Cemetery Dance Read Free

like offerings. The SOC boys had taken them all away, of course, but they were still fixed in his mind.
    Still, there was the one thing the SOC boys couldn't take away: the hurriedly drawn image on the wall, two snakes curled around some strange, spiky, plant–like thing, with stars and arrows and complex lines and a word that looked like dambalah. It had clearly been drawn with Smithback's blood.
    D'Agosta walked into the main bedroom, taking in the bed, bureau, mirror, window looking southeast onto West End Avenue, rug, walls, ceiling. There was a second bathroom at the far end of the bedroom and the door was shut. Funny, last time he was in here the door was open.
    He heard a sound from the bathroom. The water turned on and off. Somebody from the forensic team was still in the apartment. D'Agosta strode over, grasped the door handle, found it locked.
    "Hey, you in there! What the hell you think you're doing?"
    "Just a moment," came the muffled voice.
    D'Agosta's surprise turned to outrage. The idiot was using the bathroom. In a sealed crime scene. Un–frigging–believable.
    "Open the door, pal. Now."
    The door popped open — and there stood Special Agent A.X.L. Pendergast, rack of test tubes in one hand, tweezers in the other, a jeweler's loupe on a headband.
    "Vincent," came the familiar buttery voice. "I'm so sorry we have to meet again under such unhappy circumstances."
    D'Agosta stared. "Pendergast — I had no idea you were back in town."
    Pendergast deftly pocketed the tweezers, slid the rack of tubes into a Gladstone doctor's bag, followed by the loupe. "The killer wasn't in here, or the bedroom. A rather obvious deduction, but I wanted to make sure."
    "Is this now an FBI matter?" D'Agosta asked, following Pendergast as the agent moved through the bedroom into the living room.
    "Not exactly."
    "So you're freelancing again?"
    "You might say that. I would appreciate it if we kept my involvement to yourself for the moment." He turned. "Your take, Vincent?"
    D'Agosta went through his reconstruction of the crime while Pendergast nodded in approval. "Not that it makes much difference," D'Agosta summed up. "We already know who the dirtbag is. We just have to find him."
    Pendergast gave a quizzical rise to his eyebrows.
    "He lives in the building. We got two eyewitnesses who saw the killer enter, and two who saw him leave, all covered with blood, clutching the knife. He attacked Nora Kelly on the way out of the apartment — tried to attack, I should say, but the fight had attracted neighbors and he ran away. They got a good look at him, the neighbors I mean. Nora's in the hospital now — minor concussion, but should be all right. Considering."
    Another faint incline of the head.
    "He's a creep named Fearing. Colin Fearing. Out–of–work British actor. Apartment two fourteen. He'd hassled Nora once or twice in the lobby. Looks to me like a rape gone bad. He probably hoped he'd find Nora home alone, got Smithback instead. Chances are he lifted the key from the super's key locker. I've got a man checking on that."
    This time there was no confirming nod. Just the usual inscrutable look in those deep, silvery eyes.
    "Anyway, it's an open–and–shut case," D'Agosta said, starting to feel defensive for some unknown reason. "Wasn't just Nora's ID. We got him on the building's security tapes, too, an Oscar performance. Coming in and going out. On the way out we got a full–frontal shot, knife in hand, covered with blood, dragging his sorry ass through the lobby, threatening the doorman before splitting. Gonna look beautiful in front of a jury. This is one bastard who is going down."
    "Open and shut, you say?"
    D'Agosta felt another twinge at the doubtful note in Pendergast's voice. "Yeah," he said firmly. "Open and shut." He checked his watch. "They're holding the doorman downstairs, waiting for me. He's going to be a star witness, a reliable, solid family man — knew the perp for years. Want to ask him any questions