Two Graves

At this, Gibbs became confused. “You’re… assigned to the Hotel Killer case? I’m sorry, this is quite a surprise—no one informed me.”

“No one informed you, Agent Gibbs, because I have not yet been assigned to the case. But I will be. Oh, yes: I most certainly will be.”

Gibbs’s confusion seemed to deepen, and he seemed to struggle to maintain a professional demeanor at unwelcome news. “I see. And your department and area of expertise are… what, if I may ask?”

Instead of answering, Pendergast laid a pseudo-friendly hand on Gibbs’s shoulder. “I can see, Agent Gibbs, that you and I are not only going to be colleagues working hand in glove, but we are also going to be good friends.”

“I look forward to it,” said Gibbs uneasily.

Pendergast patted Gibbs on the shoulder, and—D’Agosta thought he saw—gave it the slightest of pushes, as if propelling the man toward the door. “We shall see you tomorrow, Agent Gibbs?”

“Yes,” said Gibbs. He had recovered his equanimity, but he was clearly put out, and his face was darkening. “Yes, we shall. And then I would be glad to exchange credentials with you, hear about your background, and properly liaise our two departments.”

“We shall liaise until you are surfeited,” said Pendergast, turning his back on Gibbs in a gesture of dismissal. A moment later Gibbs left.

“What the fuck?” said D’Agosta, his voice low. “You just made a big-time enemy… What’s gotten into you?”

“What the fuck indeed,” said Pendergast, the foul word sounding unnatural in his mouth. “You asked me to be involved. I am involved.” He plucked the report from D’Agosta’s hands, flipped through it in the most cursory manner, and then casually dropped it into the trash can beside D’Agosta’s desk.

“What is that charming word you are so fond of employing?” he asked. “Bullshit. Even without reading it, I can tell you that report is pure, unadulterated bullshit, still warm from the cloaca in which it formed.”

“Um, why do you say that?”

“Because I know who the killer is. My brother, Diogenes.”

18

THE MAN CALLING HIMSELF ALBAN LORIMER SAT BACK ON his haunches and wiped one leather-gloved hand across his forehead. He was breathing heavily—dejointing a body of this size with the relatively small tools at hand was hard work—but he was in good shape and he relished the exertion.

This one had been the best yet. The hotel—the Royal Cheshire—was glorious indeed, with its sleek, beautifully understated lobby clad in whites and blacks. It had a very intimate feel, which made his job more difficult but at the same time more of a challenge. The hotel’s personality was a little harder to describe than the first two. A member of the peerage, perhaps, the product of a great many generations of breeding and refinement, with money and style but without the least need for vulgar display. This particular fifteenth-floor suite was tasty indeed.

And the young woman—he’d made sure it was a young woman—had proven most satisfactory. She had struggled valiantly, even after he’d opened her throat with the penknife. In turn, he’d rewarded her efforts by taking particular care this time around, arranging the body parts into a likeness of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, with various organs arranged at the compass points of the circle and the piece de resistance laid carefully on the forehead. Now he fetched a deep breath, dipped a gloved finger into the fresh blood ponded beneath the body, wrote the brief message across the bare midriff—tickle, tickle!—then wiped the fingertip dry on a clean section of carpeting.

Alban wondered if he had guessed who was committing these murders. It was, after all, such a delightful irony…

Suddenly he looked up. Everything was silent—and yet he instantly understood he had only a second or two to act. Quickly, he collected his tools, rolled them up into the leather bundle, stood, darted out of the suite’s bedroom into the living area, then ducked into the bathroom, hiding behind the door.

A moment later there came the click of the room’s lock disengaging and the creak of the door opening. Alban heard the muffled sound of footsteps on the carpeting.

“Mandy?” came a masculine voice. “Mandy, honey, are you here?”

The footsteps receded, moving across the living area toward the bedroom.

As quietly as possible, Alban tiptoed out of the bathroom, opened the room door, stepped out into the hallway—and then, after a moment’s hesitation, nipped back into the bathroom, hiding behind the door once again.

“Mandy…? Oh, my God!” A sudden shriek came from the bedroom. “No, no, no!” There was a scuffling, thudding sound, as of a body falling to the floor on its knees, followed by gasping and choking.

“Mandy! Mandy!”

Alban waited, as the crying from the bedroom dissolved first into hysteria, then cries for help.

The door to the suite burst open again. “Hotel security!” came a gruff voice. “What’s going on?”

“My wife! She’s been murdered!”

More thudding footsteps retreating past the bathroom, followed by a gasp, a sudden burst of talk into the radio, more tiresome cries of horror and disbelief from the bereaved husband.

Now Alban crept out of the bathroom, scurried silently to the door, opened it, stepped out—paused—then closed the door softly behind him. Walking easily down the hallway to the elevator bank, he pressed the DOWN button. But then, as the floor indicator above the elevator showed it beginning to rise, he stepped away again, moved farther down the hall, opened the stairwell door, and descended two flights before emerging again.

He looked down the empty hallway with a smile and headed in the direction of the elevator.

Two minutes later, he was walking out the service entrance of the hotel, hat brim low over his eyes, gloved hands deep in his trench coat pockets. He began sauntering casually down Central Park West, early-morning sun setting the pavement agleam, just as police sirens began sounding in the distance.

19

CORRIE SWANSON STOOD ON THE PORCH AT THE SHABBY front door of a sagging duplex at the corner of Fourth Street and Birch in West Cuyahoga, Pennsylvania, a run-down dying suburb of the city of Allentown. There had been no answer to her numerous rings, and as she gazed up and down the street—lined with crappy twenty- year-old pickup trucks before identical duplexes—she realized it was exactly the kind of place she imagined her father calling home. The thought depressed her enormously.

She pressed the buzzer again, heard it sounding inside the empty house. As she glanced around once more, she saw curtains moving in the attached house, and across the street a neighbor had paused while bringing out the garbage and was staring at the black Lincoln Continental that had brought her.

Why was the damn driver waiting? She tried the door, shook it in impatience.

Leaving her suitcase on the porch, she went back to the car. “There’s no need for you to hang around. You can go now.”

The driver smiled. “Sorry, Ms. Swanson, I have to see you into the house. If no one’s home, I’m supposed to call for instructions.” He even had his cell phone out.

Corrie rolled her eyes. This was unbelievable. How was she going to get rid of this guy?

“Don’t call yet. Let me try again. Maybe he’s asleep.” It was entirely possible the bum was asleep, or maybe just passed out drunk. Then again, even though it was Saturday,