The Book of the Dead (8 page)

“Be our guest,” said Menzies. McCorkle frowned but said nothing.

Wicherly took his flashlight and shined it into the hole, pressing his face to the gap. A long silence ensued, interrupted by the rumble of another subway train.

“What do you see?” asked Menzies at last.

“Strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold.”

“What in heck?” said McCorkle.

Wicherly glanced back at him. “I was being facetious—quoting what Howard Carter said when he first peered into King Tut’s tomb.”

McCorkle’s lips tightened. “If you’ll step aside, please, I’ll have this open in a moment.”

McCorkle stepped back up to the gap, and with a series of expertly aimed blows of the spike, loosened several rows of bricks. In less than ten minutes, he had opened a hole big enough to step through. He disappeared inside, came back out a moment later.

“The electricity isn’t working, as I suspected. We’ll have to use our flashlights. I’m required to lead the way,” he said with a glance at Wicherly. “Museum regulations. Might be hazards in there.”

“The mummy from the Black Lagoon, perhaps,” said Wicherly with a laugh and a glance at Nora.

They stepped carefully inside, then stopped to reconnoiter. In the glow of their flashlight beams, a great stone threshold was visible, and beyond, a descending staircase carved out of rough limestone blocks.

McCorkle moved toward the first step, hesitated, then gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “Ready, ladies and gents?”

C
aptain of homicide Laura Hayward stood silently in her office, looking at the untidy forest that seemed to sprout from her desk, from every chair, and to spill over to the floor—chaotic heaps of papers, photographs, tangles of colored string, CDs, yellowing telex sheets, labels, envelopes. The outward disarray, she mused, was a perfect mirror of her inner state of mind.

Her beautiful layout of evidence against Special Agent Pendergast, with all its accusatory paraphernalia of colored strings, photos, and labels, was no more. It had fit together so well. The evidence had been subtle but clean, convincing, utterly consistent. An out-of-the-way spot of blood, some microscopic fibers, a few strands of hair, a knot tied in a certain way, the chain of ownership of a murder weapon. The DNA tests didn’t lie, the forensics didn’t lie, the autopsies didn’t lie. They all pointed to Pendergast. The case against him was that good.

Maybe
too
good. And that, in a nutshell, was the problem.

A tentative knock came at the door and she turned to see the figure of Glen Singleton, local precinct captain, hovering outside. He was in his late forties; tall, with the sleek, efficient movements of a swimmer, a long face, and an aquiline profile. He wore a charcoal suit that was far too expensive and well cut for an NYPD captain, and every other week he dropped $120 at the barbershop in the lobby of the Carlyle to have his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed to perfection. But these were signs of personal fastidiousness, not a cop on the take. And despite the sartorial affectations, he was a damned good cop, one of the most decorated on active duty in the force.

“Laura, may I?” He smiled, displaying an expensive row of perfect teeth.

“Sure, why not?”

“We missed you at the departmental dinner last night. Did you have a conflict?”

“A conflict? No, nothing like that.”

“Really? Then I can’t understand why you’d pass up a chance to eat, drink, and be merry.”

“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t really in the mood to be merry.”

There was an awkward silence while Singleton looked around for an empty chair.

“Sorry about the mess. I was just doing…” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

Hayward shrugged.

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Singleton hesitated briefly, seemed to come to some decision, then shut the door behind him and stepped forward.

“This isn’t like you, Laura,” he said in a low voice.

So it’s going to be like that
, thought Hayward.

“I’m your friend, and I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he went on. “I have a pretty good idea what you were ‘just doing,’ and you’re asking for trouble by doing it.”

Hayward waited.

“You developed the case in textbook fashion. You handled it perfectly. So why are you beating yourself up about it now?”

She gazed steadily at Singleton for a moment, trying to control the surge of anger that she knew was directed more at herself than him.

“Why? Because the wrong man’s in jail. Agent Pendergast didn’t murder Torrance Hamilton, he didn’t murder Charles Duchamp, and he didn’t murder Michael Decker. His brother, Diogenes, is the real murderer.”

Singleton sighed. “Look. It’s clear that Diogenes stole the museum’s diamonds and kidnapped Viola Maskelene. There are statements from Lieutenant D’Agosta, that gemologist, Kaplan, and Maskelene herself to that effect. But that doesn’t make him a murderer. You have absolutely no proof of that. On the other hand, you’ve done a great job proving Agent Pendergast
did
commit those murders. Let it go.”

“I did the job I was supposed to do, and that’s the problem. I was set up. Pendergast was framed.”

Singleton frowned. “I’ve seen plenty of frame jobs in my career, but for this to work, it would have to have been impossibly sophisticated.”

“D’Agosta told me all along that Diogenes Pendergast was framing his brother. Diogenes collected all the physical evidence he needed during Pendergast’s convalescence in Italy—blood, hair, fibers, everything. D’Agosta
insisted
Diogenes was alive; that he was the kidnapper of Viola Maskelene; that he was behind the diamond theft. He was right about those things, and it makes me think he might be right about everything else.”

“D’Agosta messed up big-time!” Singleton snapped. “He betrayed my trust, and yours. I’ve no doubt that the disciplinary trial will confirm his dismissal from the force. You really want to tie your wagon to that star?”

“I want to tie my wagon to the truth. I’m responsible for putting Pendergast on trial for his life, and I’m the only one who can undo it.”

“The only way to do that is to prove somebody
else
is the murderer. Do you have a single shred of evidence against Diogenes?”

Hayward frowned. “Margo Green described her assailant as—”

“Margo Green was attacked in a darkened room. Her testimony would never hold up.” Singleton hesitated. “Look, Laura,” he said in a gentler voice. “Let’s not bullshit each other here. I know what you’re going through. Hooking up with someone on the force is never easy. Breaking up with them is even harder. And with Vincent D’Agosta in the middle of this case, I don’t wonder you feel a touch of—”

“D’Agosta and I are ancient history,” Laura interrupted. “I don’t appreciate that insinuation. And for that matter, I don’t appreciate this visit of yours.”

Singleton picked up a pile of papers from the guest chair, placed them on the floor, and sat down. He bowed his head, propped his elbows on his knees, sighed, then looked up.

“Laura, “ he said, “you’re the youngest female homicide captain in the history of the NYPD. You’re twice as good as any man at your level. Commissioner Rocker loves you. The mayor loves you. Your own people love you. You’re going to be commissioner someday—you’re that good. I didn’t come here at anyone’s behest, I came here on my own. To warn you that you’ve run out of time on this. The FBI is moving ahead with their case against Pendergast. They think he killed Decker, and they aren’t interested in inconsistencies. What you’ve got is a hunch, nothing more… and it’s not worth throwing away your career on a hunch. Because that’s what will happen if you go up against the FBI on this—and lose.”

She looked at him steadily, took a deep breath. “So be it.”

T
he small group descended the dust-laden staircase of the Tomb of Senef, their shoes leaving prints as in a coating of fresh snow.

Wicherly paused, shining his light around. “Ah. This is what the Egyptians called the God’s First Passage along the Sun’s Path.” He turned toward Nora and Menzies. “Are you interested, or will I be making a bore of myself?”

“By all means,” said Menzies. “Let’s have the tour.”