City of Endless Night (Pendergast #17)(46)

“Vengeance,” Day managed to say. “Vengeance is what’s happened.”





32

AT THE ENTRANCE to the top floor, next to the elevator, the Crime Scene Unit had set up a gowning station, with racks of Tyvek suits, masks, gloves, and booties. Lieutenant D’Agosta donned the full array, as did Pendergast. D’Agosta couldn’t help but notice that the agent did not look good in the suit; not good at all. The baggy outfit looked more like a burial shroud when coupled with his pale skin and gaunt frame.

They signed in at the makeshift entrance, where Sergeant Curry, already gowned, was waiting for them. The entire floor had been segregated as a crime scene, and the forensic teams were in full collection mode, many on their hands and knees, going over everything with tweezers and test tubes and ziplock evidence bags. Once dressed, D’Agosta paused to watch. They looked good, damn good. Of course, with him and the FBI on-site now, everyone was putting on a show for their benefit, but these were the best the NYPD had to offer and their professionalism was on display for all to see. He wished to hell they would find something solid he could take to the mayor—and fast. This new double homicide probably meant the case would be taken away from him if his team didn’t show serious progress. With luck they’d learn something important from the two who’d discovered the body.

As D’Agosta looked around, he said, “This is a crazy place to commit a murder.”

Pendergast inclined his head. “Perhaps it isn’t, strictly speaking, a murder.”

D’Agosta let this one pass, as he did so many of Pendergast’s other cryptic remarks.

“You want to walk the whole floor or just see the murder scene?” Curry asked.

D’Agosta looked at Pendergast, who shrugged almost with indifference. “As you wish, Vincent.”

“Let’s just have a look at the scene,” D’Agosta told Curry.

“Yes, sir.” Curry led them across the reception area. The place had the hushed feeling of a sickroom, or a hospital ward for terminal patients, and it smelled strongly of forensic chemicals.

“There are cameras everywhere,” said D’Agosta. “Were they disabled?”

“No,” said Curry. “We’re downloading the video from the data drives now. But it looks like they captured everything.”

“They recorded the killer coming and going?”

“We’ll know as soon as we take a look. We’ll go down to the security office after this, if you want.”

“I want.” He added: “Wonder how the perp walked out of here with two heads under his arms.”

At the far end of the outer offices, D’Agosta spied a man, also in a CSU suit, taking pictures with a cell phone in a ziplock bag. He was clearly not a cop or crime scene investigator, and he looked a bit green around the gills. “Who’s that guy?” he asked.

“He’s with the SEC,” said Curry.

“SEC? What for? How’d he get clearance?”

Curry shrugged.

“Bring him over.”

Curry went and fetched him. The man was large and bald with horn-rimmed glasses, wearing a gray suit under his gown, and he was sweating something fierce.

“I’m Lieutenant D’Agosta,” he said, “Commander Detective Squad, and this is Special Agent Pendergast, FBI.”

“Supervising Agent Meldrum, SEC Division of Enforcement. Glad to make your acquaintance.” He stuck out his hand.

“Sorry, no handshaking at a crime scene,” said D’Agosta. “You know—might exchange DNA.”

“Right, they did mention that, sorry.” The man pulled his hand back sheepishly.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” D’Agosta said, “what’s the SEC’s interest and who authorized you on the crime scene?”

“Authorization from U.S. Attorney’s Office, Southern District. We’ve been after these two for a long time.”

“That right?” D’Agosta asked. “What’d they do?”

“Plenty.”

“When we finish the walk-through,” said D’Agosta, “and get rid of these damn suits, I’d like you to fill us in.”

“Glad to.”

They walked across the open space toward a pair of ornate wooden doors, which were wedged open. Light streamed out from the interior of the inner office, and the primary color D’Agosta could see beyond was a deep crimson. There was a team inside, moving with exquisite care on mats laid down over a blood-soaked rug.

“Oh, Jesus. Did the perp leave them arranged like that?”

“The bodies haven’t been moved, sir.”

The two bodies lay stretched out on the floor, side by side, arms folded over their chests, carefully arranged by the killer or killers. In the intense lights set up by the CSU team it looked fake, like a movie set. But the smell of blood was real, a mingling of damp iron and meat starting to go bad. While the sight was awful enough, D’Agosta could never get used to the smell. Never. He felt his gorge rise and struggled to calm the spastic reaction that had abruptly seized his stomach. The blood was everywhere. This was crazy. Where was the blood spatter guy? There he was.

“Hey, Martinelli? A word?”

Martinelli rose and came over.

“What’s the story with this blood? This some kind of deliberate paint job?”