Cemetery Dance

seem to know everything?

'Then why the search?'

'I'm sorry, I can't go into that aspect of the investigation.'

He began to point to another reporter, but suddenly one voice cut over the others. D'Agosta turned toward it, frowning. A man had stood up near the front: tall and preppie looking, with short sandy hair, a repp tie, and a chin cleft you could park a truck in.

'I want to know what real progress has been made,' he said in a loud, stentorian voice. The question was so vague, yet so aggressive, that for a moment D'Agosta was stunned into silence.

'Excuse me?' he said.

'I'm Bryce Harriman,' the man said. 'Of the Times. A fellow member of the New York journalist corps — mygood friend Bill Smithback — has been brutally murdered. A week has gone by. So let me put it a different way: why has so little real progress been made?'

A murmur ran through the crowd. A few heads nodded their agreement.

'We have made real progress. Obviously, I am not at liberty to go into all the details.' D'Agosta knew how lame it sounded, but it was the best he could do.

But Harriman paid no attention. 'This was an attack on a journalist for doing his job,' he said with a flourish. 'An attack on us, on our profession.'

The assenting murmurs increased. D'Agosta began to call on another, but Harriman refused to be silent. 'What's going on at the Ville?' he said, raising his voice.

'As I said, there is no evidence implicating the Ville in—'

Harriman cut him off. 'Why are they allowed to keep openly torturing and killing animals — and maybe not just animals? Lieutenant, surely you must be aware that a lot of New Yorkers are asking the same question: Why have the police done absolutely nothing? '

All at once the crowd was in full cry — demanding, gesticulating, their expressions angry. And — as one by one they rose to their feet — Harriman sat back down again, a look of smug satisfaction creasing his patrician face.

Chapter 31

The Rolls passed through a large white gate and continued up a cobbled driveway, which ran among ancient oaks before opening suddenly onto a grand mansion surrounded by outbuildings: a carriage house, a gazebo, a greenhouse, and a vast, shingled red barn built on ancient stone foundations. Beyond, a sweep of manicured lawn led down to the waters of Long Island Sound, sparkling in the morning light.

D'Agosta whistled. 'Jesus, what a spread.'

'Indeed. And we can't even see the caretaker's house, helipad, and trout hatchery from our current vantage point.'

'Remind me why we're here again,' D'Agosta said.

'Mr. Esteban is one of the people who complained most vocally about the Ville. I'm curious to hear his sentiments on the place firsthand.'

At a word from Pendergast, Proctor brought the vehicle to a stop before the barn. Its doors were wide open, and without a word the agent stepped quickly out of the Rolls and disappeared into the cavernous structure.

'Hey, the house is that way…' D'Agosta's voice faltered. He looked around nervously. What on earth was Pendergast up to this time?

He could hear the sound of chopping wood. The noise stopped and a moment later, a man emerged from behind the woodshed, ax in one hand. At the same time, Pendergast reappeared from the darkness of the barn.

The man came over, still holding the ax.

'Looks like we got a real Paul Bunyan here,' D'Agosta murmured as the agent rejoined him.

The man was tall, with a short salt — and — pepper beard, longish hair falling below his collar, bald spot on top. Despite the Hispanic surname, he looked as Anglo as they came — in fact, except for the hairstyle, he could have been a walking advertisement for Lands' End, dressed in neatly pressed chinos, checked shirt, work gloves — lean and fit. He brushed a few wood chips off his shirt, slung the ax over his shoulder, and pulled off a glove to shake hands.

'What can I do for you?' he asked, his melodious voice bearing no trace of accent.

Pendergast slipped out his badge. 'Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation. Lieutenant Vincent D'Agosta, NYPD homicide.'

The eyes narrowed, the lips pursed, as he examined the badge carefully. His eyes finally glanced up and past them at the Rolls. 'Nice squad car you've got there.'

'Budget cuts,' Pendergast replied. 'One makes do as best one can.'

'Right.'

'You are Alexander Esteban?' D'Agosta asked.

'Correct.'

'We'd like to ask a few questions, if you don't mind.' 'Do you have a warrant?'

'We're looking for some help with the homicide of William Smithback, the Times journalist,' Pendergast said. 'I'd consider it a favor if you would answer our questions.'

The man nodded, stroked his beard. 'I knew Smithback. I'll do whatever I can to help.'

'You produce films, is that correct?' Pendergast asked.

'I used to. These days I spend most of my time in philanthropic pursuits.'

'I saw the article about you in Mademoiselle. The one that called you the 'modern DeMille.' '

'History's my passion.' Esteban gave a light laugh of false modesty. It didn't work.

D'Agosta suddenly remembered: Esteban was that guy who made the splashy, cheesy historical epics. He'd gone to see the most recent with Laura Hayward,Breakout Sing Sing, about the famous breakout of thirty — three inmates back in the early sixties. Neither of them had liked it. There was another he vaguely recollected: The Last Days of Marie Antoinette.

'But more to our purpose is the organization you run. Humans for Other Animals, is that correct?'

He nodded. 'HOA, right. Although I'm primarily the mouthpiece, as it were. A well — known name assigned to the cause.' He smiled. 'Rich Plock is the guy in charge.'

'I see. And you were in touch with Mr. Smithback about the series he was planning to write on the Ville des Zirondelles, known popularly as the Ville?'

'Our organization has been concerned about reports of animal sacrifices there. It's been going on for a long time, and nothing's been done. I contacted all the papers, including theTimes, and finally Mr. Smithback got back to me.'

'When was that?'

'Let's see — it was about a week or so before he published his first article, I believe.'

Pendergast nodded, then seemed to lose interest in the questioning.

D'Agosta took over. 'Tell us about it.'

'Smithback called me up and I met with him in the city. We had gathered some information on the Ville — complaints from neighbors, eyewitness reports of live animals being delivered, bills of sale, that sort of thing — and I gave him copies.'

'Did they contain any proof?'

'Lots of proof! People in Inwood have heard animals being tortured and killed up there for years. The city hasn't done a damn thing, because of some politically correct ideas about religious freedom or some such rot. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for religious freedom — but not if it means torturing and killing animals.'

'Did Smithback make any enemies that you know of by publishing that first article on animal sacrifice?'

'I'm sure he did — just as I have. Those people at the Ville are fanatics.'

'Do you have any specific information about that? Something that was said to him,