Pendergast whisked the bits and pieces of the body that had broken off onto the M.E.’s report and tipped them into the niche. He then removed a small tube of construction cement, dabbed it around the edges of the marble plaque, and fitted it back in place, tapping here and there to seal it.
He stepped back, looked at his handiwork. “Excellent.”
They exited the crypt and climbed into the church. The door was still closed and locked. Pendergast unlocked it, and D’Agosta covered him while he flitted across the courtyard. A moment later he heard Pendergast’s voice. “It’s all right.”
D’Agosta stepped out into the warm night, immeasurably relieved to be free of the tomb. He brushed at his arms and legs, feeling the smell, the mold, still clinging to his clothes. Ahead, Pendergast was pointing toward the darkness of the hill. A pair of taillights could be seen winding down the mountainside a half mile below them.
“That’s our man.” His light came on, revealing unfamiliar shoe tracks clearly outlined in the short, dew-laden grass.
“What was he doing?”
“It seems they no longer want to kill us. Rather, they are merely anxious to keep track of how much we know. Now, why do you think that is, Vincent?”
{ 71 }
Hayward never liked the sensation of déjà vu, and she was feeling it especially strongly this afternoon, sitting in the same room, with the same people, listening to the same arguments she’d heard twenty-four hours earlier. Only now it was ass-covering time. It reminded her of musical chairs: as soon as the music stopped in this room, some poor schmuck would no doubt be left standing, ass exposed and ready to be kicked.
Grable seemed to be trying hard to make sure that exposed ass was hers.
He was in the middle of a long-winded account of the botched arrest attempt, an account that somehow transformed his own craven and erratic behavior into restraint and heroism. The story went on and on, the climax coming when he was obliged to fire into the air to warn the savage crowd. As a result they’d been able to depart in good order, upholding the dignity of the New York City Police Department, even if they had failed in their objective of arresting Buck. Throughout the account, there was the faint implication that he had done all the work, taken all the risks, while Hayward had been a reluctant participant at best. He even managed to give the impression of refraining from criticism, as if she’d been a dead weight on the whole operation.
If he was as good in the field as he is at ass-covering, Hayward thought grimly, we wouldn’t be here right now. She considered responding, but decided she didn’t want to play that particular game. If she pointed out that Grable had run like a cur with its tail tucked between its legs, that he had fired in panic and lost his gun—well, it might set the record straight, but it would do her no good. Her mind wandered, tuning out the parade of half-truths.
One bright note was that Pendergast and D’Agosta seemed to be making progress in Italy. And Pendergast was out of her hair, no doubt making some Italian police officer’s life miserable. On the other hand, she missed D’Agosta. Missed him even more than she’d thought she would.
It was Wentworth’s turn next, and she made an effort to concentrate. He expounded at length on the psychology of crowds, trotting out quotations on megalomania from file cards specially prepared for the occasion. It was a huge smokescreen of words and theories, piled one on top of another, signifying nothing. This was followed by some neighborhood honcho, talking about how upset the mayor was, how everybody was up in arms, how all the important people of the city were beside themselves that nothing was being done.
No one, it seemed, had any ideas on how to get Buck out of Central Park.
Rocker heard them all out with the same tired expression on his face, an expression which betrayed nothing of his inner thoughts. Finally, the tired eyes came to rest on her.
“Captain Hayward?”
“I have nothing to add.” She said it perhaps a little more curtly than she intended.
Rocker’s eyebrows raised just slightly. “So you agree with the gentlemen here?”
“I didn’t say that. I said I had nothing to add.”
“Did you find out anything more on Buck’s record? An outstanding warrant, perhaps?”
“Yes,” said Hayward, having spent part of the morning on the phone. “But it isn’t much. He’s wanted in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, for violating parole.”
“Violating parole!” Grable laughed. “What a joke. The laws he’s broken here include assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, attempted kidnapping—I mean, we got enough here to put him away for years.”
Hayward said nothing. Fact is, the parole violation was the only charge that would stick. As far as the others went, there were dozens of witnesses who would testify truthfully that Grable had drawn and fired his gun with no real provocation, that Buck had not, in fact, resisted arrest, that the crowd had parted like the damn Red Sea to let them go, and that Grable had run, leaving his gun in the dust.
Rocker nodded. “What now?”
Silence.
Rocker was still looking at Hayward. “Captain?”