Fever Dream

blanks--one fired, one not--to cover up what they had done. Only they made a small mistake: they did not clean the fired barrel, leaving the incriminating fouling.

Pendergast sat back in the chair. One hand--trembling ever so slightly--rose to his mouth.

Helen Pendergast's death had not been a tragic accident. It had been murder.

6

New York City

FOUR AM, SATURDAY. LIEUTENANT VINCENT D'Agosta pushed through the crowd, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and walked over to where the body lay sprawled across the sidewalk outside one of the countless identical Indian restaurants on East 6th Street. A large pool of blood had collected beneath it, reflecting the red and purple neon light in the restaurant's grimy window with surreal splendor.

The perp had been shot at least half a dozen times and he was dead. Very dead. He lay crumpled on his side, one arm thrown wide, his gun twenty feet away. A crime-scene investigator was laying a tape measure, measuring the distance from the open hand to the gun.

The corpse was a scrawny Caucasian, thirtysomething, with thinning hair. He looked like a broken stick, his legs crooked, one knee hitched up to his chest, the other extended out and back, the arms flung wide. The two cops who had done the shooting, a beefy black guy and a wiry Hispanic, were off to one side, talking with Internal Affairs.

D'Agosta went over, nodded to the Internal Affairs officer, and clasped the hands of the cops. They felt sweaty, nervous.

It's damn hard, D'Agosta thought, to have killed someone. You never really get over it.

'Lieutenant,' said one of the cops in a rush, anxious to explain yet again to a fresh ear, 'the guy had just robbed the restaurant at gunpoint and was running down the street. We identified ourselves, showed our badges, and that's when he opened on us, motherfucker just emptied his gun, firing while he ran, there were civilians on the street and we had no choice, we had to take him down. No choice, man, no choice--'

D'Agosta grasped the man's shoulder, gave it a friendly squeeze as he glanced at his nameplate. 'Ocampo, don't sweat it. You did what you had to do. The investigation will show that.'

'I mean, he just opened up like there was no tomorrow--'

'For him there won't be.' D'Agosta walked aside with the Internal Affairs investigator. 'Any problems?'

'I doubt it, sir. These days, of course, there's always a hearing. But this is about as clear-cut as they come.' He slapped his notebook shut.

D'Agosta lowered his voice. 'See those guys get some psychological counseling. And make sure they meet with the union lawyers before they do any more talking.'

'Will do.'

D'Agosta looked thoughtfully at the corpse. 'How much did he get?'

'Two hundred and twenty, give or take. Fucking addict, look at him, all eaten up by horse.'

'Sad. Any ID?'

'Warren Zabriskie, address in Far Rockaway.'

D'Agosta shook his head as he glanced over the scene. It was about as straightforward as you could ask for: two cops, both minorities; the dead perp white; witnesses up the wazoo; everything caught on security cams. Open and shut. There would be no protest marches or accusations of police brutality. The shooter got what he deserved--everyone would reluctantly agree on that.

D'Agosta glanced around. Despite the cold, a pretty big crowd had developed beyond the tape, East Village rockers and yupsters and metrosexuals and whatever the hell else you called them these days. The forensic unit was still working the body, the EMTs waiting to one side, the owner of the victimized restaurant being interviewed by detectives. Everyone doing their job. Everything under control. A senseless, stupid, piece-of-shit case that would generate a blizzard of paperwork, interviews, reports, analyses, boxes of evidence, hearings, press conferences. All because of two hundred lousy bucks for a fix.

He was wondering how long it would be before he could gracefully escape when he heard a shout and saw a disturbance at the far edge of the cordoned area. Someone had ducked under the tape and trespassed onto the scene. He turned angrily--only to come face-to-face with Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast, pursued by two uniformed officers.

'Hey, you--!' one of the cops shouted, grabbing Pendergast roughly by the shoulder. With a deft movement the agent freed himself, extracted his badge, and flashed it into the officer's face.

'What the--?' the cop said, backing off. 'FBI. He's FBI.'

'What's he doing here?' asked the other.

'Pendergast!' D'Agosta cried, stepping toward him quickly. 'What the hell brings you here? This killing isn't exactly your kind of--'

Pendergast silenced him with a violent gesture, slashing his hand through the air between them. In the neon gloom, his face was so white he almost looked spectral, dressed as usual like a wealthy undertaker in his trademark tailored black suit. Except this time he somehow looked different--very different. 'I must speak with you. Now.'

'Sure, of course. As soon as I wrap things up--'

'I mean now, Vincent.'

D'Agosta stared. This was not the cool, collected Pendergast he knew so well. This was a side of the man he had never seen before, angry, brusque, his movements rushed. Not only that, but--D'Agosta noticed on closer inspection--his normally immaculate suit was creased and rumpled.