Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward stood to the left of the Egyptian Hall entrance, gazing dubiously over the crowd. She had dressed in a dark suit, the better to blend in with the crowd, the only sign of her authority the tiny gold captain’s bars pinned to her lapel. Her weapon, a basic Smith amp; Wesson.38, was in its holster under her suit jacket.
The scene that greeted her eyes was one of textbook security. Her people, plainclothed and uniformed, were all at their appointed stations. They were the best she had-truly New York’s finest. The museum guard presence was there as well, deliberately obtrusive, adding at least a psychological sense of security. Manetti had so far been fully cooperative. The rest of the museum had been painstakingly secured. Hayward had run dozens of disaster scenarios through her head, drawing up plans to deal with every contingency, even the most unlikely: suicide bomber, fire, security system malfunction, power failure, computer failure.
The only weakness was the tomb itself-it had only one exit. But it was a large exit, and at the insistence of the NYC fire marshals, the tomb and all its contents had been specially fireproofed. She herself had made sure the tomb’s security doors could be opened or closed from the inside or outside, manually or electronically, even in the case of a total power failure. She had stood in the control room, occupying the empty room next to the tomb, and had operated the software that opened and closed the doors.
The toxicological teams had made not one sweep, not two, but three-the results uniformly negative. And now she stood, surveying the crowd, asking herself, What could possibly go wrong?
Her intellect answered loud and clear: Nothing.
But her gut sensed otherwise. She felt almost physically sick with unease. It was irrational; it made no sense.
Once more, she delved deep into her cop instincts, trying to discover the source of the feeling. As usual, her thoughts formed almost automatically into a list. And this time the list was all about Diogenes Pendergast.
Diogenes was alive.
He had kidnapped Viola Maskelene.
He had attacked Margo.
He had stolen the diamond collection-and then destroyed it.
He had probably been responsible for at least some of the killings ascribed to Pendergast.
He spent a great deal of time in the museum in some unknown capacity, most likely posing as a curator.
Both perps-Lipper and Wicherly-had been involved with the Tomb of Senef, and both had suddenly gone mad after being in the tomb. And yet a meticulous examination of the tomb and the hall had produced no evidence whatsoever of any kind of environmental or electrical problem-certainly nothing that could trigger psychotic breaks or brain damage. Was Diogenes somehow to blame? What on earth was he planning?
Against her will, her mind returned to the conversation she’d had with D’Agosta in her office days before. All of what he’s done so far-the killings, the kidnapping, the diamond theft-has been leading up to something else. Those had been his words. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.
She shivered. Her conjectures, her questions about Diogenes-it was all linked, it had to be. It was part of a plan.
But what was the plan?
Hayward hadn’t the slightest idea. And yet her gut told her it would happen tonight. It couldn’t be coincidence. This was the “something else” D’Agosta had talked about.
Her eyes traveled around the room, making contact with her people, one by one. As she did so, she picked out the many famous faces in the hall: the mayor, the speaker pro tem of the House, the governor, at least one of the state’s two senators. And there were many others: CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, Hollywood producers, a smattering of actors and television personalities. Then there were the museum staff she knew: Collopy, Menzies, Nora Kelly…
Her eyes moved to the PBS television crew, which had set up at one end of the hall and was filming the gala live. A second crew had set up inside the as-yet-unopened tomb, ready to film the first VIP tour of the exhibition and the sound-and-light show that would be part of it.
Yes-that would be part of the plan. Whatever was going to happen would happen live, with millions watching. And if Diogenes’s alter ego was a curator, or somebody else highly placed in the museum, he would have the power and the access necessary to engineer almost anything. But who could he be? Manetti’s careful probing of the museum’s personnel files turned up nothing. If only they had a picture of Diogenes that was less than twenty-five years old, a fingerprint, a bit of DNA…
What was the plan?
Her eye ended up at the closed door to the tomb, the steel now covered with a faux stone finish, a huge red ribbon stretched across its front.
Her feeling of sickness increased. And along with it came a desperate feeling of isolation. She had done everything in her power to stop, or at least postpone, this opening. But she had convinced nobody. Even Police Commissioner Rocker, her ally in the past, had demurred.
Was it all in her mind? Had the pressure finally gotten to her? If only she had someone who saw things her way, who understood the background, the true nature of Diogenes. Someone like D’Agosta.
D’Agosta. He had been ahead of her at every step of the investigation. He knew what was going to happen before it happened. Long before anyone else, he’d known the kind of criminal they were up against. He had insisted Diogenes was alive even when she and everyone else had “proved” he was dead.
And he knew the museum-knew it cold. He’d been involved in cases connected to the museum going back half a dozen years or more. He knew the players. God, if only he were here now… Not D’Agosta the man-that was over-but D’Agosta the cop.
She controlled her breathing. No point wishing for the impossible. She had done all she could. There was nothing left now but to wait, watch, and be ready to act.
Once again her eye roved the crowd, gauged the flow, examined each face for unnatural tension, excitement, anxiety.
Suddenly she froze. There, standing by the group of dignitaries near the podium, stood the tall figure of a woman: a woman she recognized.
All her alarm bells went off. Making an effort to control her voice, she raised her radio. “Manetti, Hayward here, do you read?”
“Copy.”
“Is that Viola Maskelene I’m looking at? Over by the podium.”
A pause. “That’s her.”
Hayward swallowed. “What’s she doing here?”
“She was hired to replace that Egyptologist, Wicherly.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A day or two ago.”
“Who hired her?”
“Anthropology, I think.”
“Why wasn’t her name on the guest list?”
A hesitation. “I’m not sure. Probably because she was such a recent hire.”
Hayward wanted to say more. She wanted to curse into the radio. She wanted to demand to know why she hadn’t been told. But it was too late for all that. Instead, she merely said, “Over and out.”
The profile indicated that Diogenes isn’t through.
The whole gala opening looked like a meticulous setup-but for what?
D’Agosta’s words rang in her ears like a Klaxon. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.
Jesus, she needed D’Agosta-she needed him right now. He had the answers she didn’t.
She pulled out her personal phone, tried his cellular. No response.
She glanced at her watch: 7:15. The evening was still young. If she could find him, get him back here… Where the hell could he be? Once again, his words echoed in her mind:
There’s something else you ought to know. Have you heard of the forensic profiling firm of Effective Engineering Solutions, down on Little West 12th Street, run by an Eli Glinn? I’ve been spending most of my time down there recently, moonlighting…
