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Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(105)

By:Lincoln Child


Yes—that would be part of the plan. Whatever was going to happen would happen live, with millions watching. And if Diogenes’s alter ego was a curator, or somebody else highly placed in the museum, he would have the power and the access necessary to engineer almost anything. But who could he be? Manetti’s careful probing of the museum’s personnel files turned up nothing. If only they had a picture of Diogenes that was less than twenty-five years old, a fingerprint, a bit of DNA…

What was the plan?

Her eye ended up at the closed door to the tomb, the steel now covered with a faux stone finish, a huge red ribbon stretched across its front.

Her feeling of sickness increased. And along with it came a desperate feeling of isolation. She had done everything in her power to stop, or at least postpone, this opening. But she had convinced nobody. Even Police Commissioner Rocker, her ally in the past, had demurred.

Was it all in her mind? Had the pressure finally gotten to her? If only she had someone who saw things her way, who understood the background, the true nature of Diogenes. Someone like D’Agosta.

D’Agosta. He had been ahead of her at every step of the investigation. He knew what was going to happen before it happened. Long before anyone else, he’d known the kind of criminal they were up against. He had insisted Diogenes was alive even when she and everyone else had “proved” he was dead.

And he knew the museum—knew it cold. He’d been involved in cases connected to the museum going back half a dozen years or more. He knew the players. God, if only he were here now… Not D’Agosta the man—that was over—but D’Agosta the cop.

She controlled her breathing. No point wishing for the impossible. She had done all she could. There was nothing left now but to wait, watch, and be ready to act.

Once again her eye roved the crowd, gauged the flow, examined each face for unnatural tension, excitement, anxiety.

Suddenly she froze. There, standing by the group of dignitaries near the podium, stood the tall figure of a woman: a woman she recognized.

All her alarm bells went off. Making an effort to control her voice, she raised her radio. “Manetti, Hayward here, do you read?”

“Copy.”

“Is that Viola Maskelene I’m looking at? Over by the podium.”

A pause. “That’s her.”

Hayward swallowed. “What’s she doing here?”

“She was hired to replace that Egyptologist, Wicherly.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. A day or two ago.”

“Who hired her?”

“Anthropology, I think.”

“Why wasn’t her name on the guest list?”

A hesitation. “I’m not sure. Probably because she was such a recent hire.”

Hayward wanted to say more. She wanted to curse into the radio. She wanted to demand to know why she hadn’t been told. But it was too late for all that. Instead, she merely said, “Over and out.”

The profile indicated that Diogenes isn’t through.

The whole gala opening looked like a meticulous setup—but for what?

D’Agosta’s words rang in her ears like a Klaxon. Something bigger, maybe much bigger.

Jesus, she needed D’Agosta—she needed him right now. He had the answers she didn’t.

She pulled out her personal phone, tried his cellular. No response.

She glanced at her watch: 7:15. The evening was still young. If she could find him, get him back here… Where the hell could he be? Once again, his words echoed in her mind:

There’s something else you ought to know. Have you heard of the forensic profiling firm of Effective Engineering Solutions, down on Little West 12th Street, run by an Eli Glinn? I’ve been spending most of my time down there recently, moonlighting…

It was just a chance—but it was better than nothing. It sure beat waiting here, twiddling her thumbs. With luck, she could be there and back in less than forty minutes.

She lifted her radio again. “Lieutenant Gault?”

“Copy.”

“I’m heading out briefly. You’re in charge.”

“There’s somebody I need to speak with. If anything—anything—out of the ordinary happens, you have my authority to shut this down. Totally. You understand?”

“Yes, Captain.”

She pocketed the radio and walked briskly out of the hall.





49





Pendergast stood in the small study, back pressed against the door, motionless. His eyes took in the rich furnishings: the couch covered with Persian rugs, the African masks, the side table, bookshelves, curious objets d’art.

He took a steadying breath. With a great effort of will, he made his way to the couch, lay down upon it slowly, folded his hands over his chest, crossed his ankles, and closed his eyes.