Agosta turned to the receptionist. 'Why don't you go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee?'
In fifteen seconds, the lobby was empty except for D'Agosta and his squad. 'We'll use this as a staging area,' he said. 'Leave the evidence boxes here and let's get started.' He pointed to the sergeants. 'I want you three with me.'
It was the work of sixty seconds to reach Kline's outer office. D'Agosta glanced at the frightened — looking secretary. 'Nothing more's going to get done here today,' he said quietly, smiling at her. 'Why don't you knock off early?'
He waited until she had gone. Then he opened the door to the inner office. Kline was once again on the phone, his feet on the broad desk. When he saw D'Agosta and the uniformed officers, he nodded, as if unsurprised. 'I'll have to call you back,' he said into the phone.
'Take all the computers,' D'Agosta told the sergeants. Then he turned to the software developer. 'I've got a search warrant here.' He pushed it toward Kline's face, then let it drop to the floor. 'Oops. There it is, you can read it when you've got time.'
'I thought you might be back, D'Agosta,' Kline said. 'I've had a talk with my lawyers. That search warrant has to specify what it is you're looking for.'
'Oh, it does. We're looking for evidence that Bill Smithback's murder was either planned, committed, or perhaps paid for by you.'
'And why, precisely, would I plan, commit, or pay for such an act?'
'Because of a psychotic rage against high — profile journalists — such as the one that got you fired from your first job on a newspaper.'
Kline's eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
'The information could be concealed in any of these offices,' D'Agosta continued. 'We'll have to search the entire suite.'
'It could be anywhere,' Kline replied. 'It could be at my home.'
'That's where we'll be going next.' D'Agosta sat down. 'But you're right — it
'Yes.'
'Now it's evidence. Hand it over, please.'
