Two Graves

God, he could really use Pendergast right now.

He shook his head, polished off the doughnut, licked his fingers, and with a supreme act of will shut the box.

14

D’AGOSTA BLEW OFF THE DOOR MAN BY FLASHING HIS BADGE and walking right on past the pillbox, not even making eye contact, the man hurrying behind with a “Sir? Sir? Whom are you visiting?” D’Agosta called out Pendergast’s name and apartment number loudly and headed for the interior courtyard.

The elevator operator proved to be a little more stubborn, requiring an overt threat about obstruction of justice before he reluctantly closed the old-fashioned grillwork doors and ascended to Pendergast’s suite of apartments.

D’Agosta had been in the Dakota many times before, and he was usually struck by the scent, a mixture of beeswax polish, old wood, and a faint overlay of leather. Everything about the place was genteel and old-fashioned, from the polished brass of the elevator knobs and trim, to the hushed carpeting, to the lovely travertine walls with their nineteenth-century sconces. He noticed very little of this now. He was sick with worry about Pendergast. For days he’d been waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for the pressure cooker to explode. Nothing. And that was probably worse than any explosion.

The doorman had called up, of course, so when D’Agosta pressed the buzzer the intercom came quickly to life.

“Vincent?”

“I need to talk to you. Please.”

A long, long silence.

“On what subject?”

There was a strange quality to Pendergast’s voice that gave D’Agosta the creeps. Maybe it was the electronic rasp of the intercom.

“Could you let me in?”

Another odd pause.

“No, thank you.”

D’Agosta took this in. No, thank you? He sounded bad. He recalled Hayward’s advice and decided to give it a try.

“Look, Pendergast, there’s been a couple of murders. A serial killer. I really need your advice.”

“I’m not interested.”

D’Agosta took a deep breath. “I won’t take up more than a minute or two. I’d like to see you. It’s been a while. We need to talk, catch up, I need to find out what’s been going on, how you’re doing. You’ve had a terrible shock—”

“Pray leave the premises and do not bother me again.”

His voice sounded even more cold, stilted, and formal than usual. D’Agosta waited a moment, and then said gently, “That’s what I’m not going to do. I’m going to stand here, annoying you, until you let me in. I’ll stay here all night, if necessary.”

That finally got through. After a long moment, the locks began turning, one after the other. The door opened slowly, and D’Agosta entered the foyer. Pendergast, dressed in a black dressing gown, had already turned his back and uttered no greeting. D’Agosta followed him into the reception room, the one with the bonsai trees and the wall of water.

Moving listlessly, Pendergast turned and seated himself, folding his hands in front, and raised his head to look at D’Agosta.

D’Agosta froze. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The man’s face was collapsed, gray, his normally silver eyes as dull and heavy as old lead. His clasped hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

He launched in gamely. “Pendergast, I just wanted you to know how sorry I am about Helen’s death. I don’t know what your plans are, but I’m one hundred percent behind you—however you want to go about nailing the bastards.”

There seemed to be no reaction whatsoever to this.

“We need to get a… ah, death certificate, determination of homicide. We’ll need to exhume the body, go through the legal crap with Mexico. I’m not sure what’s involved, but you can bet we’ll expedite the hell out of it. We will get her a decent burial in the States. And then we’ll launch an investigation hammer and tongs—FBI, of course, they’ll back up one of their own. There’s NYPD involvement, too, and I’ll make damn sure our resources are deployed, big-time. We will get those scumbags, I guarantee it.”

He stopped, breathing heavily. Pendergast’s eyes were lidded; he seemed to have gone to sleep. D’Agosta stared. This was even worse than he thought. As he looked at his old friend and partner, a terrible realization dawned on him, hitting him like a shock of high voltage.

“Jesus Christ. You’re using.”

“Using?” Pendergast murmured.

“On drugs.”

A drawn-out silence.

D’Agosta felt a sudden welling of anger. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. You’re on drugs.”

Pendergast made a small gesture with his hand. “And?”

“And? And?” D’Agosta rose from his chair. He flushed. He had seen so much bullshit, so much death and murder and ridiculously pointless suffering caused by drugs. He hated drugs.

He faced Pendergast. “I can’t believe it. I thought you were smarter than this. Where are they?”

No answer. Just a grimace.

D’Agosta couldn’t stand it. “Where are the drugs?” he asked, his voice louder. When Pendergast didn’t respond, he felt rage take over. He was standing by the bookshelves and pulled a book off a shelf, another. “Where are the drugs?” He knocked one of the bonsais with the back of his hand, sweeping it off its table. “Where are the drugs? I’m not leaving here until I have them. You fucking idiot!”

“Your working-class expletives have lost their charm.”

At least this was a flash of the old Pendergast. D’Agosta stood there, shaking, and realized he had better get a handle on his anger.

“This apartment is very large, and most of the doors are securely locked.”

D’Agosta felt crazy. He struggled to maintain control. “Listen, about Helen. I know what a horrible tragedy —”

At this Pendergast interrupted him, his voice cold. “Do not mention Helen’s name or what happened. Ever again.”

“Right. Okay. I won’t, but you can’t just… I mean…” He shook his head, truly at a loss for words.

“You mentioned you needed help with a murder case. I have told you I’m not interested. Now, if there’s nothing else, may I ask you to leave?”

Instead, D’Agosta sat down heavily, put his head in his hands. Maybe the murder investigation would be the thing Pendergast needed to snap him out of this, although he doubted it. He rubbed his face, raised his head. “Let me just tell you about the case—okay?”

“If you must.”

D’Agosta smoothed his hands down over his legs, took a couple of breaths. “Have you been following the papers?”

“No.”

“I have a summary of the case here.” D’Agosta removed the three-page brief he had printed out earlier and handed it to Pendergast. The agent took it and scanned it perfunctorily, his eyes dull, unresponsive. But he didn’t hand it back right away; he continued looking at it, flipping the pages. Then, after a moment, he started from the