From the hall came the sound of running and raised voices. Something heavy fell over with a crash. Frowning, D’Agosta nodded for Hayward to check it out. Soon there was more yelling, and D’Agosta heard his own name being spoken in a whiny, high-pitched voice.
Curious, he poked his head out the door. An almost unbelievably filthy-looking man was standing in the Homicide lobby, struggling with two cops who were trying to subdue him. Hayward was on the sidelines, her small frame tensed as if awaiting an opportunity to wade in. D’Agosta took in the dirt-clotted hair; the sallow, jaundiced skin; the narrow, hungry frame; the ubiquitous black garbage bag holding the man’s worldly possessions.
“I want to see the Lieutenant!” the homeless man screeched in a thin, reedy voice. “I have information! I demand—”
“Fella,” said one officer, a look of disgust on his face as he restrained the man by his greasy coat, “if you have anything to say, say it to me, okay? The Lieutenant’s busy.”
“There he is now!” the man pointed a trembling finger at D’Agosta. “See, he’s not busy! Get your hands off me, you, or I’ll file a complaint, you hear me? I’ll call my lawyer!”
D’Agosta retreated into his office, shut the door, and resumed his scrutiny of the map. The barrage of voices continued, the shrill whine of the homeless man particularly grating, punctuated by the increasingly irritated tones of Hayward. This one didn’t want to leave.
Suddenly the door banged open and the homeless man half-fell, half-stumbled inside, a furious Hayward on his heels. The man backed into a corner of the office, holding the garbage bag in front of him protectively.
“You have to listen to me, Lieutenant!” he yelped.
“He’s a slippery bastard,” Hayward panted, wiping her hands on her slender thighs. “Quite literally.”
“Stay back!” the homeless man squealed at Hayward.
D’Agosta sighed wearily. “It’s okay, Sergeant,” he said. Then he turned to the homeless man. “All right. Five minutes. But leave that outside.” He gestured toward the bag as its ripe smell reached his nostrils.
“They’ll steal it,” the man said hoarsely.
“This is a police station,” snapped D’Agosta. “Nobody’s gonna steal any of your shit.”
“It’s not shit,” the man whined, but he nevertheless handed the greasy bag to Hayward, who hurriedly deposited it outside, returning and closing the door against the stench.
Suddenly the demeanor of the homeless man changed dramatically. He shambled forward and sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs, crossing his legs, acting for all the world like he owned the place. The smell was stronger now. It reminded D’Agosta, faintly and unsettlingly, of the smell in the railroad tunnel.
“I hope you’re comfortable,” said D’Agosta, strategically placing the cigar in front of his nose. “You got four minutes left.”
“Actually, Vincent,” said the homeless man, “I’m about as comfortable as can be expected, given the condition in which you see me.”
D’Agosta slowly dropped the cigar to the desk, stunned.
“I’m sorry to see you still smoking.” The homeless man eyed the cigar. “However, I notice that your taste in cigars has improved. Dominican Republic leaf, if I’m not mistaken, with a Connecticut Shade wrapper. If you must smoke, that Churchill is a vast improvement over the packing twine you used to indulge in.”
D’Agosta remained speechless. He knew the voice, he knew the melodious southern accent. He just couldn’t connect it with the stinking, filthy bum sitting across from him.
“Pendergast?” he breathed.
The homeless man nodded.
“What—?”
“I hope you’ll forgive the histrionic entrance,” said Pendergast. “I wanted to test the effectiveness of my costume.”
“Oh,” said D’Agosta.
Hayward stepped forward and glanced at D’Agosta. For the first time she appeared to be at a loss. “Lieutenant—?” she began.
D’Agosta took a deep breath. “Sergeant, this”—he waved a hand at the bedraggled figure who was now sitting, hands folded in his lap, one leg crossed carefully over the other—“is Special Agent Pendergast of the FBI.”
Hayward looked at D’Agosta, then at the homeless man. “Bullshit,” she said simply.
Pendergast laughed delightedly. He placed his elbows on the arms of the chair, tented his hands, rested his chin on his fingertips, and looked at Hayward. “Delighted to meet you, Sergeant. I would offer to shake hands, but…”
“Don’t bother,” said Hayward, hastily, a lingering look of suspicion on her face.
Suddenly, D’Agosta stepped over and crushed the visitor’s slender, grubby hands in his. “Christ, Pendergast, it’s good to see you. I wondered what the hell had happened to your skinny ass. I heard you’d refused the directorship of the New York office, but I haven’t seen you since—”
“Since the Museum murders, as they’ve become known.” Pendergast nodded. “I see they are front-page news again.”
Sitting down again, D’Agosta scowled and nodded.
Pendergast glanced up at the map. “Quite a problem you have on your hands, Vincent. A string of vicious murders above and below ground, angst plaguing the city’s elite, and now rumors that Mbwun has returned.”
“Pendergast, you got no idea.”
