Cemetery Dance

Now an elderly woman, catching wind of the conversation, stepped forward. ' Please,Officer,' she implored, as a rat — sized Yorkshire terrier peeped out from a basket cradled in her arms. 'I haven't slept in days. Neither have my friends. The city's doing nothing. You'vegot to put a stop to this!'

D'Agosta looked from one to the next in amazement, temporarily speechless. Nothing like this had happened before, even in high — profile cases. New Yorkers were usually jaded, worldly, dismissive. But these people — the fear in their eyes, the urgency in their voices, was unmistakable.

He gave the skinny woman what he hoped was a reassuring smile. 'We're doing our level best, ma'am. It won't be long now, I promise you that.'

'I hope you keep that promise!' The women retreated, talking animatedly, joined in common cause.

D'Agosta glanced back at Hayward. She returned the gaze, as nonplussed as he was. 'That was interesting,' she finally said. 'This issue is getting really big, really fast, Vinnie. Take care.'

'Shall we?' he asked her, indicating the door.

'You go ahead. I think I'll stay and finish my coffee.'

He slipped a twenty onto the table. 'See you at the evidence annex this afternoon?'

When she nodded, he turned and — as gently as he could — pressed his way through the small huddle of anxious faces.

Chapter 42

D'Agosta dreaded having anything to do with the new evidence annex in the basement at One Police Plaza. The space, and all the procedures related to it, had been overhauled after yet another case was thrown out of court on a chain — of — evidence error, and now entering the annex was like gaining access to Fort Knox.

D'Agosta presented the paperwork to a secretary behind bulletproof glass and then he, Hayward, Pendergast, and Bertin cooled their heels in the waiting area — no chairs, no magazines, just a portrait of the governor — while the paperwork was processed. After fifteen minutes, a brisk woman, as wrinkled as a mummy and yet remarkably animated, a radio in one hand, appeared and presented them all with badges and cotton gloves.

'This way,' she said in a clear, clipped voice. 'Stay together. Touch nothing.'

They followed her down a stark, fluorescent hallway lined with painted and numbered steel doors. After an interminable walk, she halted before one of the doors, swept a card through its key slot, and punched a code into the security pad with machine — like precision. The door sprang ajar. In the room beyond, evidence cabinets lined three of the walls and a Formica table stood in the center beneath a set of bright lights. In the old days, the evidence would already have been laid out on the table. Now, photographs of the evidence were there, next to a corresponding list. They had to make specific requests for items — no more browsing.

'Stand behind the table,' came the brisk voice.

They filed in and did as instructed, Hayward, Pendergast, and the annoying Bertin. D'Agosta could already feel disapproving vibes radiating from Hayward. She had protested Bertin's presence — the swallowtail coat and cudgel — cane hadn't gone over well at all — but his temporary FBI credentials were in order. The little man looked disheveled, his face pale, beads of sweat standing out on his temples.

'All right now,' said the woman, standing behind the table. 'Have we done this before?'

D'Agosta said nothing. The rest murmured, 'No.'

'You can request only one evidence set at a time. I'm the only one allowed to touch the evidence, unless you need to perform a close examination — which, I should add, needs to be pre — approved. Tests may be ordered through written requests. Now, this piece of paper here lists all the evidence collected under the warrant, as well as other evidence assembled in the case. As you can see, there are photographs of everything. Now—' She smiled, her face almost cracking. ' — what would you like to examine?'

'First,' said Pendergast, 'can you bring out the evidence we retrieved from Colin Fearing's crypt?'

After a delay, the tiny paper coffin and its faux — skeletal contents were retrieved. 'What next?' the woman said.

'We'd like to see the trunk from the Ville and its contents.' D'Agosta pointed. 'That picture, there.'

The woman ran a lacquered finger down the list, tapped a number, turned, moved to one of the evidence cabinets, opened a drawer, slid out a tray. 'It's rather too big for me,' she said.

D'Agosta stepped forward. 'I'll help you.'

'No.' The woman made a call on her handheld radio, and a few minutes later a burly man came in and helped her lift the trunk onto the table, then took up a position in the corner.

'Open it, please, and lay out the contents,' said D'Agosta. He hadn't had a good look at it when they'd taken it from the Ville.

With maddening care, the woman opened the lid and removed the leather — wrapped contents, laying them out with excessive precision.

'Unwrap them, please,' D'Agosta said.

Each item was untied and unwrapped as if a museum object. A set of knives was revealed, each stranger, more exotic, and more unsettling than the last. Their blades were elaborately curved, serrated, and notched, the bone and wooden handles inlaid with odd curlicues and designs. The last item to be unwrapped wasn't a knife but a thick piece of wire bent and curled into a most fantastical design, with a bone handle at one end and a hook at the other, the hook's outer edge honed to a razor — like sharpness. It was precisely like the one Pendergast had snagged.

'Sacrifice knives withveve, ' said Bertin, taking a step back.

D'Agosta turned on him with irritation. 'Vay — vay?'

Bertin covered his mouth, coughed. 'The handles,' he said in a weak voice, 'have veve on them, the designs of the Loa.'

'And what the hell's a 'loa'?'

'A demon, or spirit. Each knife represents one of them. The circular designs represent the inner dance or danse — cimetiere of that particular demon. When animals or… other living things… are sacrificed to the Loa, you must use theLoa's knife.'

'In other words, voodoo shit,' said D'Agosta.

The little man plucked out a handkerchief, dabbed at his temples with a shaking hand. 'Not Vodou. Obeah.'

Bertin's French pronunciation of voodoo was a fresh irritation for D'Agosta. 'What's the difference?'

'Obeah is the real thing.'

'The real thing,' D'Agosta repeated. He glanced at Hayward. Her face was closed.

Pendergast removed a leather kit from his suit coat, opened it, and began removing things — a small rack, test tubes, tweezers, a pin, several eyedropper bottles of reagents — placing each item on the table in turn.

'What's this?' Hayward asked, sharply.

'Tests,' was the clipped answer.

'You can't set up a lab in here,' she said. 'And you heard the lady — you need pre — approvals.'

A white hand slipped into the black suit coat, reappeared with a piece of paper. Hayward took it and read it, her face darkening.

'This is highly irregular—' the mummified woman began. Before she could finish, a second paper appeared and was held up before her. She took it, read it, did not offer to return it.

'Very well,' she said. 'What object would you like to begin with?'

Pendergast pointed to the wire hook, bent into elaborate curlicues. 'I shall need to handle it.'

The woman glanced at the sheet of paper again, then nodded.

Pendergast fitted a loupe to his eye, picked the hook up in gloved hands, turned it over, examining it closely, then laid it down. Using the pin with excessive care, he removed some flakes of material encrusted near the handle and put them in a test tube. He took a swab, moistened it in a bottle, swiped it along part of the hook, then sealed the swab in another test tube. He repeated this process with several of the knives, handles, and blades, each swab