When D'Agosta arrived at the Omeleteria, Hayward had already taken their usual booth by the window. He hadn't seen her for twenty-four hours-she'd pulled an all-nighter at the office. He paused in the doorway of the restaurant, looking at her. The morning sunlight had turned her glossy black hair almost blue, given her pale skin the sheen of fine marble. She was industriously making notes on a Pocket PC, chewing her lower lip, brow knitted in concentration. Just seeing her sent a throb of affection through him so sharp it was almost painful.
He didn't know if he was going to be able to do this.
She looked up suddenly, as if aware of his gaze. The look of concentration vanished and a smile broke over her beautiful features.
"Vinnie," she said as he approached. "Sorry I missed your lasagna napoletana."
He kissed her, then took a seat opposite. "It's okay. Lasagna's lasagna. I'm worried you're working too hard."
"Nature of the business."
Just then a skinny waitress came up, placed an egg white omelette before Hayward, started to refill her coffee cup.
"Just leave the pot, please," Hayward said.
The waitress nodded, turned to D'Agosta. "Need a menu, hon?"
"No. Give me two fried eggs, over well, with rye toast."
"I went ahead and ordered," Hayward said, taking a gulp of her coffee. "Hope you don't mind. I've got to get back to the office and-"
"You're going back?"
Hayward frowned, gave her head a single vigorous shake. "I'll rest tonight."
"Pressure from on high?"
"There's always pressure from on high. No, it's the case itself. I just can't get a handle on it."
D'Agosta watched as she tucked into her omelet, feeling the dismay grow inside him. Unless Diogenes can be stopped, everyone close to me may die, Pendergast had told him the night before. Find out everything you can from Laura Hayward. He glanced around the coffee shop, looking at the faces, looking for one bluish-white, one hazel eye. But, of course, Diogenes would be wearing contacts, disguising his most striking characteristic.
"Why don't you tell me about the case?" he asked as easily as he could.
She took another bite, dabbed at her mouth. "The autopsy results came back. No surprise there. Duchamp died of massive internal injuries resulting from his fall. Several pharyngeal bones were fractured, but the hanging itself didn't cause death: the spinal cord had not been severed and asphyxiation hadn't yet occurred. And here's the first of many weird things. The rope had been cut almost through beforehand with a very sharp blade. The killer wanted it to part during the hanging."
D'Agosta felt himself go cold. My Great-Great-Uncle Maurice died in precisely the same manner…
"Duchamp was initially subdued in his apartment, then tied up. There was a contusion on the left temple, but the head itself was so badly crushed in the fall we can't be certain that's what caused all the blood in the apartment. But get this: the contusion had been doctored and bandaged, apparently by the killer."
"I see." The case made sense to D'Agosta… too much sense. And he could say nothing to Hayward.
"Then the perp pushed a long desk up against the window, convinced Duchamp to climb on it, and take a running jump out the window."
"Unassisted?"
Hayward nodded. "With his hands bound behind him and a noose around his neck."
"Anyone see the perp?" D'Agosta felt a constriction in his chest; he knew who the perp was, yet he couldn't tell her directly. It was an unexpectedly difficult feeling.
"Nobody in the apartment building remembers seeing anybody unusual. There's only one possible sighting, by a basement security camera. Just a rear view of a man in a trench coat. Tall, thin. Light hair. We're having the image digitally enhanced, but the techs aren't hopeful we'll get enough to be useful. He knew the camera was there and took care passing through its field of view." She finished her coffee and poured herself another.
"We went through the victim's papers, his studio, looking for any motive," she went on. "None. Then we used his Rolodex to call up friends and acquaintances. Nobody we spoke with could believe it. A real Mister Rogers, this guy Duchamp. Oh, and here's a bizarre coincidence. Duchamp knew Agent Pendergast."
D'Agosta froze. He didn't know what to say, how to act. Somehow, he just couldn't be phony with Laura Hayward. He felt a flush spread across his face.
"Seems they were friends. Pendergast's Dakota address was on the Rolodex. According to Duchamp's appointment book, the two had lunch three times last year, always at '21.' Too bad we can't get Pendergast's take on this from beyond the grave. Right about now I think I'd welcome even his help."
Suddenly, she stopped, catching sight of D'Agosta's expression. "Oh, Vinnie," she said, sliding a hand across the table and grasping his. "I'm sorry. That was a thoughtless thing to say."
This made D'Agosta feel ten times worse. "Maybe this is the crime Pendergast warned me about in his note."
Slowly, Hayward withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry?"
"Well…" D'Agosta stammered. "Diogenes hated his brother.
Maybe he plans to revenge himself on Pendergast by killing off Pendergast's friends."
Hayward looked at him, her eyes narrowing.
"I heard there was another friend of Pendergast's killed recently. A professor in New Orleans."
"But, Vinnie, Pendergast is dead. Why kill his brother's friends now?"
"Who knows how crazy people think? All I'm saying is that, if it were my case, I'd consider it a suspicious coincidence."
"How'd you hear about this New Orleans murder?"
D'Agosta looked down, arranged his napkin on his lap. "I can't recall. I think maybe his-his secretary, Constance, mentioned it to me."
"Well, there are lots of strange aspects to the case, I'll give you that." Hayward sighed. "It's far-fetched, but I'll look into it."
The waitress reappeared with his breakfast order.
D'Agosta hardly dared meet Laura's eyes. Instead, he lifted his fork and knife and sliced into the glistening egg. A jet of yellow spurted across the plate.
D'Agosta jerked back. "Waitress!"
The woman, half a dozen booths away already, turned and walked slowly back.
D'Agosta handed her the plate. "These eggs are runny. I said over well. I didn't say over easy."
"All right, hon, hold your water." The woman took the plate and walked away.
"Ouch," Hayward said in a low voice. "Don't you think you were hard on the poor woman?"
"I hate runny eggs," D'Agosta said, staring into his coffee once again. "I can't stand looking at them."
There was a brief silence. "What's wrong, Vinnie?" she asked.
"This Diogenes business."
"Don't take this the wrong way, but it's time you dropped this wild-goose chase and got back on the job. It's not going to bring Pendergast back. Singleton's not going to let this go on forever. On top of that, you're not acting like yourself. Nothing like getting back to work as a way of curing the blues."
You're right, he thought. He wasn't acting like himself because he wasn't feeling like himself. It felt bad enough, not telling Hayward the truth. But it went even beyond that: here he was, pumping her for information while withholding the fact Pendergast was still alive.
He arranged his lips into what he hoped was a sheepish smile.
"I'm sorry, Laura. You're right: it's time I got back on the job. And here I am, acting cranky, when you're the one who's had no sleep. What else about the case kept you up all night?"
She glanced at him searchingly for a moment. Then she took another bite of her omelet, pushed it away. "I've never seen such a careful murder. It's not just the fact there are so few clues, but the ones we have are so damn puzzling. The only evidence left behind by the perp, other than the ropes, was some clothing fibers."
"Well, that gives you three clues to work, at least."
"That's right. The fibers, the rope, and the structure of the knots. And so far, we've come up blank on all three. That's what kept me away all night: that, and the usual paperwork. The fibers are of some kind of exotic wool that forensics hasn't seen before. It's in none of the local or federal databases. We've got a textile expert working on it. Same with the ropes. The material is nothing manufactured in America, Europe, Australia, the Middle East."
"And the knots?"
"They're even more bizarre. The ligature specialist-who we dragged out of bed at three, by the way-was fascinated. At first glance, they look random, massive, like some bondage fetishist gone crazy. But they're not that at all. Turns out they're expertly fashioned. Very intricate. The specialist was staggered: he said he'd never seen the knot before, that it seemed to be of a new type entirely. He went into a whole riff on mathematics and knot theory that I couldn't even begin to follow."
"I'd like to see a photograph of the knots, if I could."
She flashed him another questioning gaze.
"Hey, I was in the Boy Scouts," he said with a levity he didn't feel.
She nodded slowly. "I had this instructor at the Academy, Rider-back. Remember him?"
"Nope."
"He was fascinated by knots. He used to say they were a three-dimensional manifestation of a fourth-dimensional problem. Whatever that means." She took another sip of coffee. "Sooner or later, those knots are going to help us crack this case."
The waitress came back, placing D'Agosta's eggs before him with a look of triumph. Now they were wizened-looking, almost desiccated, crisp around the edges.
Hayward glanced at the plate, a smile returning to her lips. "Enjoy," she said with a giggle.
Suddenly, his coat began to vibrate. For a moment, D'Agosta went rigid in surprise. Then, remembering the cell phone Pendergast had given him, he dug a hand into his pocket and pulled it out.
"New phone?" Hayward asked. "When'd you pick that up?"
D'Agosta hesitated. Then, rather abruptly, he decided that he just couldn't tell her one more lie.
"Sorry," he said, standing up. "Gotta go. I'll explain later."
Hayward half rose as well, a look of surprise on her face. "But, Vin-"
"Will you get breakfast?" he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders and kissing her. "I'll get the next."
"But-"
"See you tonight, sweetheart. Good luck with the case." And- holding her questioning stare with his own for a brief moment-he gave her shoulders a parting squeeze, turned, and hurriedly left the restaurant.
He glanced once more at the message displayed on the tiny cell screen:
SW Corner 77 and York. NOW.