He swiped savagely at his eyes, made a second attempt to peer down into the hellish cleft, in the faint hope that something, anything, might be left—and there, not two feet below him, he saw a hand, completely covered with blood, clutching at a small projection of rock with almost superhuman strength.
Diogenes.
And now he heard D’Agosta’s voice in his head: You realize there’s only one way to take care of Diogenes. When the moment comes…
Without a second thought, Pendergast reached down to save his brother, grasped the wrist with one hand and clutched the forearm with the other, and with a mighty heave leaned back, pulling him up and away from the lip of the inferno. A ragged, wild face appeared over the crest of the rock—not that of his brother, but of Constance Greene.
Seconds later, he had pulled her away from the brink. She rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, arms spread, ragged white dress whipping in the wind.
Pendergast bent over her. “Diogenes… ?” he managed to ask.
“He’s gone!” A laugh tore from her bloodied lips and was instantly whisked away by the wind.
80
The waiting area for hearing room B consisted of an impromptu collection of seventies-era Bauhaus benches lining an anonymous hallway on the twenty-first floor of One Police Plaza. D’Agosta sat on one of these benches, breathing in the stale air of the hallway: the mingled smells of bleach and ammonia from the nearby men’s room; stale perfume; perspiration; and old cigarette smoke, which had permeated the walls too deeply to ever be completely eradicated. Underlying all was the acrid, omnipresent tang of fear.
Fear, however, was the last thing on his own mind. D’Agosta was about to undergo a formal disciplinary hearing that would decide if he could ever serve in law enforcement again—and all he felt was a weary emptiness. For months, this trial had been hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles—and now, for better or worse, it was almost over.
Beside him, Thomas Shoulders, his union -appointed lawyer, shifted on the bench. “Anything else you’d like to review one last time?” he asked in his thin, reedy voice. “Your statement, or their likely line of questioning?”
D’Agosta shook his head. “Nothing more, thanks.”
“The department advocate will be presenting the case for the NYPD. We might have caught a break there. Kagelman’s tough but fair. He’s old-school. The best approach is to play it straight: no evasions, no bull. Answer the questions with a simple yes or no, don’t elaborate unless asked. Present yourself along the lines we discussed—a good cop caught in a bad situation, doing the best he could to see that justice was served. If we can keep it at that level, I’m guardedly optimistic.”
Guardedly optimistic. Whether spoken by an airplane pilot, a surgeon, or one’s own lawyer, the words were not exactly encouraging.
He thought back to that fateful day in the fall, when he had run into Pendergast at the Grove estate, tossing bread to the ducks. It was only six months ago, but what a long strange journey it had been…
“Holding up?” Shoulders asked.
D’Agosta glanced at his watch. “I just want the damn thing to be over with. I’m tired of sitting here, waiting for the axe to drop.”
“You shouldn’t think about it that way, Lieutenant. A disciplinary hearing is just like a trial in any other American court. You’re innocent until proven guilty.”
D’Agosta sighed, shifted disconsolately. And in so doing, he caught a glimpse of Captain Laura Hayward, walking down the busy corridor.
She was coming toward them with that measured, purposeful stride of hers, wearing a gray cashmere sweater and a pleated skirt of navy wool. Suddenly the drab corridor seemed charged with life. And yet the last thing he wanted was for her to see him like this: parked on a bench like some truant awaiting a whipping. Maybe she’d walk on, just walk on, like she’d done that day back in the police substation beneath Madison Square Garden.
But she did not walk on. She stopped before the bench, nodded nonchalantly to him and Shoulders.
“Hi,” D’Agosta managed. He felt himself blushing with embarrassment and shame and felt furious for doing so.
“Hey, Vinnie,” she replied in her dusky contralto. “Have a minute?”
There was a moment of stasis.
“Sure.” He turned to Shoulders. “Could you spare me for a sec?”
“Don’t go far—we’re up soon.”
D’Agosta followed Hayward down to a quieter section of the hallway. She paused, looking at him, one hand unconsciously smoothing down her skirt. Glancing at her shapely legs, D’Agosta felt his heart accelerate further. He searched his mind for something to say, came up with nothing.